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I have an awful decision to make, probably sooner than I'd prefer. But the conditions leading to my decision are becoming both intolerable and dangerous.
And to put off making that decision, is itself a decision, huh?

I am the last one standing in the way, of a neighbor being taken to a mental health clinic, or hospital, or to the nursing home. I am the last becuase I am her last friend. All the others, including Crazy Wanda's in-law relatives have distanced themselves from her. Despite her anger at me last month when I helped the law remove her brother from her home and back to the nursing home in Wilburton, I am again her friend this month, as she needs me.

I drove her to TWO different hospital emergency rooms this week, for zero physical reason. There is nothing wrong with her, until the ER doctor gets into the room, then she goes into these fake pains and worries; then when the doctor exits the room, why, Wanda reverts to her real self, and feeling great.

But it is her non-stop talking, and I do mean NON-STOP, that has me on the verge of seeking out mental health help from Adult Protective Services for her. When I walk up on her home's porch, I hear her inside ranting, arguing with someone years removed from the discussion.
She tells me about any insignificant conversation that she had 30 years earlier. With no point to her story, but only a segue to her next narrative. Ad infinitum.

It does not matter if I am in her presence, or if there's no one in her presence.

Her behavior is getting worse, or at least stranger than usual too.
I live approximately 6/10 of a mile North away from Wanda's home. She drove to my place here twice today, to ask me -in person- if I would drive to the store and buy her a case of bottled water. Twice. The second time, to hand me some money to buy it with, after I told her I'd first shower, 30 minutes earlier on her first visit.
The little grocery store is only another half-mile North away from me.
I Am Errand Boy.

She's lost her false teeth, somewhere in her garbage strewn home. And her neighbors have installed microphones in her bedroom. And in her car. And Thursday, she thought listening bugs were in my truck as well, as I drove her to the second ER in Poteau.

If that were all, she would only be 'kooky'. But her problems extend so much further...
She's told me about her 'rape', in 1948. That event seems to have warped her alot throughout the rest of her life.

I have an awful decision to make, probably sooner than I'd prefer.