I knew my partner would wonder why I ignored safety and chatted to a person on the street through an open window. “Hi Michelle!” she said as she ran across the street to my police car.
The next time I saw her on the corner of Main Street and Gore, I stopped. I’m very proud of him but he’s told me not to tell you about him.” When we asked about family supports she opened a drawer and pulled out a photo of a uniformed RCMP officer. In the last year of my assignment, we spoke with a woman who was on the verge of a crisis. Once, I saw her causing a scene at our station’s public information counter, I ducked into a back stairwell. I interviewed psychiatrists.īut for the next few years, I still drove by when I saw her on the streets. I had meetings with mental health workers. I spoke to hundreds of people with bi-polar disorder. My partners were psychiatric nurses and we responded to mental health incidents throughout the city. A three month assignment turned into four years. But I was ready for a change and said yes. In October 2004, I accepted an invitation to work a temporary position in Car 87, a partnership program between Vancouver Police and Vancouver Coastal Health Authority. “That Corley is nuts, are you actually related to her?” asked one officer. Our uncommon surname had many officers asking if I knew her.
She promised.Īnd she did become known to police. “Mom, if you get in trouble with police, don’t you dare tell anybody who I am,” I said. “Michelle, you’ll make a great cop,” she said but I created more distance. In 1998, I decided to become a police officer. The worst kind I guess, but I don’t know what else to do. Even when an emergency room nurse said, “what kind of daughter are you, you won't pick up your mom?” I was sad when she lost her apartment, her business, her beloved sailboat.
I cleaned vomit from her bathtub.īut after five years, my help wasn’t helping. I didn’t understand what was going on but I tried to help. But not before she racked up $10,000 in company bills that I later paid personally. I couldn’t keep up with her disjointed, racing thoughts and after two years, I moved out and left the business. I loved how she overruled David Lee Roth’s ‘I-I-I-I Ain’t Got No-bo-dy” and sang “I-I-I-I Got Some-bo-dy”.Īfter I graduated, we became partners in a health and fitness business and I started to see mood fluctuations. We road tripped in her Volkswagen convertible and watched the stars in Utah’s Red Rock Canyon at midnight.
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She taught me how to run and joined me in my first 10K race. I saw prescription bottles but didn’t know why she was taking medications. Things got normal again while I was at university in the early 1990’s, and we became roommates in a downtown 2-bedroom apartment. “Hey mom, Deb and I are going to Puerto Vallarta for spring break.” I said. “Hey mom, can I teach myself how to drive a standard in your courtesy car?” “Sure,” she said. But I also didn’t hear “be careful” or “you can’t do that” which allowed for fearless exploration. My mom split her time between launching the first indoor tanning salon and sleeping on the family room couch – unshowered and in that damn purple housecoat - for months at a time. Things changed when I got to high school in the 1980’s. Didn’t every nine-year-old get dropped off at Safeway with a blank cheque? In the early 1970’s, it was a normal childhood with hard-working parents. I didn’t always ignore my mom’s pleas for help. Corley was known to police – impaired driving, assaults, mental health, public disturbances – and I knew her too. “She is described as a white female, 54 years of age, approximately 5’4” and 120 pounds, bleached blonde hair and goes by the name of Corley.” “The witness is saying that this woman is yelling that she wants to die,” said the dispatcher. I listened to the call that was happening in a different part of the city that I worked. The warble sounded on the police radio to indicate a serious incident - attempt suicide.
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