Debbie is drifting in dementia. Off 6th, in the Alphabet District, she’s standing with an ambulance. She’s cold and confused, homeless and scared. After a five day hospital stay, she’s been discharged. The hospital told her to go to the Mission. The Mission is full. They sent her to the Concern Shelter. The Concern Shelter had no room, so she wandered around until someone called an ambulance. The crew can’t take her since she’s just been released from the hospital and has no urgent medical need. The crowd becomes ugly, so the crew calls me.
On scene, I call the Housing Line. They have a spot for her across town, so I call a sergeant for permission for the transport. He gives me the green light.
On the way she asks, “Where are going?”
Debbie, we are going to the shelter.
“What if it is closed?”
Then, we will make another plan.
“Where are we going?”
We are going to the Peace Shelter.
“Where are we?”
We are on State Street, heading to the shelter.
“Why are you taking me to jail?”
Debbie, I am taking you to the shelter. We are on the highway.
“Why is it taking so long?”
It’s rush hour and far from downtown.
“Where are you taking me?”
I am taking you to the Peace Shelter.
“What if it is closed......”
It’s a 40 minute drive.
When I arrive, the shelter is closed. I call the Housing Line. It's a different operator, so I explain.
She says, “I don’t know why you went there. The Peace Shelter is closed and it’s only for veterans.”
The operator has no options, so I swing by a shelter near North Precinct on my way back downtown and talk to the staff. They are horrified and grant me their last E-space.
