The Fight

     After another night of broken sleep, I spent the morning groggily making my way through the endless list of chores – dishes, cat litter, weeding.  As my hands completed familiar tasks, my unhelpful mind, still focused on these three days - her death, a day of not knowing, and then finding her. It kept trying to drift back through the years and I kept having to yank it back like a poorly trained dog on a short leash.

     I was on the D train, hurtling over the Manhattan bridge, when I started to doze off and the memories broke through, as sharp and clear as ever. The movie projector in my mind kept playing clips- her neighbor saying on the phone as I rushed across Brooklyn, “I don’t think she’s breathing”, the outstretched dark blue arm of the cop as he said “you don’t want to go in there”, the medical examiner showing me a photo of her tattoo, saying “her face is unrecognizable”.  And the blood on the floor, the pool of blood by her bed.

     I had to get back to 2026- I was on my way to an appointment - so I fought, shoving and elbowing and kicking the memories back into their locked box and slamming the lid tight.

     After the appointment, sitting on a bus stop bench on E 42nd  street, my phone started vibrating.  It’s my day off, but in this work you’re almost never 100% off, so I looked at the messages coming in.  

    They were from a client I have known for years who has been struggling with drugs, getting sober and relapsing.  “Been feeling pretty raw,” he wrote “and just not sure why everything isn’t working out for me.  Honestly, I think that the next time I go upstate, I won’t come back and I’ll just die up there. I’m okay with dying, and what’s the point of fighting for this?  I’m close to suicide because I can’t seem to take care of myself and no one will acknowledge that I’m disabled.  I love y’all but I might not be here too much longer.  I can’t live like this.”

    Thinking about his words as the cars honk around me, I don’t hear as much a desire to die as a desire for things to change, for life to be more bearable.  He has been ground under the heel of the system for so long that his hope has been exterminated. “I think you could get SSI,” I write, knowing that what he needs is a plan, a way forward. 

    “I don’t know how to do it and no one will help,” he writes back.  “My building just fired my worker or made things so impossible for her she quit, this is the third one.”  “Those programs do have a lot of turnover, but I can help you with SSI” I tell him.  “I think there’s a way through this, but it won’t be easy.”  “I don’t care if I have to fight, I just want to know there’s a fight to be had.  I’m so sick and tired of sitting here pretending that this shit doesn’t eat at me every day.”  We moved on to the details of gathering paperwork and making appointments.  “I really appreciate you for listening for real,” he said, heading out to continue his day.

    The bus showed up, gliding to a halt at the bus stop sign like a baseball player sliding on to base. I got on and settled into a seat, heading west to my office to see what comes next.

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