No Bodies

Emily Dickinson wrote, “I am nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody too?”

I woke up early, got dressed, and prepared myself for the day's activities. It seemed like a typical day, but a pleasant one. The sun was shining, and it felt like it was going to be a good day.

I arrived early at my client's house, partly because my daughter was renting a room in a hotel across the street. We planned to get coffee from the 7-Eleven around the corner. I called my daughter, and she agreed to meet me at the front of the hotel parking lot.

As we walked to the store, I noticed a group of unhoused people—whom I have heard referred to as "the nobodies"—gathering at the tables in front of the apartment building where I work. This group typically spent their days socializing at these tables. Today was no different, except for a new individual who had fallen to the ground as the group gathered.

As my daughter and I walked by, I noticed the man lying on the ground. He was breathing heavily and barely moving. I told my daughter he didn’t look well and suggested that we stop and help. My daughter shook her head and reminded me that I always wanted to stop and help people; but if the man truly needed assistance, his friends would call for help. Reluctantly, I continued walking.

After getting our coffee, we returned to the bench where we could still see the man lying on the ground, face down. I felt uneasy and thought again about calling someone for help. I suggested this to the people gathered nearby, and one of the unhoused individuals responded, “I called 911, but when I told them the person was homeless, they put me on hold and never came back. I asked someone from the office of the building to call, and they said help was on the way.”

So, we all sat there, waiting as the man remained on the ground.

About ten minutes later, an ambulance from the fire department arrived. Three workers got out of the vehicle and approached the man. One of the people in the group remarked, "He's still breathing. He’s passed out, but he’s alive."

One of the paramedics checked for a pulse and asked for the man’s name. A person in the group shouted, "His name is Juan." The paramedic leaned closer and said, "Juan, open your eyes. If you can hear me, blink… Juan, can you do this? Juan, can you do that?"

As one paramedic tried to communicate with Juan, another was asking the crowd questions. The group responded as best they could.

“Does he use drugs?” 

“No. He drinks, but he’s never used drugs.” 

“How old is he?” 

“About 53,” someone answered. 

“Do you know how to contact his family?” 

“He has a son who lives a few blocks away.”

The paramedics conferred briefly, then rolled Juan over, revealing that his face had turned blue. One paramedic injected him with epinephrine. They called out to him again, but there was still no response. After another quick assessment, one paramedic said, "Let’s get him up."

They pulled out a tarp, unfolded it to full size, and rolled Juan onto one side to place the tarp underneath him. After securing him on the tarp, they lifted him into the ambulance. Surprisingly, they turned off the lights and siren and remained inside the ambulance for a while, filling out paperwork. One person in the crowd tapped on the ambulance window, asking if Juan was still alive and what they should tell his family. But that was the end of it—there were no further answers.

The paramedics sat in their vehicle for a few minutes with the windows rolled up. Then, after some time, they slowly drove away.

As I sat there, watching this whole scene unfold, an overwhelming sense of sorrow washed over me. Here was a human being, lying on the ground, and nobody helped him. The people around him—his friends—assumed he was drunk and had passed out. When they finally tried to get help, nobody in the system was willing to assist right away. Even though the people in the nearby building didn’t let Juan’s friends inside, they at least called 911, which resulted in the fire department showing up. But when Juan was taken away, nobody told his friends where his family could find him.

Sitting there among the gathered crowd, I felt shame and sadness. It seemed that only the "nobodies" cared about Juan, while others—perhaps because he was homeless—did not. The group was left there talking about how Juan was somebody's father, son, husband, and friend. But to the rest of the world, Juan was a nobody left to die on a dirty sidewalk in full view of the world. And That Ain't Right!

This experience was a painful reminder that as long as we continue to treat certain people as "nobodies," we will keep seeing bodies—people—lying on our streets, hoping that someone, someday, will care.