Powerless

They wanted to release her. Release her? Where? This trip to the hospital – this time because she had been assaulted – had also resulted in the only home she had - her car - being impounded for having no registration.

She was just a little bit better off than dead. Release her?

I demanded for them to keep her. They told me I could take it up with the social workers on staff.

The concrete walls were painted yellow, and the offices behind the indoor window were dark. Clearly, hardly anyone was there. Someone tentatively stepped out, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I need to speak to a social worker. The hospital wants to release my mother but she has nowhere to go. She’s homeless and extremeley ill, on the verge of death. She’s also an addict and in a state of detox, and not safe to keep with me.”
“Well, the social workers aren’t here, but you can fill out this paperwork to try to get her some disability insurance from Social Security. That usually takes a long time, though, and lots of folks die before the paperwork ever goes through.”

She delivers this cold fact like I have on a suit of armor that the terrible news cannot penetrate.

I sit and do the only things I can: hold the old, brown clipboard on my lap and fill out the paperwork, and pray. This is the definition of powerlessness.