Visit to Mark's Cardiologist

Book club charting member Mark and I ate pizza inside a boutique parlor and continued our ongoing, three-year conversation about American literature. This afternoon's topic: The Great Gatsby, which Mark had read for the first time only a few months ago. What a fool Jay Gatsby was trying to recreate the past and win back a vacuous Daisy! I told Mark what especially intrigued me about the novel was Nick, the narrator, who stands by and observes all the deceit and debauchery and doesn't do a damn thing about it, human destruction ensues, and Nick really never reflects on the consequences of his inaction.

It had been good day with Mark. I'd picked him up at his usual sidewalk at noon and then driven him to his cardiologist for a follow up appointment after his double heart attack of several months ago when he nearly kicked the bucket.

The day before his appointment, I reminded Mark of our rendezvous and I told him to lay off the sauce.

When I pulled up alongside him, he was eating a Cup of Noodles and reading Moby Dick. A open can of malt liquor rested beside him!

I came up to him and picked up the can. It was two thirds full. I told him dump it out and we were leaving. He picked up the can and drained the rest of the malt liquor. I loaded his possessions into my car and off went.

A homeless man with a cardiologist, you ask?

When Mark became a patient at a Providence hospital for the initial emergency, authorities enrolled him in Medicaid so his subsequent visits and multiple medications were covered.

At several points during the afternoon, Mark and I started riffing jokes about his doctor, who, according to Mark was an extremely attractive woman and titillated his interest.

Hey, did you hear the one about the horny homeless man who met with his hot cardiologist?

Or:

A horny homeless man and his hot cardiologist walk into a bar...

It was all great preposterous fun.

There was a snafu checking Mark in and that meant a long wait in the waiting room where we heard a dozen or so soft rock hits from the 70s and played name that tune and artist with them. Who would have ever thought I'd still remember the likes of England Dan and John Ford Coley, Pablo Cruise and Player (“Baby Come Back”).

When Kool and The Gang's “Celebration” came on, Mark reminisced about dancing to that disco classic at his senior prom and how it still ranked as one of the highlights of his life 40 years later.

We then dived into that party song and how it made anyone listening to it happy and was completely devoid of irony. And there was nothing wrong with feeling happy, even if it was only for a fleeting moment.

“I think I'm the happiest homeless man in Portland,” said Mark.

“Even when it's 110 or 33 and raining?” I said.

“Well, perhaps not then,” he said. “But still, I try to make someone happy every day.”

During his consultation, I stepped outside and called Mark's medical social worker, also covered by Medicaid, for an update on his prospects for housing. I got her voice mail and to my total surprise, she called me back in minutes.

She recounted her frustrations trying to reach anyone in authority or with a shred of authentic knowledge about various housing options. No one returned calls or emails. She'd never worked with a homeless man before and could not believe the insane barriers he faced to get off the streets. And he wanted off the streets!

I told her I had gone through all the same bullshit last summer and nothing had changed even though the city and county had opened additional Safe Rest Villages and announced more housing initiatives, including a county-wide lottery for apartments that Mark was enrolled thanks to her and Mark's sister.

She said Mark still needed an official referral to obtain official housing. Referral? I told her I thought she'd made one for Mark when he almost croaked and she'd met and interviewed him. Nope. Medical social workers were not approved to make such referrals, but city park rangers were.

(Apparently, there is a waiting list connected to Safe Rest Villages for vacancies when they become available, but it's not meant to compile a list of homeless people waiting to get in. What? Mr. Kafka meet a maze of molasses!)

There was more to this inexplicable madness, but reader, I will spare you because I want to spare myself writing about it.

Mark's social worker did tell me that she'd somehow arranged for an agency called Portland Street Medicine to go out and find Mark in Sellwood and conduct an assessment and make a referral on the spot.

That is if they could find him. I told her exactly where Mark could be found. I said forward my number to the team and have them call me before they headed out, and I would drop everything and find Mark and get him prepped. She said she would.

I recounted to Mark my conversation with the social worker and told him of the possible visit. He nodded his head and said he was easy to find.

We ate the rest of the pizza and Mark even had some leftovers. We discussed 70s one-hit wonders (King Harvest!) and the declining fortunes of other members of the book club.

I'm not giving up. Mark certainly has not.