Today I had one of the most profoundly disturbing experiences of my life.
I was heading down to my internship site after doing Music Therapy observations at the Kansas State School for the Blind, when I received a phone call. It was a young woman explaining that her father lived at the apartment building that I manage and she hadn't been able to reach him for a few days and could she get a key to get into this apartment? I told her that, legally, that wasn't something I could likely do, but I would be more than happy to check on her behalf and then give her a call. She said she hadn't heard from him in a few weeks and that her uncle had gone to her father's shoeshine store and it turns out he hadn't showed up at work in about two weeks either.
So I stop in at the building on my way. I knock loudly on the door, and then I knock on the neighbor's door to ask if they've seen this man lately. They said they hadn't. So I reluctantly unlock his door and push it open a crack, announcing who I am and that I'm just checking in. A baseball bat that was propped against the back door falls to the ground. I don't hear anything, so I open the door a little more and notice a sour smell. I walk into the apartment inch by inch. The smell is worse. I'm in the kitchen and the bedroom is ahead and to the left. I see a hand. I think "Oh no." I say the man's name. And then I see the rest of him. Lying on the floor next to his bed. Wearing boxers. Puffy. I stare in shock. And then I run out, downstairs, outside.
I call my boss in California. I'm in tears. I tell her a tenant has died and I've found him. I explain it to her. She says I need to call the daughter. I really don't want to. So she does. I wait and my boss tells me the daughter is on her way. I'm so uncomfortable. There's a dead man upstairs. A man I knew.
The daughter arrives and she's inconsolable. She almost collapses on the sidewalk. I tell her she doesn't have to go upstairs. But she wants to. Outside the back door, I once again tell her she doesn't have to do this; but she's insistent. She goes in with her brother and they both break down. It's one of the most terrible moments of my life, witnessing a family seeing their dead father. The daughter is a mess. I would be, too, of course. She keeps saying she doesn't know what to do.
They call the police, who arrive along with the fire department and EMTs. The family and I answer some questions. The daughter is distraught. It's at once uncomfortable, distressing, and humbling. The professionals are very kind, but a little formal. I can't imagine doing this on a daily basis like they do.
Detectives arrive and they ask a few more questions. The family has the keys to the apartment and I tell them that they are free to come and collect his belongings when they are ready to do so and offer myself at their service if there is anything I can do.
I feel nauseous. I feel ill-at-ease. I'm just uncomfortable. I keep seeing this man's hand. His legs. His body. I never saw his face. The way he was laying, I couldn't see it. Maybe that's for the best. He had started decaying. His toenails looked brittle and white. His body was puffy and swollen. The smell was unpleasant, although I was surprised it wasn't worse.
The man was black, and every time I saw a black man, I thought of him. Lying there for days, undiscovered.
I can't really describe how I feel right now. I'm uncomfortable. A little distressed. Ill-at-ease is the best option.
I hope I never have to experience this again in my life.
Hold close those who you love.
I was heading down to my internship site after doing Music Therapy observations at the Kansas State School for the Blind, when I received a phone call. It was a young woman explaining that her father lived at the apartment building that I manage and she hadn't been able to reach him for a few days and could she get a key to get into this apartment? I told her that, legally, that wasn't something I could likely do, but I would be more than happy to check on her behalf and then give her a call. She said she hadn't heard from him in a few weeks and that her uncle had gone to her father's shoeshine store and it turns out he hadn't showed up at work in about two weeks either.
So I stop in at the building on my way. I knock loudly on the door, and then I knock on the neighbor's door to ask if they've seen this man lately. They said they hadn't. So I reluctantly unlock his door and push it open a crack, announcing who I am and that I'm just checking in. A baseball bat that was propped against the back door falls to the ground. I don't hear anything, so I open the door a little more and notice a sour smell. I walk into the apartment inch by inch. The smell is worse. I'm in the kitchen and the bedroom is ahead and to the left. I see a hand. I think "Oh no." I say the man's name. And then I see the rest of him. Lying on the floor next to his bed. Wearing boxers. Puffy. I stare in shock. And then I run out, downstairs, outside.
I call my boss in California. I'm in tears. I tell her a tenant has died and I've found him. I explain it to her. She says I need to call the daughter. I really don't want to. So she does. I wait and my boss tells me the daughter is on her way. I'm so uncomfortable. There's a dead man upstairs. A man I knew.
The daughter arrives and she's inconsolable. She almost collapses on the sidewalk. I tell her she doesn't have to go upstairs. But she wants to. Outside the back door, I once again tell her she doesn't have to do this; but she's insistent. She goes in with her brother and they both break down. It's one of the most terrible moments of my life, witnessing a family seeing their dead father. The daughter is a mess. I would be, too, of course. She keeps saying she doesn't know what to do.
They call the police, who arrive along with the fire department and EMTs. The family and I answer some questions. The daughter is distraught. It's at once uncomfortable, distressing, and humbling. The professionals are very kind, but a little formal. I can't imagine doing this on a daily basis like they do.
Detectives arrive and they ask a few more questions. The family has the keys to the apartment and I tell them that they are free to come and collect his belongings when they are ready to do so and offer myself at their service if there is anything I can do.
I feel nauseous. I feel ill-at-ease. I'm just uncomfortable. I keep seeing this man's hand. His legs. His body. I never saw his face. The way he was laying, I couldn't see it. Maybe that's for the best. He had started decaying. His toenails looked brittle and white. His body was puffy and swollen. The smell was unpleasant, although I was surprised it wasn't worse.
The man was black, and every time I saw a black man, I thought of him. Lying there for days, undiscovered.
I can't really describe how I feel right now. I'm uncomfortable. A little distressed. Ill-at-ease is the best option.
I hope I never have to experience this again in my life.
Hold close those who you love.
2 comments:
Hugs to you, my friend. What a difficult experience.
Beautifully written
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