Went to the park this morning looking for Paul. “Oh, you mean the old guy who pisses on himself? He fell so bad. He stood up. Went head first. Straight down. I called 911. Now, I have to go do my hair. I have an appointment with City Housing. Want to get my place back.”
“Paul still had the bags he had in the morning. Heard the sound. I picked them up and put them in the ambulance. He’ll have a bed tonight. He’s not going to make it through the winter. He doesn’t know when to stop. I did yesterday. Knew the alcohol poison was creeping up on me. Gave Paul just a little to keep him going. He was a mess…. You got him a laundry voucher. He didn’t use it….He has somebody.”
“He won’t make it through the winter. He don’t know when to get it done…. I ain’t so easy. Not going to any program. You got to suck up to Tim Coleman…. I could use a place. I got to get out of here.”
I went out looking for him. I walked the streets, looking up the alleys. Needed to get out of the cold myself. Went home. Probably should have gone to the hospital, but figured he was still in triage or something and I got no status. I was tired also and depressed. No end games. No solutions. What role do I play in this?
I went back in the afternoon, after taking care of business. He wasn’t on the street. Drove to Fletcher Allen. A bitch finding a parking space. Looked like a mall parking lot. Blue 1. Like you can read it on the elevator buttons. They offer a reminder card. Just another piece of paper in my pocket. Found the information place. The desk volunteer told me he wasn’t a patient and hadn’t been treated in the emergency room. “I used O, not a lot of them. He is not here and he hasn’t been, according to this.” We laughed about the power and future of computers and I left.
I drove past his usual spot. There he was.
He said they didn’t check him into the hospital. They said, “oh, its you again.” He was put somewhere and offered a tylenol. At some point, he was told to leave. A security guard stood nearby. He walked down the hill and took up his spot.
I offered to take him to Act One. He said they would not take him and would want him to go back to the hospital. He wasn’t ready to go back there. He said he had blown no numbers, “.oo1.” He couldn’t remember how he fell or where. “They told me that I fell down a flight of stairs.”
“Tell my sister I need to get out of here. They are trying to kill me. This is a message for me to get out of town.”
All you need is love and other facts and fairy tales:
I love my brother, Paul. I love the friends that help him–even if he is an old guy who pisses himself. I love thinking about him in a light-drenched place. I love the way it feels. I am with him, working a modest piece of land. Maybe we’ll grow perennials–he’ll want to grow food…a specialty crop–and some pigs. We can do both.
Paul’s hurting. I am too. I’m gun-shy. Appears Paul is too.
How would Paul be in my house? We’d need lots of tea. He’d need room to pace back and forth and smoke.
How would I be with Paul in my house? OMG!*
*only myopic grace
Thank you for your remarkable mix of compassion and reason.
If Paul can find a way to get clean, or even willing, or even close, we may be able to find a way to bring him in. Somehow. With every day, that prospect seems dimmer. It seems that everyone, from you, to my sisters, to the guys on the street, sees this. We are looking at less voluntary options, but those are not likely to work for many reasons. We’ll look anyway.
I’m thousands of miles away. I and my sisters already tried dropping everything (back when he and we had the money) and hopping on a plane to help put his things in order, and bring him west to treatment at Hazelden. It failed within a week. This is heartbreaking. The worst thing: it’s not his fault. It’s not a question of fault. I’m not sure what it is…legal/medical/genetic/circumstantial/a question of neurophysiology. And that’s before we even list the addictions. I don’t know what to say or do…