JUST THE FACTS, MA’AM
A Widow Bit – Nov. 6, 2011
By Mary Koch

            Generally, I decline to participate in surveys. As a communications major in college, I studied the mystical science of polling and consequently am skeptical when purported pollsters call. I believe that we Americans are over-surveyed, anyway, which may be contributing to our political paralysis.

            Yet Saturday, while baking cookies, I agreed to participate in a “twenty- to twenty-five minute survey” on behalf of the state Department of Health by a legitimate polling firm I recognized. Perhaps the survey results would be used in formulating public policy, and I was curious what questions would be asked. Besides, I could easily handle the phone with one hand while sliding cookie sheets in and out of the oven with the other.

            The woman on the line was obviously reading from a computer screen. In monotonous tones, she listed the steps that would be taken to keep my answers confidential. She sounded even less animated than the voice on my GPS. The questions were so personal that this anonymous woman now knows more about me than my closest friends.

            She assured me I could decline to answer certain questions if I was not in a “safe environment” and asked with disinterest, “Are you presently in a safe environment?”

            The questions reminded me of how blessed a life I have lived. No, no one ever attempted to have sex with me when I was child. No, no one ever beat or physically abused me, then or now. No, I never saw my parents attack each other. No, lack of money has never kept me from buying healthy food or obtaining medical care. Yes, I’ve had a mammogram and dental exam within the last year. No, I have not felt hopeless or suicidal within the past thirty days – or ever, for that matter.

            I may have fudged on a few answers. I said I was seventeen when I first drank alcohol. It was probably closer to fifteen. Asked if I’d had four or more drinks on any single occasion in the past thirty days, I groaned. I’d just returned from New Orleans, where we spent our evenings on Bourbon Street. I decided to consider each bar we visited as a “separate occasion” and answered no. Never mind that on Bourbon Street you can walk from bar to bar with drink in hand.

            Then came the surprise question that uncapped the perpetual well of grief that hides deep within my soul.

            “Can you list any of the indicators of stroke?” Yes, I can, too readily. Dizziness. Stuttering. Paralysis.

            “If you noted these indicators, what among the following courses of action would you take?”

            I did not wait to hear her possible courses of action and answered faintly “Call 9-1-1.” Tuck a blanket around your husband. Put the dog in her kennel. Open the door for the EMTs. Say goodbye to the life you knew.

            “We about done?” I asked the pollster.

            I completed the survey and hung up the phone, immensely sad, eternally grateful.

S