"Day Off"

It’s Saturday, my day off, and I’m back from the Hands Off NY protest at Trump Tower trying to make my way through a never-ending list of household tasks ranging from “give cat chemo” to “pay con ed”. The phone has been ringing periodically throughout the day- my very anxious client has been getting more and more out of control as the days pass without a definite move-in date for his new apartment. “Do I really have this apartment?” he asks me. “Yes,” I tell him, “you’re accepted, it’s paid for, we’re just waiting for one more piece of bureaucracy.” This is followed by a litany of what ifs, reasons he can think of for losing the apartment, some closer to reality than others. I shoot down each one, knowing we’re likely to have the same conversation in a few hours. By late afternoon, he is vibrating with anxiety so much that it is causing him physical pain. We have discussed going to the psych ER to get medicated few times in the last couple of days, but tonight he’s ready to do it. I’m waiting for him to call to tell me he’s there, when I get a voice message on Facebook. It’s H. “I’m having a heart attack,” she says. She has Congestive Heart Failure and has not been able to have the recommended heart surgery because she is a single mother of a small child with no one to help. “My left arm is burning,” she says, “it’s like a sunburn from inside.” She’s almost crying. “I can feel something happening in my heart.” “If I take E with me to the ER, child welfare is going to take her.” E is 4, and I am attached to her, I was in the room when she was born. But they’re in New Hampshire, and even if I could drive, I couldn’t get there in a reasonable amount of time. “If Mommy falls down and you can’t wake me up, call 911” she says to E. “It’s ok to do it then,” she adds because E had a period of calling 911 randomly. Grammy, H’s mother is closer than I am, in Mass., but she has to find someone to drive her and she also has to gather up her oxygen and medications. “I don’t want to go to the hospital unshowered,” says H “but what if I die in the shower?” The phone rings, it’s the anxious client calling from the psych ER. “Can I lose my apartment for going to the hospital?” “No, “I tell him. “This is mental health housing, they’re used to people having mental health issues.” He goes back to waiting for the doctor. H’s usually unhelpful uncle has surprisingly agreed to drive, and Gammy is on her way so now it’s just a matter of getting through the hour until she gets there. “My arm feels really hot, but it’s not red or anything,” she says. “My face gets like that,” I tell her. We’re just taking up time at this point. I hope her uncle drives fast. The anxious client calls again. “The psychiatrist is going to call you, but they’re not going to keep me.” “That’s fine,” I tell him, “I told you they could probably just medicate you in the ER.” He has been so overwhelmed by anxiety he’s not retaining information. The psychiatrist calls, asks me what’s been going on, if I am concerned about his safety. I explain, and she tells me her plan, which is sensible and I agree. I turn back to facebook – no new messages from H. I give it a few minutes, hoping she went to the bathroom or something. Then I try calling, It rings and rings. I realize I don’t know her mother’s phone number or even her name. I do the math, figure her mother should be there by now, hope she is safely in an ambulance. An hour and a half later, I hear from her, she is at the hospital, hooked up to monitors. “some crazy lady is screaming,” she says. “Sounds like a normal ER,” I tell her. Just then my anxious client calls. “I’m out,” he says groggily. “I’m resting on a friend’s couch. Should I go back to the shelter and not go to a party?” he asks. Given the drugs he’s been given, he definitely needs to sleep. “go back to the shelter and go to sleep,” I tell him. “Thanks, Mom,” he says sleepily. I think the day is done, start thinking about dinner and bed, as well as rounding up Chemo kitty to urge him to eat and give him his predsnisolone and appetite stimulant. Another message hits my phone. It's JJ. I'm in the hospital again," he says. "I have fever and nausea. The antibiotics aren't working." "Maybe they should do a culture," I say. "You're my emergency contact," he says, "If I die, please inform my friend in Oklahoma, she knows everyone there." This strikes me as extreme for the situation, but I dont want him to worry so I agree. "I don't think you're going to die," I tell him. Chemo kitty, dreading meds, does not want to come near me, so I set his bowl down as close to him as I can without getting closer myself and pretend not to pay attention. The next time I look up, he is extending his long orange arm so he can dip his paw in the food and eat it that way. It's very messy when he does this, but I don't care as long as he's eating.