"No Unauthorized Camping"
The sign is posted with authority.
Seen out of the corner of my eye while we drove past it, it didn't register for a minute what it said.
"No Unauthorized Camping"
It made me laugh even as it angered me.
Were we in Galveston driving along the beach, where pitching a tent would be so tempting and romantic?
Nope.
Were we at a wayside stop between here and Houston- tree-filled and picnic-tabled and peaceful?
Nope.
"No Unauthorized Camping"
was posted, bolted actually to the underside of a highway overpass in the guts of Houston.
It was funny because that's the absolute last place anyone would want to pitch a tent, build a campfire, sing songs, tell a few ghost stories and eat 'em some s'mores.
And it was infuriating because I know damn well that those who posted the sign know that.
They're not worried about campers of a Davy Crockett boy scout sort.
They're talking about homeless people.
People without homes
jobs
money
resources
friends
safety nets of any sort
People who are hopeless.
People who would actually look at the endless cacophony and exhaust-filled open maw of a dirt-blown highway underpass and think
"This offers shelter".
Gather their meager belongings and their almost invisible self and take shelter someplace even the pigeons won't roost.
Because it's better than nothing.
Better than being out in the wind or the rain or the beating relentless sun of a Texas summer.
"No Unauthorized Camping"
tries very hard to downplay the reality of homeless people in Houston- the 4th largest city in the USA.
"We have no indigent person problem- we have a CAMPER problem- they just need a reminder to go somewhere else to camp. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. LOOK! Culture and Art and Science! SHINY"!"
"No Unauthorized Camping"
bolted to the cement wall in harsh black and white, is a constant reminder for those huddled against the vertical supports of the highway overpass feeling every shudder of every vehicle pulsing through the concrete like the breathing of the monster city that they can't escape, but can't quite completely live in either.
Breathe in
"All these cars? They're on their way home"
Breathe out
"You don't have a car. Or a home"
Open eyes and there's the sign.
"No Unauthorized Camping"
"Ha. And you don't even have a fucking tent."
photo
photo by Sheri Dixon
Showing posts with label homelessness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label homelessness. Show all posts
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Meet You Down at the Soup Kitchen
It's just before 8am on a beautiful morning, and I'm sitting at my desk watching the sun rising up through the springing trees on the creek bank. The dappled rays stream through the windows and skylights of the dining room next to me- the house quiet except for the quarterly reports from Ward's mom's Grandmother Clock in the living room. The boys (night owls even worse than me) are still sleeping and even the dogs haven't ventured out of bed yet. Everyone is snuggled down safe and warm and Home.
Today's "Look Back" has to do with homelessness- something I think about often and have been faced with more than once. No one aims to attain it. No one plans for it. It's something that happens with a flash of Mother Nature, the violence of flames, the slow agony of job loss and late fees and phone calls and letters and the sheriff at the door, or something that happens while you're focused elsewhere...like a hospital bed made up with sheets and blankets and monitors and your loved one.
Anyone who says "It could never happen to me" is foolish. Matters not how well you've moved the game pieces of your life- the ones shaped like money or faith or networks of other equally fallible humans, rest assured it COULD happen to you- is already happening every day to people who thought they were secure.
And it slays me that at a time when so many are floundering with the burdens of health care and the lack of employment and the fallout of predatory lending fanned by our As Seen On TV societal goal to Live the American Dream, there are people who are not just pushing for, but SCREAMING for and demanding that even the little gains in humanizing our country and strengthening safety nets for those who need it- for women and children and the elderly- for all that to be cut away in the name of Smaller Government and Fiscal Responsibility.
How short-sighted do you have to be to not realize that it's YOUR family, YOUR future, YOUR life on the line? The bad shit does not just happen to other people. The safety nets are not just there for the terminally weak that should be culled from the herd anyway.
Because at the end of the day- that's every. Single. One of us.
Homeless and Hopeless in Hermann Park
Houston Texas has a huge homeless population. Not surprising since it's the 4th largest city in the US, and it's blessed with being in a very mild climate.
You see them everywhere, if you pay attention.
Under overpasses cardboard walls crumple in on meager possessions that only look like refuse to most of the rest of us.
Tucked into empty lots, backed into doorways, people lost from within and invisible from without wile away the days that all must run together in a never-ending procession of nightmare and surprise.
We noticed the Houston Homeless on our very first trip there. Those first years' pilgrimages to the cancer hospital included our little dog who would go to Doggy Daycare while we were otherwise occupied, and Doggy Daycare was past the hospitals, past Hermann Park, and just past the Museum District.
That first morning we were stopped at a stoplight in front of a church. Not Sunday morning, yet the entire yard was filled with a queue of humanity quietly silently awaiting entrance. It's a soup kitchen.
Where the Homeless go during the day I'm not sure, but one winter evening we were retrieving our little dog just after dark, and though the parents and children, bikers and joggers had long left Hermann Park, the Homeless had appeared like Ghost Moths- hovering lightly and and almost luminously in their nocturnal perches.
I was so preoccupied with my husband's health, I didn't give much thought to the Homeless of Hermann Park till we were faced with an Incident.
Illness has taken a great financial toll on our family- we no longer have a credit card, and very little cash. I try to bring as much extra cash as I can, "just in case", and this particular trip I had brought 7 days' worth of cash for what was supposed to be a 4 day trip. My husband contracted MRSA in hospital and we were there 10 days, not 4. Not 7. Ten.
Now, the hospital allows patients to cash a personal check a day for up to $50.
Our hotel room was $65 per day.
I was able to cobble together enough to survive, stay in the hotel, eat, and coast home on gas fumes, but that little episode gave me pause and I couldn't help but wonder
How many of the Hermann Park Homeless have family members in one of the many hospitals of the Hospital District? We came perilously close to "camping" in our auto that last few nights. What if I'd been OUT out of money, not just ALMOST out of money? What if my husband had been delayed by MONTHS instead of days?
In the last 8 years we've been with insurance, without insurance, and on medicare. Ward's been employed and unemployed. We've had medical trips when we've had money and medical trips when I've literally felt like I've gone begging for funds.
But the one thing that's been lurking at the back of my mind- behind the weedy shrubberies and crouched next to an old shopping cart- is the knowledge that like so many people who are "one paycheck away from eviction", without our safety net of family and friends, we'd be truly and honestly "one medical procedure away from living in Hermann Park".
What happens when the money runs out before the medical emergency is fixed? We're currently here 2 weeks and with no foreseeable date to go home- ground to a halt by a snowballing hairball of unexpected complications. We thought we'd be here 5 days- 7 at the most. We've got options, and support, and more love than a family can absorb without overflowing, and we're OK. We can weather this storm under roof and with full tummies.
But what if we didn't have those options, support and love?
What if we didn't have a computer that linked us with people around the world who care about us? What if I'd been working several jobs to keep ahead of disaster while caring for a family and ill husband and didn't have the time, energy or heart to make and keep friends who we could fall back on?
What if we were truly alone, as so many families are in our fragmented society?
I refuse to leave Ward here, trapped helpless and afraid in a hospital bed. If I had to, I'd live on a park bench to be with him every day.
How many of the Hermann Park Homeless are doing just that- is that why they seem to disappear during the day? Are they next to the bed of a loved one- holding a hand- reassuring them that everything is alright although it's anything but?
The Hospital District in Houston is the largest in the WORLD- just this cluster of hospitals employs 65,000 people- every one of those hundred or so waiting in the soup line could slip into any one of those great maws of medical care and be totally not noticed in the crowds.
And how many have left the hospital for the last time- mechanically leaving the empty shell of the worn out patient- going through the motions of walking, navigating hallways and crosswalks on automatic pilot- their bodies weighted to the earth while their sanity frantically flutters after the soul of the one just lost- up, up and gone- not caring what happens now to their own broken-hearted shell.
I wonder about these things.
But I'm mortally afraid to know the truth.
Posted by lunamother at 8:34 PM
Today's "Look Back" has to do with homelessness- something I think about often and have been faced with more than once. No one aims to attain it. No one plans for it. It's something that happens with a flash of Mother Nature, the violence of flames, the slow agony of job loss and late fees and phone calls and letters and the sheriff at the door, or something that happens while you're focused elsewhere...like a hospital bed made up with sheets and blankets and monitors and your loved one.
Anyone who says "It could never happen to me" is foolish. Matters not how well you've moved the game pieces of your life- the ones shaped like money or faith or networks of other equally fallible humans, rest assured it COULD happen to you- is already happening every day to people who thought they were secure.
And it slays me that at a time when so many are floundering with the burdens of health care and the lack of employment and the fallout of predatory lending fanned by our As Seen On TV societal goal to Live the American Dream, there are people who are not just pushing for, but SCREAMING for and demanding that even the little gains in humanizing our country and strengthening safety nets for those who need it- for women and children and the elderly- for all that to be cut away in the name of Smaller Government and Fiscal Responsibility.
How short-sighted do you have to be to not realize that it's YOUR family, YOUR future, YOUR life on the line? The bad shit does not just happen to other people. The safety nets are not just there for the terminally weak that should be culled from the herd anyway.
Because at the end of the day- that's every. Single. One of us.
Homeless and Hopeless in Hermann Park
Houston Texas has a huge homeless population. Not surprising since it's the 4th largest city in the US, and it's blessed with being in a very mild climate.
You see them everywhere, if you pay attention.
Under overpasses cardboard walls crumple in on meager possessions that only look like refuse to most of the rest of us.
Tucked into empty lots, backed into doorways, people lost from within and invisible from without wile away the days that all must run together in a never-ending procession of nightmare and surprise.
We noticed the Houston Homeless on our very first trip there. Those first years' pilgrimages to the cancer hospital included our little dog who would go to Doggy Daycare while we were otherwise occupied, and Doggy Daycare was past the hospitals, past Hermann Park, and just past the Museum District.
That first morning we were stopped at a stoplight in front of a church. Not Sunday morning, yet the entire yard was filled with a queue of humanity quietly silently awaiting entrance. It's a soup kitchen.
Where the Homeless go during the day I'm not sure, but one winter evening we were retrieving our little dog just after dark, and though the parents and children, bikers and joggers had long left Hermann Park, the Homeless had appeared like Ghost Moths- hovering lightly and and almost luminously in their nocturnal perches.
I was so preoccupied with my husband's health, I didn't give much thought to the Homeless of Hermann Park till we were faced with an Incident.
Illness has taken a great financial toll on our family- we no longer have a credit card, and very little cash. I try to bring as much extra cash as I can, "just in case", and this particular trip I had brought 7 days' worth of cash for what was supposed to be a 4 day trip. My husband contracted MRSA in hospital and we were there 10 days, not 4. Not 7. Ten.
Now, the hospital allows patients to cash a personal check a day for up to $50.
Our hotel room was $65 per day.
I was able to cobble together enough to survive, stay in the hotel, eat, and coast home on gas fumes, but that little episode gave me pause and I couldn't help but wonder
How many of the Hermann Park Homeless have family members in one of the many hospitals of the Hospital District? We came perilously close to "camping" in our auto that last few nights. What if I'd been OUT out of money, not just ALMOST out of money? What if my husband had been delayed by MONTHS instead of days?
In the last 8 years we've been with insurance, without insurance, and on medicare. Ward's been employed and unemployed. We've had medical trips when we've had money and medical trips when I've literally felt like I've gone begging for funds.
But the one thing that's been lurking at the back of my mind- behind the weedy shrubberies and crouched next to an old shopping cart- is the knowledge that like so many people who are "one paycheck away from eviction", without our safety net of family and friends, we'd be truly and honestly "one medical procedure away from living in Hermann Park".
What happens when the money runs out before the medical emergency is fixed? We're currently here 2 weeks and with no foreseeable date to go home- ground to a halt by a snowballing hairball of unexpected complications. We thought we'd be here 5 days- 7 at the most. We've got options, and support, and more love than a family can absorb without overflowing, and we're OK. We can weather this storm under roof and with full tummies.
But what if we didn't have those options, support and love?
What if we didn't have a computer that linked us with people around the world who care about us? What if I'd been working several jobs to keep ahead of disaster while caring for a family and ill husband and didn't have the time, energy or heart to make and keep friends who we could fall back on?
What if we were truly alone, as so many families are in our fragmented society?
I refuse to leave Ward here, trapped helpless and afraid in a hospital bed. If I had to, I'd live on a park bench to be with him every day.
How many of the Hermann Park Homeless are doing just that- is that why they seem to disappear during the day? Are they next to the bed of a loved one- holding a hand- reassuring them that everything is alright although it's anything but?
The Hospital District in Houston is the largest in the WORLD- just this cluster of hospitals employs 65,000 people- every one of those hundred or so waiting in the soup line could slip into any one of those great maws of medical care and be totally not noticed in the crowds.
And how many have left the hospital for the last time- mechanically leaving the empty shell of the worn out patient- going through the motions of walking, navigating hallways and crosswalks on automatic pilot- their bodies weighted to the earth while their sanity frantically flutters after the soul of the one just lost- up, up and gone- not caring what happens now to their own broken-hearted shell.
I wonder about these things.
But I'm mortally afraid to know the truth.
Posted by lunamother at 8:34 PM
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Book Excerpt- "Almost Invisible- a different kind of survival story"
This short little book popped up in my head and niggled me till I wrote it down- from how it's arranged to how it unfolded, I had no idea how it was going to end till it did.
Mainly written to counter all the current End of the World survivalist books that have everything happening violently, suddenly, very dramatically, this is the story of Now, of Here, of the reality that we're all of us in the middle of our own end every single day.
And the real truth that while things could certainly get worse, they could just as easily get better if we all stop looking for and fearing the Big Monsters, and start caring for our own neighbors (human and otherwise), and our own neighborhoods (with or without human habitation).
Chapter Three- Shelter
During mealtimes at the senior citizens' home, a perky young activities director would announce the many social opportunities for the residents to enjoy.
Mostly her voice was background noise,so much buzzing mulling around and under the real conversation, but one day the buzzing became words and the words piqued her interest.
"The Childrens' Hospital is looking for volunteers to read stories to the patients- if you're interested, please see me after lunch".
The children loved her.
She had a way of making the fairy tales come to life, the characters all having different voices and expressions- all framed by the purple hat, which became her identity.
"Where's Purple Hat Granny?" the children would wonder to each other if she was even 10 minutes late.
While their parents brought them stuffed animals and the candy stripers brought them treats and the medical staff brought them things that were "good for you- and it'll only hurt for a minute", she brought them treasures from the park- acorns, feathers, pebbles and leaves.
She reported on the magical images in the clouds, the sunshiny warmth of the air, the call of the common creatures most grownups couldn't hear anymore- squirrels, frogs, cicadas, sparrows.
All the things they missed by being in the hospital.
She brought the gift of playing outside inside.
And after her reports, she listened to theirs.
Not just the fears and frustrations of being who they were and where they were, but of things remembered- snowflakes turned liquid on a tastebud, baking cookies with their mom, beloved and comical pets at home waiting for them, what they were going to be when they grew up.
Eventually they'd get around to the story.
She picked the stories with care from the library- only those with wild free colors and fabulously delicious words were acceptable. The colors had to leap off the pages and wrap around the childrens' imaginations while the text burst rolling, roiling,boiling and churning along- carrying them all away triumphantly for just a sliver of time.
Out of the hospital. Away from their hurt, their germs, their helplessness.
While most volunteers came and read their story, passed around a treat, patted heads and cheeks and were gone in an hour, she spent all afternoon in the company of her children- none of them had anywhere else to be.
She left the hospital each day along with the rush of day staff, relatives and office workers- all with thoughts of the evening ahead of them, while her heart stayed firmly behind.
One evening, returning to the shelter, she noticed not for the first time, the people outside.
Between the floods and the drought, the downturn of the economy and the swelling of unemployment, more and more people were jobless, homeless, hopeless, families stressed and stretched till they broke- and the shards fell sharp and fresh on the doorstep of the shelter.
She had status as 'permanently homeless'- her mental capacity not feeble enough for hospitalization, but not orderly enough for employment, plus she never caused anyone a moment of bother, so her spot in the shelter was secure.
She smiled kindly at the children, who tried valiantly to smile in return. The adults' eyes were fixed inward- unable to look beyond their own troubled thoughts.
Except for one.
She'd smiled at the boy- a young man of about 12- not a little kid anymore yet not quite a teenager, he had his arm around the shoulder of his mother- a gesture both protective and needy.
The corners of the boy's mouth turned up but his eyes were defiant, troubled, ashamed.
Puzzled, she glanced at his mother. The evening shadows were reflected in her tired eyes, her faded hair, and the bruise on her cheek. The shadowed eyes questioned, begged, and pierced straight into her soul with an attack of recognition.
And she knew for sure and for true that this boy, right at the threshold of becoming a man, had had to deny any likeness there was between himself and his father- for one thing the boy would not allow himself to become was like him- the man who was supposed to be his role model.
And she knew for sure and for true that this woman was herself.
Gently, she touched the boy's arm. "Come with me- it's going to be alright".
Entering the office, she told the secretary "I won't be needing my place here anymore- my son has come to take me home".
Surprised, but in a hurry to close up the office, the secretary asked, "I thought they said you don't have a family. Where does your son live?"
"He's from Neshkoro. He's a missionary and has just returned form doing good deeds in Africa. He'll be here in just a little bit to pick me up. I want you to give my spot to these people, please".
And she gathered her few things and left the shelter for the last time.
Although she was tired from her afternoon at the hospital, she appeared fresh and happy when she reported to the evening shift.
"I'm here to be the overnight volunteer".
The charge nurse looked confused. "I wasn't aware that we were starting an overnight program", she sighed. "They don't tell the night crew ANYTHING, but we surely are glad for your help".
And from that moment on, any child who woke alone and hurting and afraid in the dark had Purple Hat Granny to firmly hold their hand, whisper stories of hope and light and tuck them in with promises of a better tomorrow.
Mainly written to counter all the current End of the World survivalist books that have everything happening violently, suddenly, very dramatically, this is the story of Now, of Here, of the reality that we're all of us in the middle of our own end every single day.
And the real truth that while things could certainly get worse, they could just as easily get better if we all stop looking for and fearing the Big Monsters, and start caring for our own neighbors (human and otherwise), and our own neighborhoods (with or without human habitation).
Chapter Three- Shelter
During mealtimes at the senior citizens' home, a perky young activities director would announce the many social opportunities for the residents to enjoy.
Mostly her voice was background noise,so much buzzing mulling around and under the real conversation, but one day the buzzing became words and the words piqued her interest.
"The Childrens' Hospital is looking for volunteers to read stories to the patients- if you're interested, please see me after lunch".
The children loved her.
She had a way of making the fairy tales come to life, the characters all having different voices and expressions- all framed by the purple hat, which became her identity.
"Where's Purple Hat Granny?" the children would wonder to each other if she was even 10 minutes late.
While their parents brought them stuffed animals and the candy stripers brought them treats and the medical staff brought them things that were "good for you- and it'll only hurt for a minute", she brought them treasures from the park- acorns, feathers, pebbles and leaves.
She reported on the magical images in the clouds, the sunshiny warmth of the air, the call of the common creatures most grownups couldn't hear anymore- squirrels, frogs, cicadas, sparrows.
All the things they missed by being in the hospital.
She brought the gift of playing outside inside.
And after her reports, she listened to theirs.
Not just the fears and frustrations of being who they were and where they were, but of things remembered- snowflakes turned liquid on a tastebud, baking cookies with their mom, beloved and comical pets at home waiting for them, what they were going to be when they grew up.
Eventually they'd get around to the story.
She picked the stories with care from the library- only those with wild free colors and fabulously delicious words were acceptable. The colors had to leap off the pages and wrap around the childrens' imaginations while the text burst rolling, roiling,boiling and churning along- carrying them all away triumphantly for just a sliver of time.
Out of the hospital. Away from their hurt, their germs, their helplessness.
While most volunteers came and read their story, passed around a treat, patted heads and cheeks and were gone in an hour, she spent all afternoon in the company of her children- none of them had anywhere else to be.
She left the hospital each day along with the rush of day staff, relatives and office workers- all with thoughts of the evening ahead of them, while her heart stayed firmly behind.
One evening, returning to the shelter, she noticed not for the first time, the people outside.
Between the floods and the drought, the downturn of the economy and the swelling of unemployment, more and more people were jobless, homeless, hopeless, families stressed and stretched till they broke- and the shards fell sharp and fresh on the doorstep of the shelter.
She had status as 'permanently homeless'- her mental capacity not feeble enough for hospitalization, but not orderly enough for employment, plus she never caused anyone a moment of bother, so her spot in the shelter was secure.
She smiled kindly at the children, who tried valiantly to smile in return. The adults' eyes were fixed inward- unable to look beyond their own troubled thoughts.
Except for one.
She'd smiled at the boy- a young man of about 12- not a little kid anymore yet not quite a teenager, he had his arm around the shoulder of his mother- a gesture both protective and needy.
The corners of the boy's mouth turned up but his eyes were defiant, troubled, ashamed.
Puzzled, she glanced at his mother. The evening shadows were reflected in her tired eyes, her faded hair, and the bruise on her cheek. The shadowed eyes questioned, begged, and pierced straight into her soul with an attack of recognition.
And she knew for sure and for true that this boy, right at the threshold of becoming a man, had had to deny any likeness there was between himself and his father- for one thing the boy would not allow himself to become was like him- the man who was supposed to be his role model.
And she knew for sure and for true that this woman was herself.
Gently, she touched the boy's arm. "Come with me- it's going to be alright".
Entering the office, she told the secretary "I won't be needing my place here anymore- my son has come to take me home".
Surprised, but in a hurry to close up the office, the secretary asked, "I thought they said you don't have a family. Where does your son live?"
"He's from Neshkoro. He's a missionary and has just returned form doing good deeds in Africa. He'll be here in just a little bit to pick me up. I want you to give my spot to these people, please".
And she gathered her few things and left the shelter for the last time.
Although she was tired from her afternoon at the hospital, she appeared fresh and happy when she reported to the evening shift.
"I'm here to be the overnight volunteer".
The charge nurse looked confused. "I wasn't aware that we were starting an overnight program", she sighed. "They don't tell the night crew ANYTHING, but we surely are glad for your help".
And from that moment on, any child who woke alone and hurting and afraid in the dark had Purple Hat Granny to firmly hold their hand, whisper stories of hope and light and tuck them in with promises of a better tomorrow.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Homeless and Hopeless in Hermann Park
Houston Texas has a huge homeless population. Not surprising since it's the 4th largest city in the US, and it's blessed with being in a very mild climate.
You see them everywhere, if you pay attention.
Under overpasses cardboard walls crumple in on meager possessions that only look like refuse to most of the rest of us.
Tucked into empty lots, backed into doorways, people lost from within and invisible from without wile away the days that all must run together in a never-ending procession of nightmare and surprise.
We noticed the Houston Homeless on our very first trip there. Those first years' pilgrimages to the cancer hospital included our little dog who would go to Doggy Daycare while we were otherwise occupied, and Doggy Daycare was past the hospitals, past Hermann Park, and just past the Museum District.
That first morning we were stopped at a stoplight in front of a church. Not Sunday morning, yet the entire yard was filled with a queue of humanity quietly silently awaiting entrance. It's a soup kitchen.
Where the Homeless go during the day I'm not sure, but one winter evening we were retrieving our little dog just after dark, and though the parents and children, bikers and joggers had long left Hermann Park, the Homeless had appeared like Ghost Moths- hovering lightly and and almost luminously in their nocturnal perches.
I was so preoccupied with my husband's health, I didn't give much thought to the Homeless of Hermann Park till we were faced with an Incident.
Illness has taken a great financial toll on our family- we no longer have a credit card, and very little cash. I try to bring as much extra cash as I can, "just in case", and this particular trip I had brought 7 days' worth of cash for what was supposed to be a 4 day trip. My husband contracted MRSA in hospital and we were there 10 days, not 4. Not 7. Ten.
Now, the hospital allows patients to cash a personal check a day for up to $50.
Our hotel room was $65 per day.
I was able to cobble together enough to survive, stay in the hotel, eat, and coast home on gas fumes, but that little episode gave me pause and I couldn't help but wonder
How many of the Hermann Park Homeless have family members in one of the many hospitals of the Hospital District? We came perilously close to "camping" in our auto that last few nights. What if I'd been OUT out of money, not just ALMOST out of money? What if my husband had been delayed by MONTHS instead of days?
In the last 8 years we've been with insurance, without insurance, and on medicare. Ward's been employed and unemployed. We've had medical trips when we've had money and medical trips when I've literally felt like I've gone begging for funds.
But the one thing that's been lurking at the back of my mind- behind the weedy shrubberies and crouched next to an old shopping cart- is the knowledge that like so many people who are "one paycheck away from eviction", without our safety net of family and friends, we'd be truly and honestly "one medical procedure away from living in Hermann Park".
What happens when the money runs out before the medical emergency is fixed? We're currently here 2 weeks and with no foreseeable date to go home- ground to a halt by a snowballing hairball of unexpected complications. We thought we'd be here 5 days- 7 at the most. We've got options, and support, and more love than a family can absorb without overflowing, and we're OK. We can weather this storm under roof and with full tummies.
But what if we didn't have those options, support and love?
What if we didn't have a computer that linked us with people around the world who care about us? What if I'd been working several jobs to keep ahead of disaster while caring for a family and ill husband and didn't have the time, energy or heart to make and keep friends who we could fall back on?
What if we were truly alone, as so many families are in our fragmented society?
I refuse to leave Ward here, trapped helpless and afraid in a hospital bed. If I had to, I'd live on a park bench to be with him every day.
How many of the Hermann Park Homeless are doing just that- is that why they seem to disappear during the day? Are they next to the bed of a loved one- holding a hand- reassuring them that everything is alright although it's anything but?
The Hospital District in Houston is the largest in the WORLD- just this cluster of hospitals employs 65,000 people- every one of those hundred or so waiting in the soup line could slip into any one of those great maws of medical care and be totally not noticed in the crowds.
And how many have left the hospital for the last time- mechanically leaving the empty shell of the worn out patient- going through the motions of walking, navigating hallways and crosswalks on automatic pilot- their bodies weighted to the earth while their sanity frantically flutters after the soul of the one just lost- up, up and gone- not caring what happens now to their own broken-hearted shell.
I wonder about these things.
But I'm mortally afraid to know the truth.
You see them everywhere, if you pay attention.
Under overpasses cardboard walls crumple in on meager possessions that only look like refuse to most of the rest of us.
Tucked into empty lots, backed into doorways, people lost from within and invisible from without wile away the days that all must run together in a never-ending procession of nightmare and surprise.
We noticed the Houston Homeless on our very first trip there. Those first years' pilgrimages to the cancer hospital included our little dog who would go to Doggy Daycare while we were otherwise occupied, and Doggy Daycare was past the hospitals, past Hermann Park, and just past the Museum District.
That first morning we were stopped at a stoplight in front of a church. Not Sunday morning, yet the entire yard was filled with a queue of humanity quietly silently awaiting entrance. It's a soup kitchen.
Where the Homeless go during the day I'm not sure, but one winter evening we were retrieving our little dog just after dark, and though the parents and children, bikers and joggers had long left Hermann Park, the Homeless had appeared like Ghost Moths- hovering lightly and and almost luminously in their nocturnal perches.
I was so preoccupied with my husband's health, I didn't give much thought to the Homeless of Hermann Park till we were faced with an Incident.
Illness has taken a great financial toll on our family- we no longer have a credit card, and very little cash. I try to bring as much extra cash as I can, "just in case", and this particular trip I had brought 7 days' worth of cash for what was supposed to be a 4 day trip. My husband contracted MRSA in hospital and we were there 10 days, not 4. Not 7. Ten.
Now, the hospital allows patients to cash a personal check a day for up to $50.
Our hotel room was $65 per day.
I was able to cobble together enough to survive, stay in the hotel, eat, and coast home on gas fumes, but that little episode gave me pause and I couldn't help but wonder
How many of the Hermann Park Homeless have family members in one of the many hospitals of the Hospital District? We came perilously close to "camping" in our auto that last few nights. What if I'd been OUT out of money, not just ALMOST out of money? What if my husband had been delayed by MONTHS instead of days?
In the last 8 years we've been with insurance, without insurance, and on medicare. Ward's been employed and unemployed. We've had medical trips when we've had money and medical trips when I've literally felt like I've gone begging for funds.
But the one thing that's been lurking at the back of my mind- behind the weedy shrubberies and crouched next to an old shopping cart- is the knowledge that like so many people who are "one paycheck away from eviction", without our safety net of family and friends, we'd be truly and honestly "one medical procedure away from living in Hermann Park".
What happens when the money runs out before the medical emergency is fixed? We're currently here 2 weeks and with no foreseeable date to go home- ground to a halt by a snowballing hairball of unexpected complications. We thought we'd be here 5 days- 7 at the most. We've got options, and support, and more love than a family can absorb without overflowing, and we're OK. We can weather this storm under roof and with full tummies.
But what if we didn't have those options, support and love?
What if we didn't have a computer that linked us with people around the world who care about us? What if I'd been working several jobs to keep ahead of disaster while caring for a family and ill husband and didn't have the time, energy or heart to make and keep friends who we could fall back on?
What if we were truly alone, as so many families are in our fragmented society?
I refuse to leave Ward here, trapped helpless and afraid in a hospital bed. If I had to, I'd live on a park bench to be with him every day.
How many of the Hermann Park Homeless are doing just that- is that why they seem to disappear during the day? Are they next to the bed of a loved one- holding a hand- reassuring them that everything is alright although it's anything but?
The Hospital District in Houston is the largest in the WORLD- just this cluster of hospitals employs 65,000 people- every one of those hundred or so waiting in the soup line could slip into any one of those great maws of medical care and be totally not noticed in the crowds.
And how many have left the hospital for the last time- mechanically leaving the empty shell of the worn out patient- going through the motions of walking, navigating hallways and crosswalks on automatic pilot- their bodies weighted to the earth while their sanity frantically flutters after the soul of the one just lost- up, up and gone- not caring what happens now to their own broken-hearted shell.
I wonder about these things.
But I'm mortally afraid to know the truth.
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