DEBBI AND SON, STEVEN
PHOTO BY RANDY BACON
DEBBI’S STORY
WITH HER SON, STEVEN
On the street I am known as “momma”. My youngest son and I came here from Texas. It’s kind of a long story on how we got out here but we ended up at the Grey Hound bus station. My oldest son was supposed to meet us there but he never showed up. That’s how we ended up here in this city. My youngest son, Steven, is my lifeline. He is very protective of me, since my late husband was killed almost fifteen years ago. Eventually we got word about a women’s shelter for me to stay, and my son tried everything he could to get me to go there but I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave him. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him, it was that I didn’t trust other people. I had never been out on the street before. I’m fifty-four and, sure, I’ve been through a lot, but never this. So together we stayed. Together, we learned the ropes on where you can go eat and all of that. It’s a lot of walking, I’ll tell you that. But little by little, we started to get our footing and started to gain a little trust.
If I could change one thing about being homeless, it would be the stereotypes. I’m a recovering addict, I’m not going to lie about it. When I had my first stroke and my husband died one year later, I was put on a prescription narcotic. My addiction didn’t just happen overnight. Slowly, though, my usage increased. It helped me sleep through the nights when I couldn’t deal with the gut wrenching pain. This went on for a few years.
I started to notice signs that my youngest son was struggling with the same problem. I thought to myself, “what kind of mother am I”? I decided right then and there that my son and I were going to the doctor to get help. My doctor was able to slowly step me down off of my powerful narcotic. Despite being clean, I still found myself homeless.
When I first found myself homeless, I was horrified. I had worked in the mental health field and I had heard so much about “those” people. But, once I was out here, the more I got to know people, the more I listened to their stories, I saw that these were just everyday people. Society views us as scum. Most people think we are dopers or drunks and don’t want to do anything to help ourselves. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. We don’t want to live a lifestyle full of handouts. All of these stereotypes are ridiculous. There are so many people out here that have serious health issues and can’t get any help.
I’ve had six strokes. All of these strokes have caused my eyesight to worsen quite a bit. I’ve had to lean on my son a lot because of that. Last fall, while I was sitting in my tent, I received a call from the hospital with some test results I had done earlier that week, letting me know that I was being referred to an oncologist. I was so frightened. My friends immediately came out and helped me get into an apartment. I’ve been through nine chemotherapy treatments and two radiation treatments. Towards the end of my treatments, they were able to remove a little bit of the tumor that remained along my spinal column.
It’s been rough. I even caught pneumonia at the tail end of my treatment and I’ve come down with pneumonia again – actually, double pneumonia now. Also, due to some blockages, I’ve got stents in my arteries. My right artery is still blocked about seventy-five percent. Once they get my resistance back up from all of the chemo, they will go in and try to fix that. But it seems like every time I take two steps forward, I take two steps back. My son doesn’t know this yet but they can’t do much more than stents in my chest except open-heart surgery. So that’s the next thing.
Despite everything going on, my main concern right now is my youngest son. I love my son very, very much and I truly want the best for him. I want to make sure he is situated and doing okay. I could rest easy if I knew he was going to be alright. I mean, I owe my life to my son. Since the death of my husband, my son has basically stepped out of the shoes of a boy and into the shoes of a man. He has helped me through rehab with many of my strokes. He has had to teach me how to walk, talk, and eat again. That’s love. My son stays off and on with me at my apartment. He is always coming by to make sure that I’m okay. That’s love. My son regularly checks up on me to make sure I’m not cold in the winter-time. That’s love. God has given me the greatest child I could have asked for. He’s my love.