Unscheduled Tragedies

The phone rang. Another Monday call to add to the list of Monday calls, I thought. On the other end of the line, a colleague, a friend, and someone I respect more than I do most. She begins by telling me she tried to reach out last week. I was on vacation last week, disconnected. Cut-off. Done with the world. No work phone. No election coverage. No emails. Very little social media connection. It was so calming, and that was exactly what I needed. A time of reset, reflection, a time to think what I really want to do with what is coming next. Next is coming, whether I want it to or not. My friend began to tell me of the tragedy that had unfolded just a week ago. A mutual, long-time client, hit and left for dead in the road. Deja vu.

He's in critical condition, in the critical care unit. No one knows if he will live. His injuries extensive. He lays helpless in a drug-induced coma. Those that care about him on the other side of his coma, just as helpless.

I think of his family. They've been waiting on that call, probably for years now. That call that said their brother was hurt badly, or no longer with us. That call that they never really wanted to receive. They've been waiting on it, because they no longer knew how to help. They've been waiting because they had no other choice. They realized sometimes doing nothing is the only choice there is.

And yet the call has come, the pain the same. There's no comfort in knowing the ending. The ending is still the end, still painful, still full of the "whys".

The ending still has the result that was dreaded. The ending that's unwanted. The ending that is always out of our control.

I wonder how many calls I will get before I have to walk away. That call seems to keep coming. I am not family. I don't have that history. I don't have the same references. But that pain, that loss over and over, that acceptance of knowing the ending is out of my control. I don't know how long I can push forward knowing that call will always come. It won't come with every person I meet, but with many. It's inevitable. And that's not the ending I want, for anyone.

I want people to recover, remake themselves. Then I remember how hard change is. I remember the weight of addiction and most importantly, the whys. I remember everything else that precedes the strategies of escape. Humans are flawed, broken, and imperfect. Our refusal to accept such things seems to lead to a path of destruction. If I had one super power it would be the ability to show people that their lives can be better, free from a darkness that seems to never give up. But here I am, no super powers. Just a soul full of empathy and hope that grows more weary with each and every unscheduled tragedy.

Why have I been called here? A human sponge, witness to the weight of the world's pain. A front row ticket that I can't refund. I was led here, drawn here. I prayed myself here, to a place where I love the unlovable. I thought I was praying to love those around me, in the circumstances I was in then. Instead, I was shown people I never imagined caring about or even saw. This wasn't the plan.

And yet, I find that I can't just abandoned my post, not just yet. My mind continues to conjure the image of a medic in war, bombs going off, pressure building, and their job is to navigate and find those that have been hurt. In spite all of the obstacles. the overwhelming fear, they run. They take their medical tool kit and run through the chaos. I feel like I'm the medic that runs and I suddenly realize I have no tool kit. I'm standing in the middle of the injured, the wounded, the traumatized, observing each one, not knowing what to do next. I scan over the piles of bodies, anxiety builds, tears well. There are so many hurting and many that may be too far gone to save. The gravity of knowing I can't get to them all, anguish.

I have been asked more than once over the last almost 5 years, "How do you think we end homelessness?" My response as of late has been, "How do we end the pain?"