Help that doesn't help

Some idiot keeps leaving their plastic recycling on top of my garbage shed, which is easily accessible from the street since my neighbor stole my fence (long story). It would be just a mild annoyance except that people in search of returnable items untie the bag, leave it open, the wind blows and plastic items wind up scattered all over. I had just finished picking it all up with my grabber and putting it all in a garbage bag - part of my day off housekeeping efforts - when I got a message from a former client I haven’t heard from in a long time. “I’m in the hospital right now and I’m having a few issues,” he wrote. When I texted him back, it turned out that he had been in the hospital for months after arriving there in a diabetic coma and can’t currently walk. A couple of weeks ago he was sexually assaulted by another patient, and now he has been told he is being transferred to Pelham Parkway nursing home. He did some research and found a lawsuit from a former employee about antigay harassment, and another about sexual abuse of residence. He told the social worker that given his recent trauma, he was scared to go to this place, and she told him that if he doesn’t agree, tomorrow security will come force him. It's quite a situation and I wished I had heard about it sooner. “Ask for the patient advocate,” I told him “And call your insurance first thing in the morning.” It was after 5pm, but I left a message on the social worker’s voicemail expressing concern. Sometimes just the realization that another pair of eyes are on a situation is enough to change things. Then I called a couple of lawyer friends for advice. “Would I be able to call you tomorrow when the social worker or her manager come talk to me? I feel like they were being extra with me because I was alone,” he asks. I said yes, hoping that I won’t be on the subway when they show up. I was barely done with that when H. called me sobbing, “E’s doctors called child welfare on me,” she said. It turned out that it was not E’s regular doctor in their town who called, but her specialists at Boston Children’s hospital. E was premature and struggled with feeding. She had to have surgery for a congenital defect in her esophagus, and then got diagnosed with ARFID -a disorder where children are very limited in what they will eat - as she got older. As a result, it was a struggle for her to gain weight, and she has specialists at Boston Children’s. She is supposed to see them regularly, but H. has no way to get her there, and so they have called child welfare. Although the worker is not coming until Friday and it’s not clear what the outcome will be, H. is convinced they are going to take E. away from her and she is in a state of despair. “Bad shit has happened to me ever since I was a little kid. I’ve never had good luck. I feel like I am losing a baby all over again,” she says referring to the miscarriages and stillbirth that preceded E’s arrival. “This is the shit that will make me use again,” she says. Drugs were how she wound up with such a damaged heart. “I think that would kill you pretty quickly,” I say. “What do I care? It’s not like I have anything left. I don’t have any family. My mother’s dead. And now they’re taking her. I hate my life.” I wish I could do something to help, but all I can do is listen. My body and my house are both falling apart, and neither is in shape to take on a special needs 4 year old. “If my legs were good enough to walk all the way down to Boston, I would do that,” she says. It's frustrating that instead of coming up with some kind of transportation, all Boston Children’s can think of to do is potentially traumatize both mother and child by tearing them apart. “I would have to leave this apartment without her,” she says “I wouldn’t be eligible for a two bedroom. I don’t know if I would take another apartment. I might just get rid of all my shit, go off into the woods and die somewhere. I wouldn’t have anything to live for. My only purpose in staying alive is for her. I would have offed myself a long time ago.” Nobody would miss me.” “I would miss you,” I said. “Yes, but you have better things to do.” “You know that’s not how it works,” I remind her. “No matter what you’re doing, missing someone hits you when it hits you.” “There were so many times I could have killed myself. I’m shocked I’m still alive.” “It’s hard to kill yourself,” I said, thinking about how the life force fights being extinguished. “I’m a wuss so I didn’t do it. There are so many ways to make yourself fall asleep and not wake up again. Right now, I have zero hope.” At that point she had cried so much she was exhausted, so she hung up. Sitting at my table with the cat fountain bubbling in the background, I typed in legal services child welfare and the name of H’s town. The legal services organization that popped up radiated underfunded and overwhelmed even on their website. One section talked about matching people with volunteer attorneys, another about coaching people representing themselves, and the telephone intake hours were only a couple of days a week. Despite that, it was still H’s best chance of getting some legal help, so I sent her the link and hoped her circumstances would catch the eye of some overburdened legal services person.