Park Street Angels

Excerpts
 

"Patchwork Time"

After a very successful career in health education spanning some 20-odd years, in the spring of 2003 at the age of 52, I ended up as what I refer to as collateral damage in the eh raging war of healthcare economics. A friend referred to this time in my life as "patchwork time." I had pieced together several part-time employment situations. However, my "ends" never quite met - they always seemed to fray, sometimes right along with my nerves. While seeking full-time employment I kept bumping up against what my sister refers to as the "glass window" - an invisible barrier that prevents middle-agers like us from finding employment.

Applying for unemployment was relatively easy. I could somewhat anonymous over the phone - I didn't actually have to face anyone. But when it came to applying for fuel and utility assistance, it was much more sobering (and, frankly, embarrassing) task. I had to do this in person.

Having graduated from the College of Public and Community Service at UMASS Boston, I'd learned to be an advocate - on someone else's behalf or for some important cause. But, when it comes to standing up and advocating for my own needs, that's a whole other thing. It's just plain hard, embarrassing and demeaning to ask. I felt ashamed. Maybe it's because I was still in so much denial that this was happening in the first place. Maybe it's because I felt like such a failure.

December 14, 2006

Another Thursday. If Bob was going to be at his post, this would be the day. And he was. I was grateful for the mild Decmeber weather. He was, too. The Thursday morning group members started passing by, most greeting him with a smile and saying, "I'll catch you on the way back."

He'd been out (or rather "in") the whole week. He was, indeed, having trouble with his feet [due to his diabetes], relating to me that he was up at 2 a.m. and gave himself an injection of insulin hoping that it would help the pain. He said it seemd to.

I'm not sure that's how it works (I know just enough about somethings medical to get me in trouble), but even if he says it gives him relief, that's fine by me. He said again that he'd not been using the full dose in order to make it last longer. I can't imagine being cold, hungry and aching and having to sit outside on a milk crate in the cold hoping folks will drop a few coins into my cigar box on the sidewalk so that I might be able to eat tonight, or allow myself to use the full dose of insulin instead of feeling compelled to ration it.

I can empathize to a degree, but I've never actually "worn his shoes" and felt the pain of aching, starving toes.