a billion tiny pieces

I met her this summer. It was during that intense wave of humidity in July. She traced the streets slowly, and by habit, I always seek out the women who are walking alone. I started with a soft hello, as to not alarm her, and asked if she minded walking with me. She was not in good condition then; cuts on her face and eyes swollen from tears. I asked her if she needed any feminine care products and she begged me for pads. This began the dialogue in learning she was going through a miscarriage and still losing a lot of blood. I stocked her with all the maxi pads I could and asked her if she wanted some clean clothes. She began to cry and talked with me as we walked down the Ave.

“This is my relapse. I was so excited, I was clean and living a healthy life and then I lost the baby. Now I am back here. I have a doctors appointment tomorrow to make sure the miscarriage is releasing everything it needs to be.” I gave her my number, because at that point, without any money, she wasn’t sure how she would be getting to her appointment. I told her if she needed a ride I would take her myself. I never heard from her.

Yesterday, I was organizing winter clothing donations and I saw her standing in line, waiting to look through the donations. I waved and we exchanged a big hug, I told her how happy I am to see her, seemingly in better condition than when I first met her. “That was the worst time. That is when everything took a turn for me, but I am trying to get set up with maintenance again, even though I never wanted to go back to that. Anything is better than shooting the stuff they have out here that is killing people.”

She explained that the program she can get into is off Broad street, and while living homeless, it’s easier for her to find a shelter space in Kensington. But she cannot get to the clinic in time every morning, and doesn’t want to be kicked off the program she worked hard to get approved for. I advised her of other shelters she could seek out closer to the clinic, but it simply isn’t that easy when the area she frequents is essentially her safer space. Imagine being a vulnerable woman, sleeping on the street. I can’t imagine feeling safe no matter where I laid my head to rest, let alone an area of the city I was even more unfamiliar with.

She continued picking through the clothes and asked if we had any coats, size Large. The portion I allocated for this drop off site had already been taken. I keep donations separate in my car to ensure there is enough to at least make it to the encampments, which I hit after Sunday breakfast at the Last Stop. I went into my trunk, where I keep my encampment stash, and found a size large winter coat. I helped her put it on, and moments like this happen in slow motion for me. I hold the coat and she turns around as I help her find the arm spaces. I internalize these small moments in time; this is humanity. This is what its all about.

She asked, “this doesn’t make me look goofy does it?” And I said, “no way, you look warm. And this string around the waist gives you nice shape despite the bulk.” She put her hands in the pockets, and I paused. I went back to my car, and got the infinity scarf that rested on my drivers seat.

“You’re gonna have to show me how to put this kind on.”

I draped her with the scarf, wrapping it twice around, seemingly in slow motion, yet again. Then I brought the scarf up over her ears.

“For windy days, this is what I like to do. You look cute!”

“Take my picture!” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! I want to see myself.”

I took this photo and showed her.

“Damn I look awful, but I like the coat and scarf.”

“You don’t look awful. I remember when I first met you, you were in such a dark place, and your skin today…it glows. You have a plan, which is more than you had, and all you can do is try to see it through.”

“When will I see you again?”, she asked.

I gave her the run down of my schedule, trailing off on a million different topics as I tend to do, but she didn’t seem to mind.

Conversation, it matters.

Each day I go out and show love, I am transformed by the chaos and reciprocation of appreciation. For volunteers, it’s a day of impact. For anyone suffering or working on the front lines, it’s normalcy.  

I sat in the rain and bandaged a young woman up, who was covered in scrapes and had a bludgeoned eye socket from being badly beaten the night before. Having a few moments just to sit and engage with her, I learned her desire for treatment but severe uncertainties of the system and opportunities she would have post-care. I told her if she was ready and she wanted to go, That I would be there and take her myself.

David, laid watching, as I engaged. I caught his eye and started talking to him as well. He was weak and needed assistance just to stand up right. As I bandaged my young lady up, I conversed with him because he too begged that he be taken into treatment. I looked at him and told him once I was done patching my girl up, that he owed me a hug and we would get him where he needed to be if he allowed us. He laid in the rain with a white cotton hospital blanket, which he then pulled over his face and the periodic motions from beneath signaled his pain. As he uncovered his face, drenched in tears, I physically felt the heartache that controlled his struggle. We got him into a car and provided him that last cig as he attempted treatment. David wasn’t ready today, because he did come back after finding reasons to not go in. But what sticks? The pain these people feel is real. The fear is present. But the hope is possible. Even just for 40 minutes between that connection and getting David to that emergency room, there was hope.

Today a woman named Shay fell out in my arms. My outreach partner Dina Bear Rowan flagged paramedics and sat to ensure she her legs were covered, as she was wearing a dress and us girls have to stick together. I held her as I sat in a puddle, laced my fingers between hers and spoke softly as she was injected with naloxone in her left arm. I watched the purple leave her lips and the consciousness quickly return. She overdosed today because her tolerance was not the same...She had a few months clean and came down to get subs, but got a fentanyl-laced bag instead. I walked her back to Walgreens, where her uncle was still parked; waiting. As far he knows, she got a sub and returned, just as planned. Had it not been for Naloxone, she would not have gone back to his car today, and he would have likely carried that favor on his conscience forever.

Graham Crackers Killed My Dad

Sounds dramatic, doesn’t it? I wish it was.

I am about to take a trip into the refined detail of my life that lingers in my cerebral each and every day. Four years ago, almost to date, I lost my father. A man that I emotionally idolized, but seldom spent time with in my adult life. In his last few weeks, we reconstructed a bridge that connected me back to the person who taught me of unconditional love, the person who defended mostly any choice I ever made, the person I have search for within each soul I meet.

My dad suffered with alcoholism. It was normal for him to have a six pack in his book bag, as he rode his bike through town; having obtained one too many DUI’s and eliminating his access to a legal driver’s license. The situations I was in at a very young age were irresponsible in the eyes of anyone observing. From scrapping metals for fun on the side of train tracks just to get some money, to racing down a major road in a wagon and being ejected from this makeshift adventure, flying beneath a parked SUV, scraping my entire body to shreds. This was normal adventure on weekends with my dad, and I loved every minute of it. I knew, even in my young age, that these happenings were to be kept from Mom, because I knew she would lose her shit. So I kept quiet, and looked forward to Friday nights, when mom would drive me 30 miles to my grandmom’s, where my Dad was living. Until he stopped remembering that I was coming. Knocking on a wood door until my knuckles were white, with no answer waiting on the other end. Eventually, visitation stopped.

My dad’s decades of drinking evoked numerous health conditions, including diabetes and impending heart failure. A double bypass was scheduled, and the risks were monumental. Because his blood was so thin, healing would be a challenge. He called and left me a voicemail the morning of his surgery, crying into the phone and telling me he loved me and that he was scared. My dad never cried, and he never let me cry, either. “Shake it off, Sport” after each consequence of poor parental judgement. Through grief, my doctors have told me his sadness and fear was his way of saying goodbye; that he knew he wouldn’t make it. But, he did.

I spent my days by his hospital bed, waiting for him to wake up. He eventually did, and almost immediately he wanted to make a call. He dialed the beige phone next to his bed to the local bar he was a member of; the neighborhood VFW. He laughed with the bartender on the other end and asked that they write on the board, “No more drinks for Louie”. We spent long days together, awaiting discharge; watching hospital TV and eating cafeteria food. On the morning he was released I drove him home, to his quiet 1 bedroom apartment, cozy enough to make you want to curl in a blanket and never leave. He grazed the dashboard of my car, the sound of his palm tracing the thin layer of dust on vinyl echoes on repeat in my memory. “I’m so proud of you”, he said.

His recovery was tough, and filled with many road blocks. The pharmacy filled his prescription incorrectly, giving him 20 more mg of oxycodone than advised. He would call to tell me he loved me, and just repeat how sad he felt, that he just didn’t feel himself. It wasn’t until the next week, would we learn of the error made in his pain medication.

A few days passed and he had an accident. The piles of stained sheets thrown about his apartment were the indicators of either a violent crime, or the result of panic amidst an incision opening (which apparently isn’t uncommon for a severe wound of his nature). He was rushed back to the hospital and they eventually cleared him of infection. I worked weekends at the time and getting coverage around the holidays was near impossible. On a Sunday morning, two days before Christmas, his doctor called me to assure me of his wellbeing. That he kept asking about me, and asked that I know he loved me and was telling all the nurses about how special I was. I had to go to work that day, and at 6PM I was called into the office, my mom on the other end of the line. My world slipped from beneath me within seconds of the black plastic meeting my ear. I was carried out, hysterical, wishing I was dead myself, just to avoid the nightmare that was unfolding around me.

Abandonment again.

How it happened is the most telling part of this story, but it has taught me a gravely important lesson that I hold close with both resentment and acceptance; we are not entitled to a thing in life.

My sister and cousin were by his side as he was cleared to finally have something to eat and drink. A double pack of wrapped graham crackers and a miniature can of ginger ale. Graham crackers were always my favorite treat as a kid. My gram would give me a plate before bed, with a cold mug of milk, and a spoon for any of the pieces I had to fish out as I dunked. It took me over three years after my dad passing, to eat one again. The crucial element here is the ginger ale; he needed diet ginger ale because of his blood sugar. The nurse took the can to her station to retrieve the correct kind and as she did, with cotton mouth I’m sure, my dad began to eat his graham crackers.

He coughed.

On a single crumb.

He hemorrhaged almost immediately.

Every Tuesday night, a local non profit, the hub of resources and support for people that suffer from substance use in Kensington, hosts an evening of wellness, self care and refuge for women in the community: Offering showers, clinical support, dinner, and bonding.

A friend of mine who usually does the makeup wasn’t available tonight, so I filled in. As women approached the table, that was scattered with various palettes of colors and textures, this apprehension to ask consumed their presence. “that purple shadow will really make those green eyes pop. Do you mind if I try it on you?”

Their shoulders instantly relax as they sit in the chair in front of me, tilting their chin towards the fluorescent light above us. As i brush pigmented powder over the creases of their lid, I become lost in thought. I am these women, and these women are me. I ask if they like shimmery eyes, and they all said yes. Who doesn’t like shimmery eyes? They all asked for concealer under their eyes, which I bonded over because my dark circles are from my grandmother and god bless her but Christ the amount of peach tint I put on my face every morning is shameful.

Every now and again, my girls would begin to lean, and as I return with a new brush I softly say, “I’m going to add a little blush to your cheekbones”. They perk up and as I spread some rosy hue, I compliment their bone structure. Women have such strong bones, covered with such delicacy, no matter the scars that may conceal their softness.

I am no professional, and with each new face I was nervous of them not liking their look. Each of them beamed upon seeing their reflection. And that meant more to me than I can put into words. Helping another women, who in this case is battling a war I have never fought first hand, see her beauty and feeling that pride in herself, was empowering.