I went looking for Paul this morning with another friend, Winstead. Hoped we could take him to look at rental apartments. Looked on upper Church Street. Looked in alleys. Asked people on the street. Found him on lower Church. Looking noticeably upset, he bellowed, “I got hit by a car. I went 6 feet in the air. I had the light. I was in the crosswalk. And the cops didn’t give a damn.” Not sure what more they could have done. They took him to the hospital. Picked him up when the treatment, whatever it was, had been completed.
He had just been released, without papers or a treatment plan, from the Fletcher Allen Hospital. He doesn’t do well in hospitals, especially FAHC, remembering too well what he thought was a misdiagnosis that allowed his wife’s cancer to get untreatable. She died, leaving him bereft and alone.
He said they didn’t x-ray him and gave him no drugs. “All I got was a CT scan.” His hand had scrapes. Too chilly to look at his arms. He had pain on his side and his arm felt numb or something. When I asked if he wanted to look for an apartment, he said he though he had a broken ankle and couldn’t walk very far. He hobbled to the park, anger rising. He railed against everything: driver, cops, and hospital. Ankle didn’t look swollen, but what do I know. These injuries take time to show.
He wants the police report so he can take action against the driver. I couldn’t get him to understand that we could get the reports, but not today. I told him that I would come back after I shot a food delivery by UCC Church to Jump. I couldn’t find him later in the afternoon after the delivery.
