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.

Should've knowns

I should have known that Steve was let go from the hospital because he (and 200,000 other needy people) lost his TennCare coverage. He can't remember exactly when it stopped but, it's been a while. I found him and Brandy yesterday, sitting near the interstate bridge where they've spend so much time these last few months. The temperature dipped Friday night so I was happy to learn that he'd spent the night at a friends house.

Out Looking

The day before yesterday, I went looking for my old friend and subject Steve, who's been living on the street now for seventeen months. Some of you may remember that he was courageous enough to basically slit open his veins and bleed on this page back then, giving readers an up close look at a world some of them couldn't have otherwise imagined. He was brutally honest about his addiction, his choices, and his future.

I went looking for him this time, because it would seem, Steve's future is now.
The last seventeen months haven't been good to him. He suffers from a variety of illnesses including cirrhosis of the liver and all it brings with it. His close friends haven't seen him since he was released from the hospital sometime last week, his hands and feet so swollen, he could no longer walk.

This begs the question, what sort of system is it, that turns a man out onto the street to die under a bridge? Also, as another friend pointed out, why is it we have the audacity to think that the rest of the world ought to want such a system?

Anyway, I'm still looking and when I find him (assuming I do) I'll post a fresh picture of him here, whether he looks like a rock star or not.

(Note to Google: I'm also looking for someone's mom. Her name is/was Nancy Sue Hill and at one point, she lived in or near San Antonio, Texas. She has a son named Steve too, but it's a different Steve. Anyone with information is encouraged to contact me privately. Thanks)

La fiesta

At the end of winter and throughout spring, Steve lived on the front porch of what used to be La Fiesta restaurant (pictured). He kept a mattress in the part of the porch that made a little alcove and nobody bothered him there despite the fact that he was just a few yards from the road. Some of you may remember that a year ago June, Steve left his apartment and headed back to the street in order to help his girlfriend. He's been out fifteen months now.

I saw him in July for the first time in a while and he said,

Now I've got a story for you.

That statement can be the kiss of death, but not when it's Steve, so I pulled up a folding chair and he started telling it.

You know I been sleeping up there at La Fiesta, on the porch, right?

Yeah, I said.

Well, I was passed out on that mattress one night and I felt somebody lay down beside me; on the inside, next to the wall. I just assumed it was Becky because she hadn't been back for a while. So, I roll over about half asleep still, and open my eyes and I'm face to face with this giant black man that's so strung out on crack, his eyes are like baseballs. And they're right here (he holds his hand out about eight inches from his face, to show me).

Jesus, I said, then what happened?

Well first, I jumped straight up in the air and then I told him, You're gonna' have to come up off my mattress mother... (he gestures the rest randomly, to spare me the profanity). You 'aint invited to lay there, I told him.

Then, he said, next thing I know, that sumbitch is chewing my ear off Sue.

He turns his head to show me the badly injured ear, one in a long line of injuries he's suffered over the last few years (including being hit twice by a car, and beaten badly enough that he spent two weeks in the hospital, before Christmas which he said, was a relief, since the temperature dipped into the single digits).

He would've gotten my whole ear, but this lady cop came out of nowhere and pulled him off. Thank God for her. I don't even know where she came from but seriously, if that guy'd ate my ear off he'd have had to kill me after that.

We all laughed and I remained amazed that fifteen months of drinking and sleeping outdoors hasn't erased his sense of humor. There's still a good, funny guy in there who doesn't feel like anyone owes him anything.