The Home Hotel
The real you by =Sha-X-doW on deviantART
There used to be a “hotel” in Portland that was notorious to street paramedics. Located on SW 2nd Avenue, between Burnside and Couch, across from the Salvation Army. We knew the address well, and unfortunately, we were often there at least once per shift. Paramedics in the really large cities probably have numerous places like the Home Hotel, but in Portland, during the 70s and 80s, few places rivaled the desperation one would find on the second floor of this transient venue.
As a young, naive EMT (not quite a paramedic), I had much to learn. My first call to the Home Hotel was an eye opener.
The call came in just before shift change, about 7:00am. My partner and I were in a bleary-eyed stupor from a night of sleeplessness, brought on by the constant needs of a city that never sleeps. She gave me no warning of what I was about to encounter – not to surprise me, but because it was so normal – at least to the medics who worked downtown.
We parked out front and my partner strode with passive indignation towards a set of double doors. There was no sign to indicate this was a hotel. The doors looked like a battered set of service doors; wooden; without windows; and non-inviting. I followed my street-wise partner through the doors and into a world I never would have imagined. It was dark and we immediately encountered a set of bare stairs leading to the second floor.
Photo by Brenton Cleeland - http://www.flickr.com/people/sesh00/
At the top of the stairs there was a large open room. A wood stove sat in the middle of the room and five or six men were slumped in chairs around the room. I was struck by the presence of a wood stove! This isn’t the gleaming image of the Portland I knew – the glass buildings, the gleaming architecture, the well-healed business people. This made me think I’d stepped a 100 years into the past, when this building was probably constructed.
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw there were more than just a few people in the room. There were about a dozen, some were asleep (I hoped) on the floor, some propped up in the corner, and no one seemed to notice our arrival. The colors were dark – everything was dark. The clothes worn by the men in the room, the bare floor, the walls, the only thing clean and bright in the room were the uniform shirts worn by my partner and I. We were quite the contrast.
I found out over the course of the next few years that those bright white shirts gave us the illusion of being angels. The people on the street treated the Buck Ambulance paramedics differently than anyone else they encountered. We weren’t cops, we weren’t detox workers, and we weren’t tourists (or business people) invading their territory. We were their helpers and we were treated with respect.
For some reason Sherry knew right where to go. She made a u-turn in the “lobby” and proceeded down a very dark hallway. I followed. Though she was only five-feet tall, she walked with commanding presence. There didn’t seem to be any fear in her as she strode down this dark hallway. She entered the first open door she encountered. I followed.
“filthy” doesn’t even begin to describe it…
If the scenes we had entered just moments before weren’t shocking enough, I certainly wasn’t prepared for what we found in that room. Though the original building was built with 12-foot ceilings, the walls in this “room” were only eight-feet tall. Across the top there was chicken-wire, to keep the inmates clients guests from climbing over – or to protect them from others. The room was barely six-feet wide and eight-feet long. A small, army-style cot, with a filthy (“filthy” doesn’t even begin to describe it) mattress, and no sheets. Next to the bed was a coffee can. It was filled with cigarette butts, and a dark, coffee-ground like substance – this was emesis, from the man lying on the cot. A classic symptom of the dying alcoholic.
Photo by Oliver Hammond - http://www.flickr.com/people/olivander/
The room reeked and it was all I could do to keep from retching. The strange mixture of odors: blood, vomit, feces, urine, alcohol, sweat, and filth. The man was unconscious. No one was round to seek information. We put him on our gurney and took him to the ambulance. On the way to the OHSU emergency department, Portland’s version of “County General,” Sherry started an IV and gave him oxygen. I remember my nose itching, but I was afraid to touch it – so I was trying to scratch my nose with my elbows. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the last time.
And so began my dive into the dispassionate world of the inner-city. Over the next few years, my heart grew harder and harder. My gleaming white uniform shirt was like body armor. I too developed the strut of one who is large and in charge. Though, unlike Sherry, I had the size to back it up. My future visits to the Home Hotel didn’t fill me with shock and awe; and I was no longer repulsed. I was just indifferent. Dispassionate. Cynical.
It was a surreal life to live. “They” never told me how it would affect me – long-term. Who knew those images would be burned into my neural pathways for life. Here, even 30 years later, I can recall that visit as if it were this morning.
But here is what really fascinates me. So many people tend to look down with disdain on the broken people of this world. Subconsciously, we judge others and compare ourselves to them. “At least I’m not like that poor loser.” We breath under our breath. “At least I’m not like that!” However, but for the grace of God, there I go.
Why is it we think we are all that? Why is it that we think we are better than others because of genetic chance, geographic opportunities, or family history?
My brother-in-law has particular disdain for all those “native” bumper stickers. His point? “Yeah, you live in a great state. So what does that say; you have smart parents?”
The fact of the matter is, we’re all in this together. The sooner we realize that we all share the same home, the same planet, if you will, the sooner we realize that we are our brother’s (and sister’s) keeper – and that we need to look out for each other.
For the past several years, I’ve been trying to peel back the veneer that has hardened my heart. It’s not an easy process. I’ve grown pretty hardened. But at least I recognize that.
Tears
Photo by Matt McGee
My plan this morning was to get up early and hit the ground running. With triple digit temperatures expected, and 9.8 more cords of firewood to cut, split, and stack – it was my plan to make use of the cool morning. That was until my Smiling Son came bouncing out of the bedroom looking for food. I fed him breakfast and got ready for a day of woodcutting. Well guess who thought he was a part of this grand scheme?
Now, just so you don’t judge this 22 month old toddler too quickly, I need to mention that I was carrying him in my arms as I loaded the truck, made a breakfast sandwich, and put on my work boots. Plus, he loves my truck (ahem, all trucks) and as we put stuff in it, I think he got the idea that he could go with me.
Now lest you also jump to conclusions thinking I am a hard-nosed, workaholic Dad, I actually did entertain the thought of bringing him! After all, I learned everything I know from tagging along with my Dad – from a very early age. But, thinking that chainsaws, large piles of wild timber [insert photo], and toddlers are not a good mix – I changed my mind.
Actually, thinking about it – this isn’t even safe for me!!”
So, as we went back into the house, Smiling Son became Sobbing Son – it broke my heart – really! I can hear me readers now, looking up the number for Child Protective Services, spitting epitaphs, screaming at your screen (BTW, I can’t hear you!). Nonetheless, I left him with Mommy as he melted into a pool of tears. (Me = heartbroken)
As I’ve been breathing 2-cycle exhaust fumes and eating sawdust this morning, I had an interesting thought:
- How often do we cry and complain when things don’t go the way we planned? We get a notion; we get our hopes up, and then , we are dropped back to reality!
It could have been that cute girl, or boy, you had the crush on in the 7th grade – you know, the one who later went to prison? Maybe it was that job you applied for, but didn’t get – and if you would have gotten it, you would never have achieved the life you now live.
you don’t always get what you want, but you get what you need!”
Photo by Christoph
My point is, life doesn’t always turn out the way we want it to, nor is it always fair, but sometimes it is just what we needed. As that great British philosopher once said, “you don’t always get what you want, but you get what you need! (Mick Jagger)”
If you believe there is a power greater than yourself, and as a 12-stepper, I do, then trust that Higher Power to make the best choices for you. Our limited foresight (ie; none) doesn’t work so well. Don’t rely on your emotional wants – seek a path of enlightenment. You’ll never regret the journey.
Moving
Photo by Aaron Landry - http://www.flickr.com/people/s4xton/
Leaving emergency services was very difficult. I had lived and breathed this stuff since I was 14 years old. At the age of 35, I was feeling led to walk away from this very rewarding, and successful career, to finish the college degree that I had started 18 years earlier. It was a tough decision, but the right one. I did finish my degree (20 years after beginning), and I found a wonderful woman to marry and start a family with.
I remember the last day in my office at Tualatin Valley Fire & Rescue. For the past couple of weeks I had been sorting files, handing off projects, and throwing stuff away. The last day had been filled with good-byes, a party, and some melancholy sentiments. At the end of the day, I was putting the last of my stuff in boxes and carrying them out to my 4Runner. Several of my co-workers were chatting with me, standing at the office door. I looked down at my turnouts, and wistfully mentioned that it is hard to leave those behind.
For over 20 years, my turnouts have always been a part of my life. As an Explorer Scout, or a volunteer firefighter, they were always in my bedroom, or in the trunk of my car. As a professional firefighter, they were always next to my bed at night. Then, as an operations manager, they were back in my trunk. I learned about life, and death, while wearing turnout gear. It seems as if I’ve spent half my life in turnouts. It was hard to imagine that I wouldn’t have my own set anymore.
Our Assistant Chief, Gary Nees, was one of those chatting in my office when I made that comment. He picked up my helmet and handed it to me. “Why don’t you keep this,” he said. I was touched – and it remains a treasure in my arsenal of keepsakes.
Photo by Steve Mohundro - http://www.flickr.com/people/smohundro/
I’ve had a few more office clearing experiences in the past 15 years, and several moves – too many cross-country moves. This week I’ve been clearing out my office for the position that just ended. I’ve been dreading it. I’ve never really used the office, but all of my books (about 15 boxes) and all of my office accouterments were there. For most of my time in this position, the office didn’t have Internet connectivity. Also, it was tucked back into the corner of a large empty building – I never felt like it was a safe place to meet with people – for them, or for me. Starbucks became my office.
So, earlier this week, I went and loaded it all up and brought it home. As I write this, all of the boxes are still in my 4Runner – yes, the very same 4Runner from 15 years ago. I have no place to put all these books!
I’m not going to put them in my recently cleaned-up garage! No way. Our basement is more like a root cellar and the books would be ruined down there. Plus, we have a lot of my Dad’s non-perishables down there. Our spare bedroom is also filled with a lot of my Dad’s stuff. So, my truck is parked on my front lawn, backed up to the front door. Yesterday, I hauled my Dad’s stuff out of the house and put it in his recently vacated travel trailer (The one he’d been living in, until he found his own place down the road).
The Wife would like her spare bedroom back. We’d like to have the grandparents come out for Smiling Son’s second birthday. But alas, such is naught.
As I hauled my Dad’s stuff to the trailer yesterday, I kept finding my Mom’s fingerprints on everything.”
As I hauled my Dad’s stuff to the trailer yesterday, I kept finding my Mom’s fingerprints on everything. She was the organized one. She was the saver. She was the nostalgic collector. She had really good taste. My Dad, not so much – unless we’re talking cars.
My Mom died three and a half years ago; and for the most part, I’m done grieving. But finding a letter she wrote, a year before her death, sent fangs of remembrances through my soul. I came across a photograph of my brother and myself, taken when I was four and he less than a year. I found a lot of my my Mom’s stuff yesterday.
Photo by Louisa - http://www.flickr.com/people/24761036@N00/
My Brother has been saying for some time that we are going to have to start making decisions for my Dad. That’s easy to say, but how do you start doing that for an independent, rebellious, and stubborn old cuss? How does one’s family do that, without destroying his dignity, his will, and his sense of purpose? I think I discovered yesterday that it is a gradual process, not a sudden one.
The things my Dad left at our house, are things that are important, but unnecessary for his current survival. He has his bed, his recliner, his TV, his precious counter-top dishwasher (don’t ask!), his dog, and his phone. The things here, are valued, but not important. Photographs, antique tea cups, mementos, letters, cards, …stuff! Well, it looks like these things are now my responsibility.
I always thought I wouldn’t have to take care of this stuff until after my Dad dies. And yet, what’s the difference? The difference is, sorting this stuff, disposing of mementos, cataloging things – this is a part of the dying process. This is a part of the grieving. I just don’t want to start now.
The last thing I needed to find yesterday was the mailer advertising “Pre-Paid Cremation for Veterans.” I’m pretty sure my Dad didn’t enjoy receiving that either.
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Confessing my Dad Attitude 