New Lodgings

While living at the three-quarter way house, I had a Section 8 voucher. Good for anywhere in the city, I chose a street close to a park and an apartment in an old 12-story building.

My social worker had procrastinated when I told him of my planned move. He said he would “ask around” for a place to stay. Telling him about the apartment, he became upset. It turned out to be the worst crack house in town. On top of that, the night before I moved in, someone had dropped a baby 12 stories down the stairwell. It was aired on the 5:00 News.

Well, with that, I gathered together a few household furnishings, the boombox, the television, and stepped back into the world and moved into that apartment.

A year passed before I moved again. My psychiatrist suggested I not answer the phone. He wanted me to take some time to myself. Loneliness set in. Months went by before I finally took a call. After the knifing, I resigned from the soup kitchen where I was volunteering. The person at the other end of the line had been a fellow volunteer. He called because he was worried about me. An early retiree from a career as a nuclear engineer, we connected and eventually ate lunch together for thirty years. We usually “chewed the fat” about the mental health experience.

Be it an act of God or nature, a rather large earthquake shook the area. Yes, I live in California. Buildings were wrecked for low-income dwellers, so inexpensive retirement apartments opened up to us.

My social worker found me an apartment house built for seniors. Happy for a safe environment, I anticipated meeting people to assist. I really wanted to help seniors.

At dinner the first night, the hostess seated me at a table with three women. Betty was one of the ladies I met that day. I ran errands for her and took her to the doctor for 15 years. All in all, I befriended four people. Unfortunately, one man suffered from bipolar disorder, alcoholism, Parkinson’s disease, and emphysema. He was a challenge.

I ran errands and took them to all their appointments. Yes, we did it in taxis. I loved listening to their stories. So much history. I would be at the deathbeds for three of them. Some lived into their nineties. I passed my fortieth birthday at a party in the dining room at the facility with these seniors.

I realized that while this was a rewarding experience for me, I needed to spend time with people my own age.