Choice. Karen, the Emergency Room, and Choice.

Part 1

I find myself in a bad situation. Again. Awful. There just aren't many options for the homeless and disabled. The few available options if any, involve going through some level of hell to get into. The most likely scenario is that there will be nothing available. Which I already know having worked with the homeless. Our number one priority at some point was to do the impossible task of housing the homeless. Or finding permanent residence for them. There just is not enough room for everybody. It also does not help that no one cares. Did they just make homelessness, extreme poverty illegal? No moral outcry on that one? I feel like that one was a freebie.

But this time, out of pure coincidence or what I’m going to call "luck." I found my way to my friend Lisa’s home, on the South Side of Chicago. At the time, Lisa and her son David, were living in the same building. Lisa had the 2 bedroom downstairs unit, while David occupied the 3 bedroom upstairs unit. So there was plenty of room for me. Like I said, "luck." It was a long time coming.

So I arrived to a house of 3. My friend, Lisa, her son, David, and her roughly 20 month old granddaughter, Tracie. They had a delicate balance worked out between work and babysitting, giving me a whole lot of space. Providing me much needed respite. It felt like I knocked out for a month.

Lisa was ecstatic to have me over. Once commenting "who would let you go." I can fix a lot of things, and cook, I guess.

We used to work together at a local shelter. We were like veterans of a pointless war. Boots on the ground, in the trenches, fighting so hard, getting nowhere, but mite bites. It was a day to day type of situation. In that kind of environment, you encounter the whole disturbing spectrum of human deprivation and your true character comes out, and Lisa is one of very few people to have seen me in my element. It was kind of like getting tossed in the deep end for the first time. No toe dip. You kidding? In front of these fools? Otherwise I don't like to take myself too seriously and come off as a bit goofy.

To describe the area I was plopped into the middle of one day, what comes to mind is an instance when I needed to make a quick stop at a nearby Aldi’s that was exactly a quarter mile from Lisa's according to Master Google. It was near dusk on an otherwise forgettable summer evening. The temperature cooling off as the sun softly reclined into the longer waves of the softening reds.

I was walking back to Lisa's car, when my ears were walloped, thrashed with a jarring, shivering fear that resonated throughout my body (the kind that has chocolate pudding in the pants release potential) from the piercing roar of rapid automatic pistol fire. Good thing I skipped them four cheese chili fries.

Gun shots become part of the background white noise sometimes. But this was a first for me. First time that close to random gunfire outside, and first time hearing an automatic pistol or some sort of sub-automatic with rapid fully automatic fire. A full magazine essentially emptied in seconds.

It was from the adjacent alley behind the grocery store, about 100 feet away, making for a frightfully deafening reverb. It wasn’t even dark out yet. I’ve heard gunshots before, was even shot at, but that hammering saw of a rapid automatic was terrifying.

Great soldier I would have made, as I just stood there, a deer in headlights, just staring off into space, my mind trying to make sense of this new experience. Everyone else in the lot at least ducked or flinched. Though, in my defense I was injured and on crutches. In reality, honestly, I don’t think that would have made a difference. I just now know that I have zero survival instinct.

I did not notice a man walking by who was in complete shock, until he politely asked, “did you just hear that?” Rhetorically, of course. Nudging me out of my catatonic state. I acted as cool as a cauliflower, as if I’d grown up hearing that sort of thing all day long (perhaps as a Rohingya in their ongoing genocide in Burma or as a CHILD IN CHICAGO), and not from playing GTA on god mode for weeks on end.

Some time thereafter, as I was able to ruminate and acknowledge the shock and terror I felt. When I realized, I don’t think anyone ever gets used to that sort of thing.

Perhaps, the spent .45 caliber shell that I found lying in the dirt, an inch or two away from the sidewalk, near a major intersection, where the bus dropped me off, should have prepared me for all of what was to come. I thought to call the police, as this was again, a first for me. Instead, for some reason, I picked it up and still have it to this day, as if some kind of souvenir of either some kid’s crazy definition of a “good time,” or someone’s really bad night and possible ultimate demise. Add it to the stack, I reckon. It's just not something you see every day. Or ever.

So before I digress into numerous tangents that I cannot find my way back from.

Back to Lisa's.

One evening, I opened the door to my room and was bathed in light. Why were all the lights on? Also great, as I need tons of medication to even fall asleep, and all of that light was going to set me back on going back to sleep. I could care less, nature calls.

Finally, relief that I’d been putting off for way to long, still in denial that it’s not my age that is making this happen. Dizzy from sleep and likely the medication, it slowly dawned on me. Why were all the lights on in the middle of the night? Not my problem. I was just hoping I could get a little more sleep. Which was unlikely.

Walking back to my room, I could hear a soft whimper off in the corner area by the couches in the TV area. I don’t have my glasses on, but I could barely make out the source and reason for all that light.

“Is that you, Karen?”

She finally let out a hoarse, dry, crackled, weeping cry for help.

Karen was a new addition to “Lisa’s House for Strays” who came some months after me. A run away. She was a regular 15 year old kid. Most of the time. Well, all relative. You could tell there were bits and pieces off here and there.

For example, when we first formally introduced, it was later in the evening in Lisa's apartment. We would usually meet toward the end of the day and go over what was going on the next day. I didn't notice at first, but Karen went ahead and fully did her hair (which apparently is not a small task) and make up. I might have thought she was going out. But then it dawned on me that she wasn't going anywhere. She's 15 and currently a runaway. She is out. It was around 8-10 in the evening that this is all happening.

I hate to do her this injustice, so I apologize to you in advance, "Karen," but that is how you were introduced to me. She was shot 6 times, 3 months before I’d met her. Lisa was a CNA working on her unit at a prominent rehabilitation center in the city. She was extremely happy and extremely proud to work there. Celebrities and public figures go there to the swarm of media attention when released after recovering from some malady or surgery. They are also apparently the best option for kids who actually survive six gunshot wounds. Lucky kid?

Karen, arrived at our doorstep seemingly having materialized out of the inner-city aether. She developed a special bond with Lisa where Lisa was one of a small handful of African Americans on the staff of the magnificent space aged facility. Lisa then actually lost her job sticking up for Karen who was deemed a “difficult” patient. Apparently, the staff, particularly the leadership, did not understand, or appreciate Lisa's or their patient's perspective. Further, they then did not care to inquire, simply writing of such difficulties as a matter of stereotype rather than individual pathology.

Karen asked us not to call the authorities or her parents as I understood it. The details weren’t made very clear to us. Though her circumstances were. Apparently at the time she was under state guardianship. So though we were grilled about this later on, when Lisa and I were made her DCFS guardians, I’m glad we did the right thing, and protected the kid, earned her trust, and gave her much needed respite.

Though, candidly speaking, I thought we were all going to jail. Still, I am glad, that there is flexibility and discretion within that system. But addressing DCFS and my miniscule experience will have to come at a later time.

Although, I love to call the police, addressing calling the police in a community that has deep rooted issues with the police deserves to be addressed at another time as well.

So back to poor little Karen suffering miserably on the couch. David was at work, baby Tracy fast asleep alongside her Neemaw downstairs. At least this time, Karen luckily snuck upstairs out of her room in the “girl’s” apartment to the watch TV, as she could barely utter words in tears from pain. The pain was apparently emanating from the site of one of the entry wounds in her lower right abdomen.

I decided to call 911. Karen needed the Emergency Room. I told you, I love calling 911. Now we get to meet a bunch of cool firemen and paramedics. Hopefully a few as old as me, already awakened by nature’s call, at this unholy hour.

The next call was to Lisa. It took a couple of tries until she woke up but I was not excited about waking her up. She works a lot. I love Lisa in these moments. She just lets out a huge sigh, without even taking in a breath, as if she knows to keeps a reserve, and always says, “alright.” And we deal with the thing. Or she did all by herself until I miserably showed up one day.

Apparently, an adult has to accompany a minor to the Emergency Room. At least in this situation for some reason. As I was the disabled one, and did not have any specific plans except to watch the kids, I was naturally the one to go.

The staff at the ER, was in a rush at first. But as the excitement of receiving a 15 year old patient who had suffered 6 gunshot wounds died down, you could see the exhaustion in their eyes, as their 12 hour shift was nearing its end.

And then came the questions. Who was I? What was my relationship to this girl? For which I had not prepared a simple explanation. Being in a stupor myself, I mumbled some sort of explanation for what seemed like hours. Thank the heavens for ER nurses. They rule. Ours, somehow understood, and stated, what I now use as my explanation during times like these. “I’ve been going through a rough patch in my life, and am staying with my friend." Such a simple statement can be so loaded sometimes.

A 40 year old man, with a 15 year old girl, who had no apparent relationship to each other except for some story that was leaning more towards complete fabrication than true. I mean just by looking at us, I can't blame anyone for questioning such an unlikely pairing. They threatened to call the police, which I definitely agreed with. I guess my enthusiasm for calling the police quelled any of their fears, though the overarching story in general, left them with that head-tilted perplexed puppy dog look, and they walked away scratching their heads.

Awkward.

I guess if you look at me, I am not your typical housing insecure, disabled person.

Karen was given some pain medication, and apparently her pain eventually subsided and fell comfortably asleep at some point. I cannot recall, as I was finally so worn out, enough to pass out in a stereotypical uncomfortable hospital room chair that seems to have been made of left over materials from the 70's. I’ve been having problems sleeping since my injuries. Did I mention that? All I am saying is that why can't there be more comfort in such a setting? Especially for what they are charging. Strange how medicine is still so rudimentary compared to the human experience they are trying to help keep alive.

When suddenly, I was torn out of my restless slumber, by a jacked up caffeinated staff that ripped open the sliding glass door, peeling back the curtain with its crispy whistle lash. And in came Seal Team 2 clearing out a terrorist bunker. There was about 4 or 5 people altogether, two of them asked who I was, and immediately told me to get out of the room as I had no business being there. Keep in mind that Karen is a kid, and I was the only person she knew there. The person she trusted. It was later outside the room where the nurses escorted me, my mouth fumbling for the words to describe a convoluted situation to start with. When I was finally able to explain the second part of the story where the firemen said there had to be an adult to accompany her. As I was disabled, and was going to watch the kids anyhow, I was selected as the lucky winner of this Guantanamo style torture of stress positioned sleep deprivation and wild interrogation. I was also in a good amount of pain myself, and I guess if you look at me, I am not very intimidating. Especially hobbling around and such on an aging pair of crutches.

Remaining with Karen were 3 physicians. 2 apparent residents and the attending.

Wow. The attending physician. Numero uno. In one of Chicago’s best university hospitals. Attention this kid probably needed her whole life, given only after she was shot six times.

The attending was an older female perhaps in her late fifties early sixties. She had a foreign accent, which made her English come out a bit harsh, as she was forcing out the words, in contrast to the casual ease of chatter in one’s native tongue. The other two were males. Kids to me.

When I left, Karen also seemed startled. Awoken to stark attention amidst all the commotion.

Perspective is so important. It is the most valuable thing in this world, as it is so rare. You’ll have to understand these doctors. I imagine that these doctors woke up bright and early, and have been sipping on their coffee ever since. Preparing for anything and everything. Gunshots, people maimed in any number of ways, heart attacks, strokes, overdoses, broken bones, eviscerations, to people with a slight fever or a rash, not knowing what to do. For doctors, the worse the better, not just for the experience, but people who work in the ER, are also of the same stock as your police and firemen. That adrenaline rush topped with the honor and nobility of having the opportunity to help and even save a life.

In a teaching hospital like this, you also want the experience so you are prepared for anything that might come your way in the future. So, Karen probably ranked pretty high on their excitement level that morning as they reviewed her case. You want doctors, scientists, that are intrigued by things like that. And are on top of their game. But maybe tone it down, and have a whole class on bedside conduct.

So of course, the first thing they wanted to do was run a bunch of tests. But Karen was no longer in any pain. At first I couldn’t really hear the conversation, nor was I really paying attention. I was just trying to get comfortable standing in the walkway of an open emergency room on a pair of broken hips and a messed up knee. Eyeballing a free bed sitting in the hallway, to maybe even lean up against.

Little by little, I could hear the attending get louder and louder. That’s just the way some accents present themselves unfortunately. I guess, I am the same way with foreigners, where for some reason, I start saying the same thing louder and more sternly to communicate what the person will never understand. About 10 minutes in, I could hear Karen, increasingly objecting to whatever it was they were talking about. They went back and forth for a while. She was having absolutely none of it. Then about 20 minutes in, came in Karen with the cursing. Something I could not initially imagine her doing. Such a sweet kid like that?

Then I could hear the attending now in the scolding tone of authority, "you are a child so you don’t have a choice." The two male residents affirming that she was a minor.

Suddenly, like the first lightning bolt of catastrophic storm, Karen erupted. I’d seen something similar in the past, but was not familiar with it. It is the thunderous, even monstrous, curse filled scorn of an oppressed person living in a free society.

I don’t know how long it went on. My face burning in deep contemplation. How do I right such a huge wrong? Should I intervene? Is it my place to intervene? Who am I to intervene? Can I intervene? Would I be breaking any laws by intervening?

But as I was getting the, “lucky I’m not you,” or “what did this guy do?” look mixed in with a look that I can only describe as HEAVY judgement from everyone else inside the emergency room. I felt it even more not my place. My inner core wanted to distance myself from this situation as far as possible. I am not her parent, if anything I was a babysitter to her, and being 15 with a new phone and a fresh set of headphones, she was pretty much a breeze, and I just met her. I had every reason to just let it happen, and leave the situation to the professionals. Yet, every other sense in my body, every good thing that was put in to me by good people, every good thing I’d ever done and wanted to do, told me to put an end to this suffering, and help out and stick up for this poor kid. Out there fighting the world all on her own little lonesome. And she was a kid. What are you going to do?

I still remember the look, especially of this one man, looking at me in an almost proud state of judgement. In my mind, I thought, “fuck you. It’s people like you that are the problem.”

And when I heard the threats and finally the order for psych and security, to where the doctors were now talking to each other, about doing whatever was necessary to subdue her and move forward with the tests, I was pretty fed up with everyone, and how they were treating a child. So, I gently knocked on the glass sliding door.

Karen was flippant at this point. Not able to calm down. So I had to knock louder. Finally after what again seemed like a limbo, I was greeted with grave annoyance at the door by one of the residents. Who at one glance, told me to go wait in the waiting room.

But I insisted. I pleaded for just one minute to speak with the physicians. Even just one of them. I had to settle for 10 seconds, but they all came out as it seemed to momentarily calm Karen down.

So as Karen is still just out of her mind flipping out, spitting out a stream of curses and threats, worse than anything Scorsese could write, and better than what even Joe Pesci could deliver. Luckily, she was still tethered to her IV, only moments away from ripping the thing out herself.

So there I am, grisly with sleep and likely with dried drool on my face. Basically a homeless guy crashing at my friend’s pad, up against a woman of position, authority status and wealth, who has probably not just saved thousands of lives, but who has taught some of the best and brightest how to do the same. Along with two of the best and brightest who were learning from this gem of an individual.

But they had to hear it. For shame. These individuals, with everything afforded to them, were in dire need of the one thing that could not be bought or taught.

“Look," I said piercing into their eyes. "I am a nobody. I get it. I have no authority over this kid. Heck, I just met this kid, and I don’t really have any experience with kids. I don’t know if this is even the right thing to do, or if I can get into trouble disclosing this information to you. But I wanted to be a doctor. Studied really hard to even get the opportunity to get close to studying medicine. And I know you are trying to do your best to help, and if I were a doctor, I would want to know this part of this particular patient’s history.

I was told by my friend who was her CNA, at [what's it called] facility, where she was rehabbing from her gunshot wounds, and I was told by the girl herself, that she had been raped as a child since the age of 6 by a family member, and was then trafficked by the age of 11 to the friends of the family member and anyone else who would pay.

Please correct me if I am wrong. But I think telling Karen that she does not have any control over her own body is the not the way to handle this situation.”