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.