jumping right into it

They promised me that it doesn't normally go like this. That yes, the recuperative care program does serve people who are sick, injured, addicted, and have no where else to do. That the Henry building, where I work, has 6 over a hundred rooms all housing people in different programs with central city concern, and many of the people have low incomes, mental illnesses, and a handful of complications keeping them from integrating with a large chunk of society. So yes, I'm working in a place where people are at risk all around me. But rarely (they promised) do three people die in one week. But unfortunately that happened to be the case during my first 5 straight days.

Death, I'm realizing, and the way people react to it, is a strange thing. On Friday a man formally in the program and living in the building passed away. A team of EMTs walked through the door and I directed them upstairs, and an hour later watched them bring the covered body out on a stretcher. On Tuesday a man jumped out of his 5th floor window across the street, from another low income housing building. I didn't see it, but I watched as some of the patients wheeled themselves inside. One cried. I gave her a paper towel as she talked in circles, wishing she could have known him, that she could have talked him out of it. Others shook their head. "Depressing morning, huh?" Ethan asked me, as he settled into the folding chair before my desk to use the phone. I nodded. Yes, it was a very depressing morning. I had no idea who this person was, but it was so strange going about the day knowing he wasn't around anymore. That he was so miserable that he couldn't keep up with it, or bear the reality that most of the patients in RCP have to deal with everyday.

Later on in the week a man in the veterans program made his transition. His caseworker found him in his room after unanswered phone calls.

And I keep going about my morning rounds. Handing out juice boxes and granola, and crossing my fingers that everyone is okay before I open the door.

But not all of it is emotional all of the time. There is faxing and running to the drug store to pick up meds and driving a large van to the primary care clinic and the attempt to properly work the handicap door. There is a brick park where I sit and eat lunch in everyday, and a sunburnt man playing the guitar. When I leave at five, there are people to say goodbye to, normally sitting on the sidewalk, smoking cigarettes against the doctor's orders.