A homeless man calls out to me on my walk home. Shit. I never know what to do in these situations. I have no food or toiletries to offer, no cash on me. It’s raining and cold and my paper thin scrubs offer no protection. I walk a little faster, and I’m starting to feel the usual guilt bubbling. I hate that there’s nothing I feel I can do for this man, especially now that there’s truly no one on the streets to help him. Shelter in place is already his norm.
He calls out to me again — “hey miss!” Ugh. Miss. A name I can’t stand. There’s a car coming and I can’t cross the road. The guilt now feels like the worst case of acid reflux I’ve ever had. “Hey doc!” he shouts. “You stay safe out there, okay?” I literally stop mid-step. Me? Stay safe? Out here? I’m three blocks from the cozy apartment I get to return to every day after doing a job I love, working alongside the most brilliant people I know, with a partner in aforementioned cozy apartment actively cooking me dinner, likely with a bottle of wine already open. The homeless man’s thumb is up and he’s grinning at me. I wave back. Wow. The guilt.
