Peace in Death

"Steven..." I waited, listening in the long pause, the exasperated breathing coming from the other end of the line, "he's gone."

                It took a few moments, pulling memories of voice, story, stored information. As it became clear, I realized my previous supervisor was on the line. Immediately coming to terms with why she was calling, my heart raced, my eyes watered. "He said your name, he said your name in the ambulance and I, I had to let you know." She went on for a few moments as my world went gray, as noises weaved together into nothing, falling to my knees, hot tears pouring down my face. My first client, the first client I saw come off the streets, clean up from drugs, begin a life, he's gone.  

                Walking into the apartment, I moved a man who lived great pain into a new life. Once street homeless for not less than ten years, this individual had finally been deemed worthy of housing after a decade of hospitalizations, hazardous shelter environments, cold winter nights. I breezed over his chart, diagnosis, family history, ignoring the majority of information for the first meeting. Me, a student intern in his second year; him, my first assigned client. I began my prepared spiel of regulations, services offered, until I noticed the tears. Stopping, I dropped my paperwork on the bed, "welcome home, it's yours." Gripping me in a hug, I felt his tears hitting my neck, "home, home, this is my home."

                We grew together over the weeks and months that followed, knowing that homelessness, in itself, isn't solvable by just housing. We shared candid moments:

C: "you're the fucking intern, they gave me the fucking intern, what good are you?"

Me: "Yeah, they gave you me, I'm just the fucking intern, but you're stuck with me. I'm not good at everything, but I'm good at somethings, so let's figure it out together."

Or my favorite:

C: "You're a fucking cunt."

Me: "I'm the biggest fucking cunt you've ever met."

C: "Fine, I'll take my medication."

                We shared trips to the hospital as his cancer was diagnosed, as the ambulance rides became a frequent event. Nothing prepares you for when a grown adult man looks you in the face, tears in eyes, and tells you he's terrified of dying alone. I remember the moment he grabbed my hand and stated he didn't feel alone anymore. I remember the day he told me that for the first time he felt cared for. I remember the day he said he was done drinking.

                I worked with this man for a short few months, we shared stories, pain, tears, and life together. He lived a life that no one should have to live. His daily struggle would be unbearable if I had to live it. Today I remember him for who he was, what he taught me about life, how to stand up for myself, how to listen better, how to be nonjudgmental, and how to be myself.

I'll never forget him.