By Marcus Lydsay Park
Authors note: All of the first responders, doctors, nurses, social workers, and volunteers in this story behaved with professionalism in what they did, except for one. This retelling is about
what was NOT done that should have been.
On an unusually warm and dry Halloween in 2014, I was riding my scooter to my next errand when my scooter went out from under me in a corner, resulting in an injury to my ankle. The “good Samaritans” that witnessed the accident called the emergency number and an ambulance took me to Denver Health Medical Center. The doctor saw me and reset my broken ankle with a splint and cloth bandage, giving me instructions to elevate and ice it. I said that would be impossible with my current homeless situation.
The in-house social worker came into the room and began to ask me about my drinking habits.
This question always irritates me because my drinking habits have tapered off since I became homeless in 2007. Where were these people when I was gainfully employed and drinking heavily? The social worker did not mention a specific housing arrangement, so I assumed she meant Jesus Saves or Samaritan House shelters here in Denver. I have never been to either
one because of the bad reputation they have on the streets. I told the social worker that I was not able to communicate effectively with her because I was heavily medicated. I declined the housing offer and said I would take my chances.
The written instructions from the doctor insisted that I stay off my feet. I reiterated that that was impossible and that I was carrying a 50 lb ruck-sack as well. I left the hospital on the crutches that were provided for me and retrieved my ruck-sack, making my way to my camp-site of four years. I had been given some pain pills and was able to bear the discomfort.
Larry, who is a friend of mine and my writing tutor, took me in for a few days while his in-laws were out of town, so I was able to get some badly needed rest. When the in-laws returned I had to leave and go back to my camp-site. The next week in November, Denver had one of the
coldest spells on record with snow storms and wind.
I was not used to the crutches yet and fell several times. Soon the cloth bandage that the doctor put on me became soaked and smelled terrible. I googled “trench foot” and realized that I was in danger of contracting immersion foot which was a very debilitating (even permanent in some cases) condition.
I returned to the hospital and requested medical attention. A different doctor than the one before entered the room and inspected my ankle, then repeated the same procedures with the same type of splint and cloth bandage and instructions as the first doctor; whereby I also repeated my inability to obey his instructions because of my circumstances, letting him know that I was homeless and carrying a heavy pack. A different social worker came into the room and said that I was eligible for Medicaid and signed me up, stating that the whole medical treatment would be covered. The social worker did not discuss housing arrangements with me. The doctor also did not discuss with me the fact that I would not be able to follow his instructions.
I was released again from the hospital to make my way on my own. This scenario was repeated one more time, only this time the doctor said that she was going to recommend me to social services for respite care. This was the first time I’d heard that word “respite” used
during my treatment sessions. The social worker on duty at the hospital came into the room and finally explained to me what respite is. Basically, the respite program to which I was referred is a confluence of bureaucracies of three parties:
1. Denver Health, whose doctors recommend respite to . . .
2. Denver Human Services, which places you into respite with . . .
3. Volunteers of America, which provides the housing (a hotel room in a VOA owned
facility) and two meals a day in respite.
My next doctor’s appointment was with a bone specialist, and surprise, it turns out that my ankle had not healed properly. Once again I found myself explaining to the doctor that I didn’t gain access to respite until three weeks after the accident and had to get about as best as I could. The specialist contacted social services and recommended surgery and respite for 30 to 45 days in writing. This extended my stay in the respite bureaucracy confluence. Each bureaucracy by itself works well enough. The problem comes when you combine the three and add the likes of a certain Mrs. Bea into the mix. It seems to me, and the other poor unsuspecting inhabitants of respite care with whom I spoke, that the only reason Mrs. Bea exists is to kick people out of respite.
Allow me to explain. There are basically two ways that you can get kicked out of respite. One way is if you break any of the many strict rules of respite, which can be as egregious as using drugs or alcohol, or as pithy as simply arguing with the VOA staff. The other way is to run afoul of Mrs. Bea. In my case, I had to miss the mandatory Thursday check in with Mrs.
Bea (I’m told that she herself misses it on occasion) because I had to attend class in order to take my final exam. (I am a college student.) I cleared this with the front desk VOA staff ahead of time.
The next day, Friday December 5th, I received a phone call as I was leaving to return to school to write my final paper for yet another exam. It was Mrs. Bea, and she wanted to know why I missed the Thursday check in, so I reminded her that I am currently enrolled in college and that Thursday was my final exam, an exam that cannot be missed or I would fail the class. Failing a college class means that you chance losing your financial aid, which means you no longer have a college career and you are on the hook for the whole tab immediately.
Mrs. Bea’s reply to me was “If you are healthy enough to go to school, then you are healthy enough to look for a place to live.” I replied that this respite was doctor recommended for upcoming surgery and recuperation, and that she needed to take it up with the specialist who gave me a copy of that respite recommendation. She replied that respite was not a shelter, which is exactly what VOA is--a system of shelters for the people that otherwise cannot get housing on their own. I then said that if she canceled my respite, I would re-apply for it with the specialist, and she said “you will be denied.” I was speechless. She then hung up on me. I handed the phone back to the front desk VOA clerk, who then just looked at me and shrugged. I had no idea what was going to happen, and if the staff did, they didn’t warn me.
That afternoon when I came back from writing my final paper, all my belongings were on the curb. There I was, on crutches with a broken ankle, my school backpack on, and all my stuff laid out like trash. I realized then that I was at the mercy of the confluence of bureaucracies
and I was no more to them all than the flotsam and jetsam of a disaster that I myself was a victim of. Consequently I had to cancel my appointment for surgery and my ankle remains in an unrepaired state to this day.
In my conversations with VOA staff and the victims of Mrs. Bea, it has become clear to me that this seems to be her job. When she evicted me, I had not broken a single rule of the respite program. I simply went to school. Many other people in the respite program who I spoke with said they were similarly treated, and the VOA staff, although sympathetic, were useless to intervene. The main excuse was that maybe they needed the room? When I was evicted on Friday the 5th of December 2014, I was the only one in a room with three beds, and I know for certain that several other rooms were also vacant. Apparently, Mrs. Bea does her job well.
But that brings up some very important questions about the use of respite, the primary function of which is to provide homeless people a place to recover after being discharged from a hospital when such recovery has been recommended by a trained physician, as well as a
trained social worker. So the aching question is, when Mrs. Bea makes the diagnosis that “If you are well enough to go to school, then you are well enough to look for a place to live,” is she medically qualified to reverse the recommendation of a highly educated, experienced, and
trained physician, the recommendation of a social welfare system, and the willingness of a volunteer organization whose principle reason for existence is to serve the very poor that Mrs. Bea seems bent on revictimizing?
The story does not end here. I contacted a friend whose ex-wife is an attorney in Denver, and I await her response to my request for proceeding with a wrongful termination of respite lawsuit, if such a thing exists. I shall inform my readers of the fruits of my efforts. If I am successful, perhaps I can change another way in which the homeless and the poor are victimized and criminalized by the established authorities.
what was NOT done that should have been.
On an unusually warm and dry Halloween in 2014, I was riding my scooter to my next errand when my scooter went out from under me in a corner, resulting in an injury to my ankle. The “good Samaritans” that witnessed the accident called the emergency number and an ambulance took me to Denver Health Medical Center. The doctor saw me and reset my broken ankle with a splint and cloth bandage, giving me instructions to elevate and ice it. I said that would be impossible with my current homeless situation.
The in-house social worker came into the room and began to ask me about my drinking habits.
This question always irritates me because my drinking habits have tapered off since I became homeless in 2007. Where were these people when I was gainfully employed and drinking heavily? The social worker did not mention a specific housing arrangement, so I assumed she meant Jesus Saves or Samaritan House shelters here in Denver. I have never been to either
one because of the bad reputation they have on the streets. I told the social worker that I was not able to communicate effectively with her because I was heavily medicated. I declined the housing offer and said I would take my chances.
The written instructions from the doctor insisted that I stay off my feet. I reiterated that that was impossible and that I was carrying a 50 lb ruck-sack as well. I left the hospital on the crutches that were provided for me and retrieved my ruck-sack, making my way to my camp-site of four years. I had been given some pain pills and was able to bear the discomfort.
Larry, who is a friend of mine and my writing tutor, took me in for a few days while his in-laws were out of town, so I was able to get some badly needed rest. When the in-laws returned I had to leave and go back to my camp-site. The next week in November, Denver had one of the
coldest spells on record with snow storms and wind.
I was not used to the crutches yet and fell several times. Soon the cloth bandage that the doctor put on me became soaked and smelled terrible. I googled “trench foot” and realized that I was in danger of contracting immersion foot which was a very debilitating (even permanent in some cases) condition.
I returned to the hospital and requested medical attention. A different doctor than the one before entered the room and inspected my ankle, then repeated the same procedures with the same type of splint and cloth bandage and instructions as the first doctor; whereby I also repeated my inability to obey his instructions because of my circumstances, letting him know that I was homeless and carrying a heavy pack. A different social worker came into the room and said that I was eligible for Medicaid and signed me up, stating that the whole medical treatment would be covered. The social worker did not discuss housing arrangements with me. The doctor also did not discuss with me the fact that I would not be able to follow his instructions.
I was released again from the hospital to make my way on my own. This scenario was repeated one more time, only this time the doctor said that she was going to recommend me to social services for respite care. This was the first time I’d heard that word “respite” used
during my treatment sessions. The social worker on duty at the hospital came into the room and finally explained to me what respite is. Basically, the respite program to which I was referred is a confluence of bureaucracies of three parties:
1. Denver Health, whose doctors recommend respite to . . .
2. Denver Human Services, which places you into respite with . . .
3. Volunteers of America, which provides the housing (a hotel room in a VOA owned
facility) and two meals a day in respite.
My next doctor’s appointment was with a bone specialist, and surprise, it turns out that my ankle had not healed properly. Once again I found myself explaining to the doctor that I didn’t gain access to respite until three weeks after the accident and had to get about as best as I could. The specialist contacted social services and recommended surgery and respite for 30 to 45 days in writing. This extended my stay in the respite bureaucracy confluence. Each bureaucracy by itself works well enough. The problem comes when you combine the three and add the likes of a certain Mrs. Bea into the mix. It seems to me, and the other poor unsuspecting inhabitants of respite care with whom I spoke, that the only reason Mrs. Bea exists is to kick people out of respite.
Allow me to explain. There are basically two ways that you can get kicked out of respite. One way is if you break any of the many strict rules of respite, which can be as egregious as using drugs or alcohol, or as pithy as simply arguing with the VOA staff. The other way is to run afoul of Mrs. Bea. In my case, I had to miss the mandatory Thursday check in with Mrs.
Bea (I’m told that she herself misses it on occasion) because I had to attend class in order to take my final exam. (I am a college student.) I cleared this with the front desk VOA staff ahead of time.
The next day, Friday December 5th, I received a phone call as I was leaving to return to school to write my final paper for yet another exam. It was Mrs. Bea, and she wanted to know why I missed the Thursday check in, so I reminded her that I am currently enrolled in college and that Thursday was my final exam, an exam that cannot be missed or I would fail the class. Failing a college class means that you chance losing your financial aid, which means you no longer have a college career and you are on the hook for the whole tab immediately.
Mrs. Bea’s reply to me was “If you are healthy enough to go to school, then you are healthy enough to look for a place to live.” I replied that this respite was doctor recommended for upcoming surgery and recuperation, and that she needed to take it up with the specialist who gave me a copy of that respite recommendation. She replied that respite was not a shelter, which is exactly what VOA is--a system of shelters for the people that otherwise cannot get housing on their own. I then said that if she canceled my respite, I would re-apply for it with the specialist, and she said “you will be denied.” I was speechless. She then hung up on me. I handed the phone back to the front desk VOA clerk, who then just looked at me and shrugged. I had no idea what was going to happen, and if the staff did, they didn’t warn me.
That afternoon when I came back from writing my final paper, all my belongings were on the curb. There I was, on crutches with a broken ankle, my school backpack on, and all my stuff laid out like trash. I realized then that I was at the mercy of the confluence of bureaucracies
and I was no more to them all than the flotsam and jetsam of a disaster that I myself was a victim of. Consequently I had to cancel my appointment for surgery and my ankle remains in an unrepaired state to this day.
In my conversations with VOA staff and the victims of Mrs. Bea, it has become clear to me that this seems to be her job. When she evicted me, I had not broken a single rule of the respite program. I simply went to school. Many other people in the respite program who I spoke with said they were similarly treated, and the VOA staff, although sympathetic, were useless to intervene. The main excuse was that maybe they needed the room? When I was evicted on Friday the 5th of December 2014, I was the only one in a room with three beds, and I know for certain that several other rooms were also vacant. Apparently, Mrs. Bea does her job well.
But that brings up some very important questions about the use of respite, the primary function of which is to provide homeless people a place to recover after being discharged from a hospital when such recovery has been recommended by a trained physician, as well as a
trained social worker. So the aching question is, when Mrs. Bea makes the diagnosis that “If you are well enough to go to school, then you are well enough to look for a place to live,” is she medically qualified to reverse the recommendation of a highly educated, experienced, and
trained physician, the recommendation of a social welfare system, and the willingness of a volunteer organization whose principle reason for existence is to serve the very poor that Mrs. Bea seems bent on revictimizing?
The story does not end here. I contacted a friend whose ex-wife is an attorney in Denver, and I await her response to my request for proceeding with a wrongful termination of respite lawsuit, if such a thing exists. I shall inform my readers of the fruits of my efforts. If I am successful, perhaps I can change another way in which the homeless and the poor are victimized and criminalized by the established authorities.
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