E-motherfuckin'-nough!
This morning I was volunteering at a homeless shelter medical clinic when suddenly one of the residents started screaming: "It's e-fuckin'-NOUGH already! Enough is e-motherfuckin-NOUGH! WHO TOOK MY DAMN CELL PHONE?!?"
A few minutes later I met The Screamer. I had a handful of forms for her to fill out so she could see the doctor, but she clearly wasn't in a paperwork kind of mood. Frankly, I was a little scared of her. She was shaking and she couldn't focus on anything. She wouldn't look me in the eye when I spoke to her. My first thought was "I really don't need this right now." There were a dozen other people who needed to see the doctor, and I was beginning to fall behind. I really wanted to cross The Screamer off my list and skip ahead to the guy in the wheelchair whose face had collapsed with the sudden onset of Bell's Palsy. But then tears started to slip down The Screamer's cheeks. I decided to give her a few minutes to calm down and then I called her into the office. She had stopped crying, but she didn't look much better. I sat next to her and started filling out her paperwork myself, asking her only the essential questions.
When we were done I asked her if she'd found her cell phone.
"Yeah, it was in Vito's pocket. He's playin' with it and put it in his pocket."
(Vito is a 4 year-old who lives at the shelter with his mom and older brother.)
"Well that's good. You feel okay now?"
And with no more prompting than that, she told me her story. She moved down here from Fresno just before Christmas at the request of her brother. He's a recovering addict and he told her he'd found an apartment in Pasadena, was holding down a job for the first time in years, and that he wanted to have a relationship with her again. So she moved down here with $9,000. "I was stupid," she said. "I let him get to my money and he took it and split. He didn't have no apartment. Now I'm homeless. When I thought somebody took my phone, I just couldn't handle it. It's like, enough already, you know?" The tears came again.
I lied and told her that I understood. And I said she needed to look out for herself. It was a dumb thing to say; I really would have loved to refer her to a counselor -- but there wasn't anyone else there. Just me. And I'm not qualified to talk to people about problems like this -- but there I was, so I had to say something. "That's my problem," she said. "I never take care of myself. But that's gonna change." I asked her if she thought her brother was using again, and she said she knew for a fact that he was. "He told me he loved me and everything... but he just wanted my money." She took a deep breath and shook her head: "Never again. I'm through with my family."
"I know people who are addicts," I said. I thought of The Canadian. It's not really a fair comparison, but it's the closest I had. "It's hard to see somebody you love go through that -- but there's only so much you can do." "Yeah. I'm just gonna get myself out of this and then I'm through with them. I have to take care of me." I smiled, hoping that it would come across as reassuring. What else could I say?
Later, as I was making my way through the lunchtime crowd en route to my car, I caught her eye and she smiled at me. "Thank you," she said. I gave her shoulder a squeeze and returned her smile. "Feel better," I told her. Again -- what kind of advice is that? Feel better?!? How could she feel any worse?!? I kept telling myself I should have given her some money. Or I should figure out a way to do more for her. It's heartbreaking to see someone being punished for trying to do the right thing. But at least I was there -- at least I listened. Sometimes when I'm volunteering there I get caught up in trying to get every patient processed so they can all see the doctor before he has to leave. It's a good reminder that I need to always ask how people are doing, how they're feeling, before I ask them if they have Medicaid.
A few minutes later I met The Screamer. I had a handful of forms for her to fill out so she could see the doctor, but she clearly wasn't in a paperwork kind of mood. Frankly, I was a little scared of her. She was shaking and she couldn't focus on anything. She wouldn't look me in the eye when I spoke to her. My first thought was "I really don't need this right now." There were a dozen other people who needed to see the doctor, and I was beginning to fall behind. I really wanted to cross The Screamer off my list and skip ahead to the guy in the wheelchair whose face had collapsed with the sudden onset of Bell's Palsy. But then tears started to slip down The Screamer's cheeks. I decided to give her a few minutes to calm down and then I called her into the office. She had stopped crying, but she didn't look much better. I sat next to her and started filling out her paperwork myself, asking her only the essential questions.
When we were done I asked her if she'd found her cell phone.
"Yeah, it was in Vito's pocket. He's playin' with it and put it in his pocket."
(Vito is a 4 year-old who lives at the shelter with his mom and older brother.)
"Well that's good. You feel okay now?"
And with no more prompting than that, she told me her story. She moved down here from Fresno just before Christmas at the request of her brother. He's a recovering addict and he told her he'd found an apartment in Pasadena, was holding down a job for the first time in years, and that he wanted to have a relationship with her again. So she moved down here with $9,000. "I was stupid," she said. "I let him get to my money and he took it and split. He didn't have no apartment. Now I'm homeless. When I thought somebody took my phone, I just couldn't handle it. It's like, enough already, you know?" The tears came again.
I lied and told her that I understood. And I said she needed to look out for herself. It was a dumb thing to say; I really would have loved to refer her to a counselor -- but there wasn't anyone else there. Just me. And I'm not qualified to talk to people about problems like this -- but there I was, so I had to say something. "That's my problem," she said. "I never take care of myself. But that's gonna change." I asked her if she thought her brother was using again, and she said she knew for a fact that he was. "He told me he loved me and everything... but he just wanted my money." She took a deep breath and shook her head: "Never again. I'm through with my family."
"I know people who are addicts," I said. I thought of The Canadian. It's not really a fair comparison, but it's the closest I had. "It's hard to see somebody you love go through that -- but there's only so much you can do." "Yeah. I'm just gonna get myself out of this and then I'm through with them. I have to take care of me." I smiled, hoping that it would come across as reassuring. What else could I say?
Later, as I was making my way through the lunchtime crowd en route to my car, I caught her eye and she smiled at me. "Thank you," she said. I gave her shoulder a squeeze and returned her smile. "Feel better," I told her. Again -- what kind of advice is that? Feel better?!? How could she feel any worse?!? I kept telling myself I should have given her some money. Or I should figure out a way to do more for her. It's heartbreaking to see someone being punished for trying to do the right thing. But at least I was there -- at least I listened. Sometimes when I'm volunteering there I get caught up in trying to get every patient processed so they can all see the doctor before he has to leave. It's a good reminder that I need to always ask how people are doing, how they're feeling, before I ask them if they have Medicaid.
Labels: The Canadian
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