She worked the comedy circuit in New York. Ate pizza with George Carlin. Sold a bit to Robin Williams. “One he used on Johnny Carson when Johnny was still host,” she’ll confide if you’ll take the time to listen. She did her own stuff too, but mostly she hung around the clubs selling bits to other comedians. She liked them all, but Williams the most, “He and I used humor for the same thing – protection!” She’s still using humor, but it’s power to shield is nearly gone. It’s okay, she won’t need protection where she’s going.
I cajoled G, her preferred moniker to her real name, out of her shitty little motel room. Neither “shitty” nor “little” do the place justice. I got her to the emergency room. She wants to die. After hours in the overcrowded hospital – home of the ultimate punchline, “world’s best healthcare” – G got what she needed. Diagnosed with metastasized cancer, death is on its way. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!
Together we met with hospice. She’d be made comfortable. No, there are no hospice homes available to her, but we can send a hospice nurse to her motel room. The shitty one where G’s named the cockroaches, “Oliver is the oldest one. Suzanne is the skinny one and the youngest is Dwight.”
Sure, she’ll be alone. But the nurse will come once a day and we’re on 24-hour call.
“What’s the co-pay?” I asked. None. She’s got Medicare. Seems G’s lucky on two counts. She made it to sixty-five years of age before her body stopped her from eating and drinking. AND someone in the government figured out that hospice patients can’t pay bills after services are completed. No sense billing the dead.
I met my sixty-five-year-old friend more than twenty years ago. A broadcaster with a soft spot for the poor, a friend sent me a poem G wrote and tacked on a homeless shelter bulletin board. I’m sure it comes as no surprise that someone who wrote a bit for the great Robin Williams can write one hell of a poem about suffering. I read it aloud on my morning show a few times. My listener told G. She called the show, we exchanged email addresses and have known each other ever since.
We didn’t meet in person until the pandemic. Face to face, at a time when everyone else stayed as far from each other as possible, G needed someone.
I’ve skipped a lot of her story and I don’t want to. Here are the highlights. Forgive the staccato style of detailing her life, but stories as depressing as hers have to be told quickly or tragedy makes the reader look away and I don’t want to lose you.
G was born in the deep south. Victimized by family and acquaintances alike – a story not unique to Dixie – it’s a tale that plays out all over impoverished America. You needn’t take my word for it, just ask Carolyn Chute. Her book, The Beans of Egypt, Maine, will tell you all you need to know.
When G got old enough to leave, she did. Making her way north, she used her talents to entertain others and provide for herself. Whether her religious family truly disapproved of her, or she just perceived them that way, G shunned their faith and their judgement. “Frankly, I’m allergic. If you confront me with religion, I may break out in contempt,” she explained to me from what is destined to be her deathbed.
No life partner and no kids, G lived on her terms until mental illness took hold. Debilitated by severe depression and a handful of other diagnoses, G lost her home. She took what few belongings she had and moved into her car.
Homelessness takes it out of you. Chronic homelessness will kill you. Homelessness in northern New England, where average winter temperatures are below freezing even in daylight – and in the single digits at night (Fahrenheit of course) – takes years off one’s life. The National Institute for Health reported in 2017, “The average life span of a homeless person was shorter by about 17.5 years than that recorded for the general population.”
G’s mental health issues disabled her. But it took the Social Security Administration years to agree. In that time, G got help from a local shelter. They got her out of her car. She got transitional housing, and she gave back by cooking meals in the soup kitchen twice a week. By the time her SSDI was approved, the U.S. federal government owed her a substantial amount of money. She’d paid heavily into the system when she was healthy and productive, and her initial check enabled her to buy a small house in rural Maine.
During the years G waited for the benefits she’d contributed to for decades, G might have died on the street. Luckily, she outlived their waiting game. All’s well that ends well. But it isn’t ending well.
G is an elder orphan. That means she doesn’t have anyone, later in life, that respects her wishes, advocates for her, sees to her needs and keeps her moving forward. I’ve written books that deal with homelessness and the elderly; the proceeds help people like G. You can learn more about elder orphans there or invite me to your library to speak. I’ll do it for free.
Now, G is once again homeless and alone. Fear of being homeless when things went wrong cost her the house again. It’s been declared not fit for human habitation, so she pays for a motel room. Did I mention how shitty it is?
G dreams of having a cat. One of those well-meaning family members gave hers away when they came north to help her. G is mad about that, but homelessness and pets don’t mix. If a person wants help – they’ll nearly always have to choose between shelter and their furry family members.
Isolated in her motel, G struggles with loneliness the best she can, “I need a cat. So, I’ve invented one. I named him Walter. He’s a gorgeous brown tabby with white facial markings and four white feet. He was cold and standoffish at first. I asked him what was wrong. He told me his name is Willy.” G smiled at me with her crooked smile, “So, I called him Willy and he cuddled me. I conjure him when I want a cuddle.”
More than anything, G feels that she understands Robin Williams. She understood him when he was alive. She understands him now. Her final wish – beyond that of a cat – is to share the peace he finally found.