A few years ago when I worked in a property management office of a housing co-operative in the poorest neighbourhood in Canada, I witnessed suffering on a daily basis. A majority of the residents lived alone either on pension or social assistance. One day a man in his seventies showed up in the office with a completed annual survey form. I scanned the form and found that he had left the section for Emergency Contact blank. I explained to him that his contact did not have to live in the same province but he/she would be able to make decisions for him in the event that he became incapacitated. He replied, ‘Just put down “911”.’ In North America, 911 is the number to call for police, fire department and ambulance.
Thinking that he must have misunderstood my explanation, I reiterated my explanation and tried to squeeze a name and phone number out of him. He pulled a chair up and sat down quietly in front of me. He started telling me his story.
He was born in the early 1930’s in rural Manitoba. He only had elementary school education when he started working full time on the family farm. When he turned 18, he ran away from home and worked as a day labourer to fund his way out to the west coast. He finally settled down in Vancouver. He got married and later divorced after a 12-year marriage. He had a son and a daughter whom he never saw after the divorce. Soon after the divorce, he took up drinking, became jobless then homeless for many years. He was accepted by the housing co-operative through a social worker when the building was first opened for occupancy. The minute he moved into the housing co-op, he no longer was the social worker’s client/responsibility.
Fighting back tears, I asked him if it would be alright if I put down my name and phone number as his emergency contact. He declined and said he would not want to be a trouble for me. I thanked him for trusting me enough to tell me his story. He said it felt good to “re-connect” with the outside world once in a while. The whole time he was telling his story he did not supply excuses for himself and I could never forget how much hurt I saw in his eyes. I wonder how our society could write him off just because his life path was different from theirs.
Thinking that he must have misunderstood my explanation, I reiterated my explanation and tried to squeeze a name and phone number out of him. He pulled a chair up and sat down quietly in front of me. He started telling me his story.
He was born in the early 1930’s in rural Manitoba. He only had elementary school education when he started working full time on the family farm. When he turned 18, he ran away from home and worked as a day labourer to fund his way out to the west coast. He finally settled down in Vancouver. He got married and later divorced after a 12-year marriage. He had a son and a daughter whom he never saw after the divorce. Soon after the divorce, he took up drinking, became jobless then homeless for many years. He was accepted by the housing co-operative through a social worker when the building was first opened for occupancy. The minute he moved into the housing co-op, he no longer was the social worker’s client/responsibility.
Fighting back tears, I asked him if it would be alright if I put down my name and phone number as his emergency contact. He declined and said he would not want to be a trouble for me. I thanked him for trusting me enough to tell me his story. He said it felt good to “re-connect” with the outside world once in a while. The whole time he was telling his story he did not supply excuses for himself and I could never forget how much hurt I saw in his eyes. I wonder how our society could write him off just because his life path was different from theirs.
