Addiction in the kitchen

Today I spent my last day at PMSC as a volunteer. PMSC is a day shelter for adults over 55. Many who visit here are homeless. This is a place where you can get a hot lunch, often a hot breakfast, classes, or just a sense of warmth and safety. For 2 years I volunteered in the kitchen and then facilitated a diabetes support group. Managing diabetes when you don't know a) what your next meal is or where it will come from b) when you might have a kitchen to call your own c) security and stability is a challenge I cannot begin to understand. The stories are funny, tragic, often long-winded, and always wildly entertaining.

Today as I walked in the kitchen I asked one of the staff members, J, "how are you?". "Homeless" was the answer. He is 3 months out of a stint in rehab so I stopped and talked. "How long have you been homeless? What is going on? Talk to me." He talked. He talked matter of factly as they all do about rehab, about how noone wants to rent to a junkie, about his regrets for the drugs, prison, the relapses, all of it.

He talked until my single attendee for the diabetes group stopped by and yelled into the kitchen. "Misha, I NEED you. My blood sugar is over 200. WHEN are you starting the group?? I NEED you." I have never had that reaction before, and I was wary of what state of sobriety (or not) this gentleman might be experiencing. Actually I was pleased. As grumpy as I was due to yet another eye infection and as many times as noone has showed up: today was great. I felt useful. We talked. We talked about specific choices for snacks, for fiber, and how to manage in a candybar now and again. The candybar is not going away anytime soon and we both knew that. More calm, he left for his walk to get his blood sugar down below 150 before lunch...... and a donut.

Back in the kitchen, L, grumps at me about where have I been, and why haven't I been working in his kitchen, and have I been off sleeping and being lazy. This is his way of saying I have been missed. When I share that my internship is starting, he gets somber. "Good luck with that. Noone deserves it better. They are shutting down the Lazarus shelter and this place is about to get crazy. Best that you not be here when THAT happens" When I ask why they would shut down a shelter just as the weather changes he gets even more gentle. "Baby girl, noone cares about the homeless in this town. There is only one you." I will never hug Leroy. When I try and tell him thank you for teaching me so much he grumps and walks away. That is his way. But he knows that he means the world to me. And I know I mean the world to him.

While I have not yet gotten permission to tell their stories and give a voice to their experiences, I carry their stories with me. I carry their kindness and laughter with me. I learned more about drugs, poverty, how to get a bed in a shelter, and which pawn shops carry the best selections of TVs in that kitchen than I ever thought imaginable. I never expected to volunteer so long at this place. I never expected that some of my greatest teachers would be the old, the addicted, the recovering, the crazy, the forgotten. But they were and they are, and I will not forget them.