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the avra valley dispatch: 16 September 2004 -- Missing in Action
Buster has been lost since the 9th of September. Lost in the medical system in Tucson, somewhere -- I have tried my best to locate him, but as a non-family member, I cannot get very far. I know he has a brother in Reno, but I don't know his name. Even if I did, I doubt that he would be much help: Buster's unconventional approach to living (uppercase living with an exclamation mark or three, as opposed to merely existing) and his HIV-positive status alienated the family he has left. His regular nurse at the VA can't even find him.
On August 22nd, he was taken to the VA Hospital in Tucson and my last contact with him was a frantic voicemail request several days later to bring his scooter to him: "the bastards keep stealing my wheelchair!" He never liked going to the VA; there are too many rules, no cigarettes or girlie magazines allowed, and definitely no booze. Last time I took him to the VA, we had to sneak a cheap mickey of vodka in for him to calm his nerves. Still, I watched his blood pressure rise to the point where they thought he'd have a stroke any minute, he was so panicked and frustrated.
He did not like hospitals and did not want to die in one; the message was always clear: no tubes, no drugs, no being surrounded by crippled old men (although the VA does have its share of freaked out young women in these modern times). He wanted to die in his own home, here on my property, under his "angel tree" -- a big eucalyptus he swears looks like Michael the Archangel.
Buster was released on the 31st, while I was out of the country, but couldn't breathe and called the paramedics again on the 1st of September. Via email, my boyfriend mentioned that a cop came by on the 3rd since "they lost Buster." Not much I could do about that from Barcelona. His regular nurse would sometimes send a cop by to check on Buster if she couldn't reach him by phone -- word that he'd been taken to a different hospital on the 31st never got to her.
I came home on the 12th of September and after a day or two of phone calls learned that Buster was discharged from the ICU in Northwest Medical Center on the 9th, but they couldn't tell me anything more. He's likely in a nursing home someplace, and it makes me just sick to think about it. Tubes, drugs, crippled old men.
Buster is not without his charms: he's direct and honest; he's hardworking; he's unorthodox and uncompromising; he tells great stories; he draws his own lines to colour in or out of. But he is a royal pain in the ass. The novelty of having a larger-than-life character living on my property wore thin quickly: it is no fun living in close proximity to a drunk, damaged person, and there are times my personal safety has been compromised.
I live in a rural desert area that, in addition to ahead-of-the-curve artist girls looking for cheap land, attracts desperate people eager to escape the rules and confines of civilised society. Meth addicts, messed up veterans, people for whom having outstanding warrants or being on parole is like having a membership to the Y or a library card. Since living here, I've failed to see the irony in trailer trash chic.
Over the years, word has gotten around that Buster spends the first two weeks of the month in a drunken haze, with what's left of his disability check likely hidden in his sock. Strangers case the property and let themselves into his trailer to steal or engage in unsavoury activities in the relative privacy. Once Buster's roused however, fisticuffs or extreme impromptu trailer modification ensue. So, the paramedics or sheriff know my place and Buster well: all he needs to do is call 911 and say "it's Buster" and they know where to go.
After the renters on the back acre snuck out this spring, I swapped out the Palm Harbour for a cute vintage Terry trailer and have been slowly cleaning up the rear acre with plans to create a self-contained guest house for family and friends, a big firepit, and an outdoor painting studio. I'm glad the rental's gone (even though it was a financial blow) and I like the quiet out back. I cannot deny that my thoughts have now turned to reclaiming the front acre since it is unlikely Buster will return, although I don't feel as positive about the quiet that now exists up there.
I have begun to understand how there can be so many people in nursing homes who go unvisited -- it could just be no one knows they're there.
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