I woke up around 7:30 a.m. At 9:30 a.m. I drove to see my Grandpa Don who was recuperating after a collapsed lung. Food had been going into his lungs when he eats, causing the infection.
I arrived at Beth Israel Deaconess hospital in Cambridge just before 11:00 a.m. and I was pissed I had to pay to park. Healthcare is one of the biggest industries in this country, but it’s still not enough. They gotta get that parking fee.
My grandfather was getting some tests done on his throat, so I hung out in his room for a little while. His neighbor in the room Roger was nice. He was also an older gentleman, maybe around 80, that had legs that were all swollen. Possibly diabetes. Roger spoke highly of my Grampa Don.
After about 40 minutes I got sick of waiting so I went down to the cafeteria and got some delicious hospital food. It was a chicken rice stir fry. I marveled at the sheer number of hospital workers all around me.
After I ate I went back up to Grandpa Don’s room and he was back. We talked a while about his health and his experience in the hospital. He talked about being a marine as he always does. His doctor came in who was a very young and kind woman. Then a nurse came in to change the medicine in one of his tubes. I expressed to Grampa Don how appreciative I was that he had been a good grandfather to me. More so than my biological grandfathers, who didn’t interact with me much. I also expressed appreciation for him coming to see me in prison and bringing my grandmother, even when she was in a wheelchair. Grandpa Don got teared up, in front of the nurse. He said, “look at that, he sees it. After all that he’s been through he understands.” I felt a little emotional. When the nurse left Grandpa Don told me he it’s unsettling not knowing when he could take his last breath. This stuck with me.
I left the hospital around 1:00 p.m. and drove to the Status hearing for Karen Read. Because of the mistrial, the Norfolk District Attorney’s office plans to retry Karen Read.
When I arrived at the Courthouse there were many Karen Read supporters in pink. There were also a new kind of protesters. Blue shirted protestors who think Karen Read is guilty. They were waving thin blue line flags. This was confusing to me, because the Karen is Guilty crowd kept saying, “Justice for John O’Keefe.” That’s what we want, we also back the police, just not corrupt ones.
Karen’s Court hearing was quick. I hung around a while and talked to some of my fellow Karen Read supporters. And left around 4:00 p.m. and drove to my girlfriend’s apartment.
I have a little more than two months of Homelessness left. I’m ready to get back to my normal life. I feel depressed because I haven’t been as involved with my own project as I would want. I can be an escapist. When I was in prison I read incessantly to escape my surroundings. Now I am finding ways to escape my responsibility of being a devoted documentarist of homelessness and the causes thereof. I need to think up a plan to finish my dive into homelessness in Massachusetts and abroad.
It is pretty natural to me to find ways to escape, even ones we aren’t consciously aware of. Struggling to stay focused on an overwhelming project covering some very emotional content, while truly living that life, it is a challenge. Simply surviving can be a taxing process at times. Doing it while reaching out and trying to document is even more tough. Not to mention, having to force yourself to reflect meaningfully on what you experience, see, and hear from others. Anyone with a sense of empathy would struggle. Not to mention, the more complex feelings: wanting to help others when you can barely help yourself, being reminded how indifferent (or downright evil) some people can be, knowing that the world continues on but you don’t feel like you are part of that progress. It is a lot.
While incarcerated, I spent almost every waking moment in conversation, reading, writing letters, or finding some other way to escape the present moment. While popular psychology today praises their version of mindfulness (being present, non-judgmentally, in the moment), that is a reflection of the privilege that has overwhelmed the mental health industry–to be fair, this is intended for “wellness” (i.e., helping those for whom things are going well to feel a little better). There are few things as deleterious psychologically as having to sit there fully immersed and conscious of your pain. We need distractions. Sitting there experiencing every rock on the ground you are sleeping in; fully experiencing the bitter cold or scorching heat, without reprieve; reflecting on how you ended up here, or the reality that most people will not help; sometimes, all we can do is try to distract ourselves. I, for one, think it is necessary–at least, while the situation requires it.
Thanks for sharing this 🙏