A change of scenery

Staying in a car isn't that bad. The bad thing is waking up at four-thirty in the morning knowing you got to go to the bathroom. If you've got gas in the tank, you can turn on the heat for awhile and get warm again. Then, all you have to worry about is not falling asleep with it running. -Steve

He can't lay down because I'm storing shit for every hobo in the city, in the back of my truck. -the friendgirl

As far as I've been able to determine, Saturday was the first time Steve found a place to physically lie down in the six days since he'd left Barney's apartment. I found him stretched out on a blanket, lying face down, but not on his stomach. The weather was windy and mild (after two nights of twenty degree weather). For those who are unfamiliar with Nashville, the weather patterns along with the temperatures fluctuate wildly between seasons. It's an area where tropical moisture in the morning can lead to sleet that afternoon. The only predictable thing about it is that it will most likely occur during rush hour. Anyway, Steve planned to sleep outside Saturday night, if possible. He and the girl changed their location because the parking lot where they'd been staying became excessively rowdy over the weekend. It was a brilliant move I thought, since the arrest of either one could lead to some new disaster. Things change very quickly on the block though so just about everything I write is old news.

Here's a story written last week by my friend, John Spragens. (Sorry it's late, I thought I linked to it days ago) I'd just written the first post of Steve's story when John and I went to Lewisburg to meet with people there, who lost their TennCare coverage. It was a troubling day. Reports of tornadoes followed us all the way home and it seemed perfectly appropriate.

Thanksgiving day

These are just a couple of shots from yesterday. There won't be an update on Steve today unless someone calls me. All those Social Security papers went out today. We filled them out on Wednesday, in the diner where a lady he used to work for spotted him and expressed her concern. Paydays in the diner are a sight to see. Someone had told me that people line up to buy lottery tickets but I hadn't given it much thought until the place was packed. Steve was able to remember a lot more about his past than he expected and he did great considering the traffic around us.

John Brecher, at MSNBC.com, posted an interesting piece about The Cars of Katrina, a couple of days ago. The random destruction seems to give these inanimate scenes a life of their own.

Green Street Church of Christ

When we arrived at the church (maybe forty minutes early), there was a pretty large group of people, sitting out on the steps waiting for the doors to be unlocked.

This second version of the Green Street Church of Christ, was built in 1930 although the congregation's history goes back much further. An article in the Gospel Advocate; May 29, 1889, lists the church as one of two mission points in the city of Nashville, the other being on the west side. A fellow by the name of David Lipscomb, along with others of the Restoration Movement, preached there in 1897.

Form(s) and function

Steve received two applications yesterday in the mail (his mail is directed to Barney's), from the Social Security Disabilities office. Combined, there were eight pages of medical and employment questions for him to answer, beginning with the question: Where is your pain located? He has fourteen days to return the papers. He is required to list the names and addresses of his employers for the past fifteen years and I'm curious to know, why doesn't Social Security already have this information?

We spoke briefly again yesterday about the loss of his TennCare coverage and again, I'd like to stress the fact that he isn't bitter and has never held anyone accountable for his problems. But, this is the conclusion, as he sees it:

It wasn't the sick people that ruined TennCare. It was the doctors and the hospitals and the pharmaceutical companies. They're the ones who ruined TennCare.

Here is today's opposing viewpoint, from Glen Dean. Mr. Dean notes that Tennesseans take more prescription drugs than any other state. If Tennesseans are over-medicated (and I believe they are) how exactly does a blanket rule of five prescriptions help? For example, if I'm abusing the system in order to receive Oxycontin, that's going to be my number one, name brand choice. Meanwhile, those individuals who require seven or eight prescriptions, sacrifice either their lives or their (already compromised) quality of life, based on the abuses of others.

This is a book of religious poems that Steve's girlfriend used to read from. The photo was taken a couple of years ago. The poem, her favorite, reads:

FORGIVENESS
So Little and So Much

In that I have so greatly failed thee, Lord,
Have grace!
A place!
So little of fair work for thee have I
To show;
So much of what I might have done, I did not do.
Yet thou hast seen in me at times the will
For good.
Although so oft I did not do all that
I would.
Thou knowest me through and through, and yet thou canst,
Forgive.
Only in hope of thy redeeming grace
I live.
-John Oxenham

Being thankful

In the spirit of lighthearted optimism, Barney thought it might be good to get a shot of his Thanksgiving Dinner. He is a true bachelor and looking forward to the holiday. I'm ninety-five percent sure that there's a more traditional dinner available nearby, if he changes his mind. His neighbors are pretty good at whipping up a holiday dinner but he says this is the best one because it's already made.

Steve and the friendgirl have been planning all week to ride the city bus over to Green Street Church of Christ tomorrow. They try to go there and have a meal each Wednesday. Today though, they backed off the idea (mostly because Steve is still unable to walk more than a minute before he has to sit down) Their friends and the people from the block are planning on serving Thanksgiving dinner in the bar so they won't have that far to go. I might mention (and I only realized it today) he's had less to drink this week than I imagined he would. Physically, he's bound to a certain number of ounces but he's managed to avoid any extra. I hate to say that's good news but in somebody's world, it is.

Happy Thanksgiving to all. Have a safe weekend.

Laundry day

This was tucked in a pocket with a quarter and fourteen pennies.

Full stomach

Steve told me a story once about a pair of white doves that live near the bridge. He's probably the only person that's ever seen them since they live basically, on an interstate. I could tell by the way he told it that they were something special to him. Yesterday, I went down to the camp where he stays periodically and there was a lady I'd never seen before, sleeping in the bushes. She had red hair so initially, I called hello and when she raised her head I apologised for having disturbed her and said I was just checking to see if she was Steve. Shrouded in a muddy blanket, she sat up and called back to me that she hadn't seen him yet today. There were clothes hanging on a makeshift line between two evergreen trees and I wondered as I was leaving, if that was where the doves had lived.

Do not take on an empty stomach.
I forgot to mention in the last post that although Steve went for a day and a half without his medication, it was returned to him, yesterday afternoon. It appeared that milk was Monday's beverage of choice.

Lunch in the van

Back to the street

How many days has it been? Five?
Steve left Barney's apartment yesterday morning. In his newfound responsibility, Barney set about cleaning up the room some. He didn't worry too much because he knew Steve was only going as far as the parking lot next door. It was Sunday which meant no liquor sales.

Then along in the cleaning, Barney ran across Steve's dirty clothes which he had wadded up, and put behind a door. Mind you, these aren't what average people think of as dirty clothes. They're the clothes of a sick, homeless, alcoholic man. Barney then proceeded to have what Steve called a tizzy fit. He came storming up to the bar and told him that if he couldn't keep himself clean then he wasn't invited to come back. Period. Understand he did this, believing it would give his friend a kick in the pants. It didn't work of course, and Steve spent the last thirty-six hours, in the van; a day and a half without medicine.

He said it was just as warm there as it was at Barney's and that in a day or two, he'd go on back over and try again. Then he offered me half of a turkey sandwich and some Ritz crackers. I took the crackers and told him that some people had mean-mouthed him on the internet.

He seemed a little shocked at first but I added that there were others, who had kindly, risen to his defense. No response. We had a long conversation about his stay at the hospital. I noticed the congestion in his voice. Congestion that wasn't there on Saturday and fully three conversations later, he asked if there was any way I could write a note and tell those people thanks. I said I would and left him there, sitting in the van.

Better days

Whattaya' been up to James?
Been to church.
And did you speak to God while you were there?
Many times.

Steve had his own apartment at Mercury Courts (he estimates) for 2-3 years. That's when we met and he'd been on the street then for a good long time. It's also why he has ties to Barney. They were neighbors. I wrote in that original story (which is no longer linkable) that he moved in with two hefty bags of other people's clothes. It's important to understand that Steve is an individual. He isn't the cookie-cutter model for every homeless person or every alcoholic or everyone that needed assistance or housing and I don't want to project that image. He is not representative of anything or anyone, other than himself. He's in this story because I've known him for so long and because he's willing to put up with me asking him stupid questions. Yesterday, I used the term - stupid question, when he and I were talking in the van. I wanted to ask him a hygiene question and didn't know how to phrase it. He leveled his eyes and the hand holding the cigarette at me and said:

There are no stupid questions. The stupid question, is the one that isn't asked.

The friendgirl is hidden in this photo because she's always been nervous about being seen anywhere, let alone on the internet. This was taken about three years ago.

Denial

Steve was sitting in his friendgirl's truck (that's the way he's always refers to her) at the bar today when I caught up with him. He was eating a fish sandwich and debating with himself over whether or not to go in the diner and get some packets of salt. He didn't.

He seemed to feel a little better than when I left him yesterday. It may have been the forty ounce bottle of beer in his lap. His friends are determined to deny him vodka but that didn't stop them indulging in the late afternoon ritual.

Barney's dog

Again, the short version (almost as predicted). Steve left walking yesterday morning and didn't return until sunset. He made it to the bridge with his sign and stayed five hours, long enough to make fifteen dollars. He rode the bus to the liquor store and spent twelve dollars and something on a half gallon of vodka, so he wouldn't have to leave the house again all weekend. As he was returning to the bus stop, someone (God, was my guess) snatched the bottle out of his arms and ran. He returned defeated, crippled, exhausted and a little bit fired up. He got in my car and let me drive him down the hill to Barney's. He didn't ask me to drive him back to the liquor store, he didn't ask me for any money, and as usual, I didn't offer.

The choices

When Steve left the hospital yesterday, he was instructed to go to the second floor pharmacy and pick up medications that the doctor had ordered. Wait, let me back up for a minute. The day he arrived, he explained to the staff that he could go without alcohol for two days. On the third day, he told them, it would begin to get bad. On the first and second days he was given librium, two capsules per day. On the third day, by his account, he was given eight. Not surprisingly, there were no DT's beyond some very minor confusion and a slight tremor which could have also been from the liver dysfuntion. He was awake as late as ten o'clock that night, I know this because he called me that night, for the first time in three years. He asked if I had an old pair of pants that he could wear home.

I mentioned before that Steve lost his TennCare when the cuts came and according to him, it's his fault he isn't covered. He was told that he would need to reapply on a certain date, if he wanted his coverage to be reinstated.

It was during that week that it rained six days, he said. I'd been staying under the bridge and when the time came to go downtown, I was sick and wet and I was gonna' have to have to go up on the bridge and make bus fare, I just decided I couldn't do it so it was my own fault.

At the moment, he is enrolled in Bridges to Care. Thankfully, that covered the cost of his medication and presumably, the three and a half days of hospital care. When he got to the pharmacy though (after being handed a piece of paper that instructed him to stop drinking and smoking, cut back on his salt intake, and weigh himself regularly) there was not prescription for librium or any other type of sedative. There is a rationale behind this of course. Librium can be sold on the street for example, or blatantly misused. Regardless, at that very moment, he knew he had two choices. Delirium Tremens. No Delirium Tremens.

There had been three choices, one of them ideal. The Campus for Human Development. When Steve's social worker (at the hospital) failed to arrange this option, someone else did it for her. If she had walked in the room that morning and said, we've arranged for you to stay at CHD and you can only leave if you go there, he would have done it. Perhaps it would have been a failed attempt but I know he would have gone under those circumstances. Steve chose not to go there on his own because in his mind, he has always associated it with the Rescue Mission and other, similar places. There was little time to educate him about the vast differences between the two and besides that, when it came time for him to *hobble out of the hospital, he'd been twelve hours without a librium, ninety hours without a drink. The choice was clear.

(*Note: When his last visit ended, a month ago, someone put Steve in a wheel chair and rolled him all the way to the bus stop. I suspect it might have happened this time if it weren't for the fact he had a photographer tagging along. As he shuffled down the hall leaving though, I noticed an unusual number of people stopped what they were doing and watched him go. I wondered silently, if I was the only one who wanted to scream. He quietly expressed his thanks to a couple of the nurses and made a point of telling me how well they'd treated him over the last few days.)

Some place to go

Last night there was a message on my phone from Barney. His is the apartment where I last left Steve. For descriptive purposes, I should mention that it's a motel room. He said in the message that Steve's visiting privileges had been extended beyond the three days. This is good news but before any of you doctors out there start to feel vindicated, I should add that Barney suffers from his own brand of chronic alcoholism. He has a perpetual half gallon of vodka, by the side of his bed. He also has a gigantic heart and has taken Steve in many times, over the last year and, in spite of the fact that people threaten to wring his neck occasionally, he makes for a truly genuine friend.

The final breathing treatment

Before Steve was discharged from the hospital, he was read a list of numbers he could call for medical assistance. I found myself having to resist the urge to snatch the paper and start dialing the phone. Is this really the face of a man that's well enough to go home (as they referred to it)?

The reason I went as early as I did was to speak to his doctor, the doctor who never showed up; the same doctor who didn't return my phone call yesterday. I wanted to ask him if he felt anything, letting this man leave the hospital. I wanted to know if he was sorry that the rules are what they are. I wanted to know if he ever thinks of breaking those rules simply because they are immoral and unjust. I wondered if he understood that this patient of his planned to spend the night, passed out on a concrete floor (which is, so far as I know now) exactly what happened. When I finally left him, he'd been offered that same floor (there's a blind assumption that he'll stay there) for the next three days only, then it's anyone's guess.

The wallet

Because I know for a fact, that Steve doesn't want this to be all doom and gloom, I must tell you now about the wallet. This morning he opened the sliding drawer in his tray table and pulled out what would appear to be a pack of loose tobacco (ordinarily, he rolls his own cigarettes and can roll one faster than you can open a new pack and get one out). He opened it like a man does his wallet and pulled out a card with a number on it. He studied the card for a minute, returned it and tossed the package onto the bed.

I lost my wallet four times, a few years back, he said. Four times, I had to replace all my I.D.'s and numbers, everything, whatever I could. And I got thinking one day and thought, you 'aint ever lost your tobacco. So instead of buying a new wallet that last time, I made one and I 'ain't lost it since then. Oh I got it stolen once, when I passed out in the yard at Labor Ready but I haven't lost it.

In honor of some of the more ignorant (unwitting - might really be the word) things that people said to him today, things like when you get home, and try to avoid food with salt in it etc., I asked him if he planned to participate in the Great American Smokeout. He laughed and I thought how nice it was that he is still able to get my jokes.

Also, congratulations to those of you who did in fact, participate in The Great American Smokeout. I wonder now, why there isn't a Great American Drinkout?

An update

Update on the previous entry: Today Steve is able to walk. He's slow and he's bent, but able. More later.

I got to the hospital this morning at 7am. Steve's walking papers were pretty much ready to go. His social worker filed an application for his Bridges to Care extension. I'm not exactly sure what it is that covers but she added that where he went from here, is pretty much up to him. She was offering him bus fare to the mission, which tells me she's totally unfamiliar with the mission but then, I am not a social worker.

As a postscript, I put this image here because of the swelling in Steve's midsection. He'll give me some hell about that but it's important to note. This toxic spare tire is what's left after three and a half liters of fluid were drained. Without it, he'd weigh (probably) less than a hundred pounds.

Along the time I was making this post, Steve's breakfast came and he offered to share it with me. Twice. I thought things were pretty surreal yesterday, and the day before, but this morning, this morning started on a whole new level.

Where've you been?

A couple of weeks ago, I did a little rant about a homeless man in Nashville and homelessness in general. I found myself out looking for Steve, who'd been admitted to the hospital with cirrhosis of the liver. He was released (escorted to the door actually, in serious but stable condition) back to the familiar sights and sounds of the bridge under which he lives. Before I get started, I should add here that according to sources, this sort of thing happens all the time. No biggie. Insurance-free, he was released homeless, swollen, immobile, and told not to drink. I'm sure his doctor meant well.

He then stayed a couple of nights under the bridge and a few on Barney's floor. I caught up with him at both places but I didn't speak about the visit to Barney's (the middle of last week) because by then, I was afraid for his life and so was everyone else. He looked terrible. He was was passing blood and unable to control it. For the first time, there was real fear in his eyes. Steve is forty three years old. I urged him to return to the hospital and he assured me, sipping vodka from a shot glass to keep off the shakes, that there was nothing they could do for him, without insurance. He was readmitted Sunday night.

As of today, his three days are up again. This is a homeless man who has a pair of sweat pants, a t-shirt, and a windbreaker, who is dying and can't stand up. He has a hard time getting to the bathroom, when it's five feet away. What is going to happen when he crosses the threshold of the hospital and there's no bathroom? No toilet paper. No food. Unless something changes, he'll be handed over this morning, to the frozen-hard, air. Last night it was twenty something degrees. He'll get his sign (which says Homeless, please help) and go back up on the bridge long enough to make a pint.

This nightmarish scene is set to loop until we find him either in the intensive care unit or dead under the bridge.