Frustrations

Between several hours talking a client through a crisis and then a friend, I had only slept for four hours yesterday when my cats began creating a ruckus. They know the alarm goes off at 8am, and it was only 7am, so I struggled my way awake to find out what was going on. Before I opened my eyes, I ran my hand over Connor, who sleeps right next to me. I felt something sticky on his tail and figured he’d gotten it in the food dish. Putting on my glasses I saw that what was on his tail were some clumps of blood. Then I noticed blood spotting the sheets, on the water dish, on both of Connor’s front paws. His nose was bleeding. He’s had an ongoing issue with a scabby nose that comes and goes. The vet has never been able to say anything more about it than it’s probably a virus from his kittenhood reactivating. But it’s only bled once before, a few months ago, and nothing like this. I wonder if the steroids for his cancer are making his skin more fragile. We’re past due for his follow up with the vet, and once again I am hating myself for not having the money to give him the care he needs, for making the choices that got us to this point, for believing that if you do the right thing, things will turn out OK. Cats noses’ don’t have a bridge, so there’s not much of a way to stop a nosebleed. I try gently blotting, but that just makes him paw his nose, which makes it worse. By the time I leave, it’s clotted but precarious. I showed up at my gay primary doc’s office exhausted and covered in orange fur. “That’s a lot of cat hair,” says his assistant, quickly taking my vitals so she can get out of the room before she starts sneezing. “I’m sorry,” I said, “If had remembered, I would have worn something else.” When he came in, I handed him a small “fuck ICE” pin to go with his whistle. “I can’t put it on,” he said ruefully “but I will put it on my corkboard.” “Dr C is sending me to another surgeon,” I told him. He quickly read the entries on his screen. “At least this will be a faster recovery.” I was really hoping he would get me out of this, tell me I could just leave it there. He paused at the notes from neuro-immunology, the MS people. “They want a brain MRI,” he said. “Next week,” I told him. “I hope it’s clear, I really don’t want this to be anything serious,” he said so intensely that for a moment I felt protected by the strength of his wish. A window pops up on his screen. Colon screening. “I’m not supposed to give you a mail-in kit because you have anemia…” he said. I pointed out that the anemia cleared up after some iron infusions, it’s just a long-term vegetarian thing. “The hematologist sent me one anyway,” I tell him. It’s gathering dust and claw marks. “Those things have an expiration date., you know.” He gave me a look. “It sounds ridiculous, but the pack n mail place is the opposite way from the subway and it’s one more thing.” He was still giving me the look. “I just really don’t want to go down another….” Abruptly, I’m out of words. He nodded. “Prioritize the neural sheath tumor, but don’t have neurosurgery without checking with me.” It's kind of an odd thing to say. “You would have to clear me for surgery anyway,” I pointed out. Medical stuff done, he asks me about Saturday's march. I tell him the plan, that we think it might be the biggest protest in NYC history. He's enthusiastic but non-committal. I'm not letting him off the hook. "You should come," I tell him "we need everyone." "I should," he says. It was kind of quiet when I got to the office. A couple of people were on vacation and Misty was out sick. My street homeless trans client showed up, assorted stains on her pink sweatshirt. Every now and then a box shows up from her father, fresh new clothes. For his son. Sometimes there’s an item or two she’ll unhappily wear but mostly she leaves them untouched for other clients to take. She’s exhausted and sobbing, worn down by the increased fare enforcement which has radically increased the number of officers she is hassled by. She ready to come in but asking for a specific placement. Shelters haven’t started to clear out from the very cold weather yet, so I ask her for a second choice. Even the Safe Havens, designed specifically for people who can’t tolerate the shelters, are often unbearable for her. Even if I get her a single room, the proximity of men triggers her trauma, and she often flees. She has either fled or not returned so often that the last time I requested a placement for her I got no response at all when they get back to me the same day for other clients. This time I decide I need back up and email Mary over at the Coalition for the Homeless. They have the contract for oversight of the shelters. Mary made the request herself, but by the end of the day we had heard nothing. She also needs another ID, since the police kept hers one of the many times they stopped her. It should be possible to order a replacement online, but when I enter the information, it keeps saying “no match.” The staff will have to take her, so I start trying to make an appointment. I get all the way to the end, and it won’t let me proceed informing me that another client already has an appointment. Apparently, it did not occur to anyone at the DMV that more than one person might be sharing a device. So I pull out Dilo’s computer, do it again and succeed. It’s not easy to be on time for appointments when you’re confused and on the street, so it’s anybody’s guess whether she’ll make it. She also wants a basic phone, a necessity in today’s world. She is eligible for a government phone, under an Obama-era program. I go to the website, but it keeps auto filling another client’s account, there is no way to indicate that you want to make a new account, so I call the number that says “call to apply” and press “apply,” which gets me a voice that directs me back to the website. I go back to Dilo’s computer, make it past that screen, then get a bunch of errors when I enter our address because apparently it has not occurred to anyone that a homeless person’s address might not be a residential building. That sends me to the national verification webpage which informs me that I have to either submit her ID, or two documents from benefit agencies that include the last four of her SSN. I have tons of letters from benefit agencies with her info – food stamps, Medicaid, etc – I page through them all, but none contain the last 4 of her SSN. Maybe they once did, but it’s probably considered an identity theft risk now. I can’t proceed with this until we get her ID. By then it had been an hour, I had a headache and another client waiting. I let him in and fervently hoped that whatever he needed did not involve the insanity of our government.