Hidden people
When I read the hospital record of the patient who I was going to visit next, I couldn’t decide whether I was more frightened of where he lives or who he was. I was going to have to drive into the worst part of South Dallas, and I knew for sure I would be the only white person I saw in this crime-ridden neighborhood; but even more intimidating was the prospect of treating a bedsore on the back side of a schizophrenic man. But, I didn’t waste any time thinking about how scary this assignment was. I just drove over there, and while I was stopped at an intersection, I saw a guy selling newspapers to the people in cars. I tried to avoid making eye contact. He was well dressed and he looked completely normal, but I was already in a fearful frame of mind from my nursing assignment. I felt out of place and vulnerable. I feared that this black man might hate white people, and I really didn’t want a confrontation. I tried to block out of my mind the videos I’d seen of a white guy being dragged out of his car and beat up in a neighborhood like this one.
But he came near my car window to get my attention. Suddenly, I didn’t feel afraid at all and I saw a human being on a mission, trying to do something good by distributing his newspaper. I rolled down my window.
“Hi,” I smiled. “What are you up to?”
He said, “Do you have $2? I’m selling this newspaper.”
I looked around my car. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any money.”
“Well, if you promise to read it and then talk about it with me next time you’re at this intersection, I’ll give it to you for free.”
“Aw, I’m not going to be here again….” I responded. (I like to tell things as they really are.) I glanced at the paper. A photo of a beautiful woman’s face graced a nicely typeset cover.
I read aloud the name at the top. “Mr. Farrakhan.”
I looked into his friendly eyes and smiled back, warmly. “I’ve wondered what y’all are about!” I’d read a little bit about Louis Farrakhan, and I was genuinely curious to learn more. Not only that, but I was amazed that he seemed to want me to know what his mission was about, as if my thoughts mattered.
He smiled. “Here, take it.”
The man seemed so pleased that I was genuinely interested in his cause. Just then, the stoplight changed to green. I put the paper on my car’s dash and drove away. I read the name “Allah (God)” near the name “Farrakhan” and I prayed that the man I had just encountered would know the true God and worship Him, love Him, and serve Him only.
I found the apartment building where my patient lives in what was described in his hospital record as an “assisted living facility.” The place was bleak and run down, and when I found the two-bedroom apartment that functioned as a group home for schizophrenic people, I was appalled. The man who opened the door looked like the men in orange jumpsuits that I sometimes see on the news: really bad teeth, skinny, an afro that was badly cut, tattoos. He introduced himself as the “assistant manager,” and when I observed the way he walked and talked, I began to wonder if he also has schizophrenia, like the people he assists. The kitchen/living room had a small TV and two love seats, and I saw right away that I was not the only white person in this neighborhood, after all. To my left was a wrinkled man with paper-white skin, wearing a hoodie pulled over his head and a menacing expression on his face. The crazy look in his eye was exactly what I feared most when I saw the diagnosis “schizophrenia.” Fortunately, he wasn’t my patient, and I could tell that right away, because he was sitting up straight and breathing the air in the room. To my right was a young-looking morbidly obese white woman, and she also looked crazy, but not in a mean way like that man. With her child-like smile and strange way of whispering to herself, I found her a bit endearing. While I waited for the manager to get my patient, I talked about the weather. The man grunted and scowled. The woman said, “Four, Six, Twelve. Twelve.” Then she explained to me all the food I could buy at a certain restaurant for only twelve dollars. I could see that she was trying to be sociable, but her brain just wasn’t working well for her. She did the best she could. I did the best I could, also, to be sociable with her.
“Yes, that food sounds yummy. You’re making me hungry!” Big smile.
Just then, the manager said, “Here he is, he’s going to the bathroom. Just a second.”
My patient was standing at the toilet, with his long, long green oxygen tubing trailing behind him, and his walker clicking on the floor, and the manager gently supporting him as he swayed precariously. I couldn’t believe he was walking around. He’d just had hip surgery and he had no pain medicine at all in him. When he had been in the hospital being treated for a broken hip, he got the flu and double pneumonia and sepsis and a pressure ulcer. The poor guy had been discharged to this home with an oxygen tank and a walker and nothing else. I couldn’t believe what I saw. A big skin cancer on his arm. Symptoms of heart failure, untreated. He had 13 staples from surgery and a bedsore. And he was cheerful! He spelled his name for me, speaking quickly and stuttering nervously like a schoolboy at a spelling bee. The manager explained that the patient’s family didn’t want anything to do with him and they never came around. He was the only one who helped him. The people in that apartment formed a little family.
After I finished my nursing tasks, I said good-bye to each person. I did my best to encourage my patient and his caregiver. I smiled at the woman and told her how nice it was to meet her. Then I smiled at the wrinkled mean-looking man and told him that I was glad to meet him, too. Then an amazing thing happened. The man’s whole face broke into a big, beautiful smile. It was like the sun coming out on a gloomy day. It was like the toothless grin that a tiny baby gives. The man’s crazy look was gone, and the joy in his smile touched my heart. And I smiled all the way back to my car.
But then, as I drove back home, I wept. I thought of their bleak home, their isolation, their deprivation, and I wondered why we, who believe in Jesus, don’t seek out these hidden people, those who have nothing, those who have no one, and just go smile with them now and then.
What a absolutely wonderful and heartfelt story, it was filled with all of life's emotions with a subtle hint of humor, very well done descriptively and touching. Last week I went to one of our larger retailers, I realized after I walked in the door I was really hungry so I decided to get a six inch sub from Subway inside before shopping. I sat there looking into the store with all the fruits and vegetables stacked up and shoppers scurrying about. All I could think about was people sitting in camps surrounded by mud with tarps over there heads. The disparity was overwhelming. I actually felt guilty eating the sandwich. How can we be so far apart in our reality...it's been bothering me a lot lately. I found the same thing going on inside this month being at chuckee cheese's celebrating two grand kids birthdays, I am looking out over the crowd watching all the joy and happiness and feeling guilty inside. All the things I thought were so important seem less important and I really feel helpless to do anything about it. Being connected on the various blogs has really opened my eyes and I don't think I have come to know how to come to terms with it but I do feel it has made me more compassionate in my views.
It's been bothering me too. One of the problems is that these hidden people can be very hard to see! How can we be kind to them if they are hidden away? We have to make an effort...I feel very convicted that I do next to nothing to show a little kindness to the people who need it the most. As a follower of Jesus, I should do what He did while He was on earth, and let me tell you, he wasn't sitting on his behind watching TV (or the equivalent) like I am prone to do. I just thank God that I can be a tiny blessing to others, now and then. It's good to hear from a kindred spirit, so thank you for sharing your story!
There was interview on the news here one night, someone had called them and wanted to know if the apartment complex they lived in could make them throw out their furniture. Seems the complex had a problem with bedbugs they couldn't control so they mandated everybody throw out their furniture. The news went there and these people were showing them how they'd done everything the complex had asked prior which included wrapping all their furniture in plastic. It just makes you wonder about people who would so complicit as to wrap their couches, chairs and mattresses in plastic and live like that then to know they have people like housing inspectors who they should be calling. You or I'd be like what do you mean wrap everything up in plastic when you should be calling a different exterminator. Then when it doesn't solve the problem they call the news instead of housing inspectors to find out if legally they have a right to demand they throw everything out. So here's the news taping pictures of beaten up old furniture on it's last leg wrapped in plastic and people fighting to keep it. Oh boy, when you think you have it rough it's stuff like that that makes you realize it could be a whole lot worse. Like you said these are normally hidden people who escape our everyday thoughts.
That's incredible!!!! I have never heard of any such thing. Bedbugs - yeah, they happen...but to make you wrap everything in plastic? that's awful! Sad to see people so powerless.
To be realistic there's a chance that not only was the stuff wrapped in plastic but there may actually be bedbugs running around underneath the plastic somewhere. A bedbug that is fully engorged can survive up to eighteen months! I am not sure about smothering them though, I would assume they'd eventually run out of air...