Falling Through The Holes

There have been two psychic wobbles to the week that make one stop.  The first was the story of the velvet-voiced homeless man who became an overnight sensation on YouTube.  Ted Williams by name, if you want to search up the the story, he was an ex-radio voice, family man, father and provider who got into some serious alcohol, drug and money problems.  He was discovered panhandling in Columbus, Ohio. 

The second was a patient at a local hospital.  My sweetie was in hospital for a couple of nights for some surgery and we inadvertently got to learn some of his story.  Homeless, issues with alcohol, drugs, a beat-down, concussion, found by the police and so on.

As children we’re always asked by well-meaning adults, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”  As best we can tell, nobody has listed “Crack-head, homeless and sole occupant of Jane Doe grave at a municipal cemetery” as their response.  Very few have said “I want to be a victim of a serial killer Uncle Bob!”.  For that matter, we suspect that “Vagrant” is not on the top ten list of occupations for young children. 

Yet, every year, the various media run two line stories of someone who fell through the cracks, lost the thread and wound up somewhere bad.  Yes, a percentage is directly attributable to addictions, be it booze, pills or drugs.  Yes, there are some people who are not going to make it for thousands of other reasons, involving mental issues beyond their control, bad choices and sometimes simply being crushed by the wearying weight that can be Life. 

They are the disposable people.  They fall through the holes, either not knowing about ways out, or not wanting to be helped back up for whatever reason. 

We don’t give to mainstream charities.  We choose to direct our donation to a local place that has done good work with those with addiction problems, whose guests get a shot at coming back from the land of the disposable people.  Their success rate is good, their graduates seem mostly to be able to return to being contributing members of our Ship of Society.  Of our dollar, we’re comfortable that more than 95 cents goes directly to help.  The Board of Directors doesn’t have big desks, thick carpets and a cadre of professional fund-raisers strong-arming donors for more and more money:  That isn’t their way and we appreciate it.

The problem is that we, meaning the societal we, can’t help everyone who needs help, or who wants help.  There isn’t enough money and there aren’t enough facilities with the skilled people to give aid, assistance and compassionate care.  All we can do is turn our head away from trying to wrap our minds around the enormity of the problems.  We don’t look because we can’t look. 

It hurts too much to see someone who ten, twenty or forty years ago said “Airline Pilot!” or “Teacher!” when asked “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Life, although a game without guarantees, does occasionally reach up and kick you one.  This week, one looks like he may have made it back and one we’re fairly certain, isn’t going to make it.  In either case, they give us pause to be grateful. 

Today, I’m grateful.