M

Bleeding Hearts and Broken Systems: True Tales from Homeless Services

M called me first thing in the morning. I don’t start working until 8 a.m., but M, if she needs something, will call or text at 7:30, 8, 8:30.

“Are you taking me to wash my dogs today?”
“Oh, I can’t today. I’m sorry. I’m supposed to meet another case manager with a client we share.”
“You always cancel. You never do anything for me. Never mind.” Click.

I sent her a text:
“I know it’s disappointing, and I’m sorry. I’m doing my best, and sometimes things come up and I have to switch my schedule around to accommodate the most pressing thing. I’ll let you know if my afternoon frees up.”

A week before that, I went to M’s house to help her connect with her psychiatrist by video chat. Like many of my clients, keeping up with the latest technology wasn’t her first priority when she was living on the streets, in the riverbed, or under a bridge. She was occupied with staying alive, getting food, finding a shower. We didn’t end up connecting with the doctor that day—I had the date wrong—but I helped her change her sheets and set up a little remote camera so she could keep an eye on her dogs when she’s not home.

As I was getting ready to leave, she said, “Wait. I have something for you.”
She came out of her room with a little box. Inside was a bottle of perfume from Victoria’s Secret. She had bought a few boxes during a sale to use as Christmas presents—because that’s what she does. She thinks ahead.

“You do so much for me. I just want to thank you.”

The week before that, I had picked her up to take her to the dentist—miles away—and then to her mental health appointment. We’d been together for about three hours by that point, and lunchtime had disappeared into the wind. She was hungry and knew the best fish taco spot in LA. I had already eaten—I knew it was going to be a long few hours and had packed my lunch. However sad and pathetic my little lunch was, I was proud of myself for doing it. I saved some cash and ate while she was in the dentist’s chair.

But I told her we’d stop somewhere, and so we did. A taco stand in a strip mall that bragged about being there since the 1970s. Yes—since the 1900s.
She ordered a full plate and really wanted me to get something. I usually say no when clients offer to buy me lunch or give me a gift.

“Come on,” she said. “Get something! I want to treat you. You drove me all over the place. You’re the only one who will take me to these places.”

So I ordered a fish taco—which was huge, and amazingly delicious.

The people who have very little are always the most generous.

M is a 55-year-old woman of an ethnic background that makes her vulnerable—to profiling, to assumptions, to violence. She fears masked men might snatch her off the street when she’s walking her dogs. (Though Peppa, her chocolate lab/pit bull mix, might mess someone up if they even touched her mama.)

Health issues plague M, as they do many of my clients. According to the National Health Care for the Homeless Council (NHCHC), over 60% of homeless individuals experience chronic physical health conditions such as heart disease, diabetes, or respiratory illnesses. Roughly 25–30% have a serious mental illness like schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or major depression (SAMHSA). Around 50% have some form of mental health issue. About 38% are dependent on alcohol, and 26% are addicted to other drugs (SAMHSA). If you’re living on the street, your life expectancy is somewhere between 42 and 56 years old.

Since she’s been housed for the last few years, M is getting to all of her doctor’s appointments, seeing her therapist and psychiatrist, and going to the dentist. Health-wise, she still struggles—with GI issues, exhaustion, depression, anxiety—but she’s better.

The day I told her I couldn’t take her to wash the dogs, I called the client I was supposed to meet. No answer. So I called his in-home support worker, who told me he’d gotten up, eaten breakfast, taken a shower—and then gone back to bed with a bottle of vodka and passed out. It was 11 a.m.

So I texted M:
“Hey. My afternoon client canceled. I can pick you and the dogs up at 1.”

We spent two hours at the pet store that has a dog-washing area—four large baths, tiled floors with drains, towels, and a hose that lets you switch between shampoo, warm water, and air. The dogs were thrilled, of course—being clean is the best feeling ever.

M’s mental and physical health impedes her ability to work. Her GI issues leave her bound to a toilet some days. She gets about $1,100 a month from Supplemental Security Income and $292 in food stamps. She can’t work—and Trump is trying to take away her Medicaid.

Homeless services is a shit show. The work is demanding and the pay sucks. We do it because we feel responsible—for the marginalized, for the most vulnerable in our communities. We do it because we have enough, and they have so little. And when we see the depravity of Trump, Miller, Musk, Noem, and the others—those who have too much—taking what little our clients have left, we are depressed, sad, frustrated, and furious.

But we stay. I stay.
Because serving “the least of these” is what Jesus did.
And as an ordained clergy person and follower of Jesus, that’s what I’m called to do.

I am a case manager for Union Station Homeless Services in Pasadena, CA. Union Station is always in need of support. To support the work of homeless service providers and our clients please consider giving a donation by clicking here. Or if you’re in the area we can always use household items like toilet paper, paper towels, cleaning supplies, laundry soap and dish soap. Thank you for your kindness and generosity. Some laundry soap can make a newly housed person’s day.