I had to have a minor procedure due to a complication with my chemotherapy port; I was released from the hospital earlier this morning. Unfortunately, this was a highly unexpected expense, and I won’t be paid until the 28th of this month. I am trying to raise some money, about $300, to cover the costs related to the rest of my scheduled medical appointments this month. My CashApp tag is $JackHF84; my Venmo tag is @JackHF84; I also use Zelle and will give my phone number in private messages. (I’m new to CashApp and Venmo, please forgive me if I err.) Thank you in advance.

Incidentally, if anyone knows of any jobs in the Chicago area in the service, restaurant, or retail industries, please let me know, as I will be seeking a second job, probably in the next few weeks. My scans and tests in the hospital were looking good, so I’ll probably be coming off chemo sooner rather than later. My current job is mostly remote and self-directed, so any shift or hours will probably workable for me.

EDIT: Some people have already donated. I don't know how to send messages on Venmo, but thank you and I'll respect your anonymity.

I know electoralism is unpopular here, I apologize in advance. Has any party, while campaigning for workers' votes, ever offered to tax unionized workers' wages preferentially; like an excise tax against non-union shops?

I noticed that you can’t deduct, as a business expense, any amount of money spent in furtherance of a crime. Why can't you change tax law so that only a quarter of non-union wages can be deducted from a business' taxable income? (Of course you could also define what a union is to prevent "straw unions", ostensibly controlled by capital.)

I’ve been on chemo for a few weeks now. I had an appointment yesterday; normally, I have about 24 hours after an appointment before I feel sick—not so this time.

To avoid crowds, I’ve been doing my laundry very early in the morning, usually about three or four o’clock. Aside from the attendant I was the only person in the laundromat. After the machine started, I went outside for a little walk and some fresh air.

So, there I was walking in the Far South Side of Chicago in the predawn hours of the morning with a big empty sac strapped to my back, as one does. I was doing nothing suspicious except for everything I was doing. I saw blue lights flash from behind and I went into the “my hands are visible and away from my pockets” position before turning around.

The younger of the two officers frisked me and decided to ask questions about my port. I’m not sure what kind of weapon would be under several layers of clothing and attached to my chest, but I assume the young officer’s fear was a good faith reaction. Less than a minute into his questioning—I’m not sure if it was nerves or I subconsciously willed myself to do it— without warning, I vomited all over the young cop. A bitter, bilious mixture of lentils, rice, and digestive juices spewed forth, arching in the air like a decorative fountain as I tried to point my head down and away. He was utterly covered: it was in his mouth, on his pants, dripping down his bulletproof vest—it was everywhere.

The older cop, who had been standing further back, piped up, “Aww, my wife had breast cancer. How ‘bout we drop you off, then I’ll take this one [pointing to the younger cop] to get hosed down.” He was being genuinely helpful; I mean that without any sarcasm— which was a contrast to his partner who seemed like a bit of a power tripping prick. Anyway, that’s how I puked on a cop without any consequences.

I’ve blown off a few of you over the last week, I’d like to give an update about what I was doing in that time.

Last Saturday, 2 December, I awoke to an almighty pain in my groin. The pain was such that I could not bring myself to think straight for more than a few moments at a time, and so I decided to go to the hospital with what I suspected was ischemic priapism.

I found my roomiest pair of pants, arranged myself that my condition was minimally noticeable, and put on my baggiest sweater. I took the bus to the hospital; being early in the morning, I had the bus to myself, but proceeded to stand the entire way out of an inability to slide into a sitting position.

I went to the main entrance of the hospital, but was told to go to the emergency room two blocks away, on a different street— it was a cold, rainy, and rather painful walk, made worse by the bag I was holding strategically in front of me and which, like a sadistic Newton’s cradle, would periodically smack me square in the testicles. At the security line for the E.R., I had to wait for a male guard to prove that I didn’t have a pistol tucked into my belt.

In intake/triage, I filled out paperwork; I don’t actually recall this, I think it’s the first time I either passed out or blacked out from pain that day. In reviewing my paperwork, I saw that under chief complaint, I had started a long, loquacious retelling of the events of the day, only to cross that out and in a rough hand, write: “dick pain”.

My next memory was talking to the emergency physician on a gurney and being told that I would have to be transferred to the larger general/teaching hospital, because the present hospital had no urologist on call. During her examination, my pain level, heart rate, and blood pressure were all spiking dangerously high and I was given my first dose of morphine. It was a fairly substantial dose, but it did nothing for the pain.

After an hour or so I was picked up for transfer. We spent less than half an hour on the road, but it was easily one of the most painful experiences of my entire life. I either passed out or blacked out several times during the trip. I don’t recall arriving at the general hospital, I just remember being there at some point and talking to a new ER physician.

I was given a dose of fentanyl, which, again, did very little for the pain. I was given a penile nerve block, which is similar in function and procedure to a digital nerve block, but in my experience much less effective. Now on Fentanyl and strong local, I was given my first penile injection and aspiration.

It began with a large bore needle. I could feel the needle as a de-localized pressure on the outside of my penis; as the urologist worked it in, I could feel a dull, tearing pain as it penetrated the cavernous body. The pain, even under sedation and anesthetics, was eminence; I cannot recall the particulars of the procedure. At some point fluid was pumped in, which made it feel as though my penis was about to burst. At another point, the Urologist attempted to suck out some blood, but all that issued was a blackish red sludge of “dead blood”. The procedure was ultimately unsuccessful, and I was admitted to the hospital for the night.

My next memory was waking up on the ward to the sounds of a man crying out in pain. The man was next to me, he was my roommate, and he was howling. For privacy sake I’ll not go on about his specifics. I gathered he had a history of drug use, and the narcotics he’d been prescribed were insufficient to alleviate his pain.

This is a common problem with prolonged opioid use or abuse—effective doses become less effective over time. My roommate was not drug seeking; I don’t think any of the practitioners thought he was drug seeking. But an effective dose of strong pain relievers for him would be dangerously high for most people. In his own words, he felt “illiterate when talking to professional types.” This began a week-long relationship in which I would “translate” what the staff wanted to do with him and try to calm him down during outbursts.

In the next part I’ll talk about the first surgery and an accidental Prince Albert.

I wasn't in the US for the Syrian Civil War. Why was there so much hate and vitriol for President Assad? It's like every American politician wanted him gone, but by regional standards he's pretty innocuous (I think he was like an eye doctor before he more or less inherited his presidency).

I would like to thank all of you on this site for everything you’ve done for me: after many delays due to renovations and the removal of wasps, I have moved into an apartment. The power was turned on yesterday. A few days ago my futon arrived; in a few weeks, I will be the owner of blankets and a pillow. After that, I plan to purchase a pot or dutch oven and some cooking utensils.

In shopping around for the above, I’ve come to realize that I have no idea what a ‘good’ price for anything is. I realized that I think virtually everything is overpriced, even in second-hand stores and thrift shops. While I know that inflation is a thing, I think much of the problem is due to the fact that I haven’t used American money for a significant purchase since the Bush administration; all of knowledge of dollar-values is nearly two decades out of date.

I have secured a good job with a revised start date of the 2nd of October. The company has a rather draconian social media policy; unfortunately I can’t go into specifics here.

I plan on having a thank you/ house-warming party for those of you in the city at some point. There will be booze. I’ve never thrown a party that wasn’t for a fraternity, so any tips or ideas for what you guys might want would be appreciated.

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Since coming to live in this apartment, I’ve noticed that there is a constant state of precarity among working neighbors. This workers’ precarity is different from that of the unhoused. Among the unhoused, there was a sort of precarity of comfort; a sense that things wouldn’t or couldn’t get much worse. Among the workers, there is a tangible sense that one false step could be the end of everything they hold dear: the loss of a job, the loss of housing, the loss of family or children; perdition is only a mistake away.

I have a neighbor, a single mother, who works a full-time job. She is afraid to file for welfare because she thinks she might lose her job if she “admits” (in official/government documents) that she’s having trouble making ends meet. She’s been seeking help from a certain church based charity, but they are slow to approve applicants.

I think part of the reason she’s afraid she’ll be fired for applying for welfare, is because she works around money (as in hard cash). She’s convinced her boss will think she’s either actively stealing or has a good reason to steal, and fire her as soon as he finds out she's applied. I don’t know about privacy laws regarding welfare applications in the US; I don’t know about employment laws; I thought welfare in the US handout to corporations– that it was designed to keep wages low by providing just enough to survive and maintain a steady pool of low-wage workers. I don’t know if her fears are legitimate, but I do know they’re very real.

I’ve given her part of my food. I had to convince her that I was a vegetarian/ vegan and that I had stockpiled canned meats (tuna, chicken, sardines, and SPAM) and dairy products (macaroni and cheese, dried eggs, and powdered milk) from food dispersals and care packages. Thankfully she accepted the food, so I know her children will be fed for the near future.

The Immigration Men and the Rumor

There is a pervasive rumor going around the undocumented community in Chicago: if an undocumented pregnant person goes to a hospital, they can be deported in 24 hours or less.

I have been unable to ascertain the origin of the rumor. About three people I’ve spoken with claim the rumor started in Texas and that it followed a group of immigrants expelled under Gov. Abbott’s purges. Many others, including a midwife I’ve been working with recently and two social workers I’ve come to know, have told me that the rumor was begun here in Chicago and was initially spread by Americans who presumably opposed immigration.

All persons in the latter group claim to have seen a pamphlet or flier a few months ago, though none of them seem to have retained a copy of the document. I’ve requested any extant copies of these pamphlets or fliers but most of them claim to have destroyed copies whenever they were found to prevent the rumors from spreading.

The rumor seems to be pointed squarely at expectant mothers and their unborn children; for instance, no one has claimed that accident victims presenting to the emergency room will be swiftly deported. The rumor usually contains three elements: (1) at the risk of their licenses, medical workers must report undocumented pregnant persons to the authorities; (2) if any of the said patients report to a hospital or clinic, they can be deported in less than one day’s time; and (3) even patients in active labor could be given certain drugs to delay the birth of their child until after they’ve been deported.

Of those who say the rumor started in Chicago, they agree that it was first spread by a seemingly organized group of Americans. They are generally called the “Immigration Men [or People]”; more often than not they introduce themselves as working for the government, a law firm of some sort, or with immigrants in some other professional capacity. These Americans are described as being mostly White with a few Black members. A minority of the members speak Spanish with some fluency and some have given stereotypical Latin names when introducing themselves.

The motives of these “Immigration Men” can only be speculated upon. Some allege motives of pure evil: that the Immigration Men wish to see harm come to expectant mothers and their children through lack of medical care. Others, including myself, believe the rumor was aimed at having undocumented mothers give birth in non-institutional settings which might make it harder for their children to gain American birth certificates. Although the two needn’t be mutually exclusive and nothing about the latter precludes the former.

Victims of the Rumor

A midwife called me to talk with a young pregnant woman. The woman was clearly suffering from a serious condition called preeclampsia. After speaking with the midwife I found that I was called less to act as a physician and more because I was an American who was generally trusted by the woman’s family. The woman, believing the rumor, was refusing to seek care even though she was within a few days of giving birth and her blood pressure dangerously high.

The woman’s family, the midwife, and I told her of Illinois’ TRUST Act, that Chicago is a sanctuary city, and that it would unethical to administer tocolytics for such a purpose. In the end the woman was convinced to ignore the rumor by showing her the docket of the US District Court for Northern Illinois and proving to her that US courts simply don’t move fast enough to comply with 24-hour time constraint stipulated in the rumor. She did eventually go to a hospital and ended up giving birth to a healthy baby later the same day.

The Other, Older Rumor

The midwife told me of an older rumor; she dates it to several years ago during the Trump administration. The main conceit of this rumor being that any undocumented woman who gives up her new born for adoption by an American family would be given a Green Card. No one else I spoke with could recall such a rumor; although one of my social worker friends said he had heard something similar during Bush’s second term as president.

I am less inclined to believe that this was something being popularly shared around as it strikes me as something a Dickensian villain might offer. It’s just cartoonishly evil to say, “Trade us your baby for the right to stay in the country.

As my bout of homelessness draws to an end, I find myself facing new challenges.

I have secured a place to live, but I can’t move in until certain “necessary” repairs have been completed. The apartment is an unfurnished studio; it requires a new window, plumbing, and electrical work. I believe the landlord demanded a large deposit and pre-payment of rent in order to fund these repairs.

I can no longer use the temp agency, because I no longer meet their definition of “unhoused”. This has been a major blow as I had been planning on keeping them as a backup for the next few months. As it turns out, I now need that backup plan: my transit pass has expired, and I only have a little over $1 in change I found. I was thinking about pawning or selling my laptop, but many of the jobs I’ve been applying for require a computer and I don’t think, when times are better, that I’ll be able to find a comparable one for the $50 I was offered.

Due to my transit issue, I’ve been walking a lot more lately. I’ve found that my trips take more planning and there are some things that simply can’t be done on the same day. From where I’m currently staying to the new apartment, it’s about a 3-hour walk. The way has almost no public bathrooms or water fountains; I’ve found that, especially in the heat of the summer, most restaurants will give you free water if you ask. The consequences of all this walking: my shoes have taken a beating, I’ve had to tighten my belt a bit, and I’m now down to a single pair of pants that kind of fit.

A few of you have asked book/e-book. I’ve been working on it. I think it will be partially fictionalized: mostly for legal reasons, but also to clean up the narrative a bit. It kind of has a Moby Dick problem, in that reads half as a narrative story and half as a study of how unhoused people live in Chicago in 2023. I would like to self-publish with a pay-what-you-like model, but Amazon/Kindle seems easier and more accessible. I figure that if it does well, I could get a futon and some curtains, and the excess could go to whatever cause you think is appropriate. Any comments or suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

Homeless Encampments

Throughout the city there are a number of tent communities. These range from quite large tent cities, such as in Logan Square, to clusters of two or three tucked near overpasses. The tents themselves range from newly purchased by their occupants to those donated, often en masse, by organizations and individuals to those handed down by the formerly unhoused. The level of “community” varies from merely living in close proximity to one another, to making use of communal property and providing for shared needs. The occupants are similarly diverse: there are teenagers and pensioners; there are singles, couples, and a few families; most are Americans, but many are immigrants.

There is nothing true of all the encampments except that each of them houses a group of people who live in tents.

Tent Villages and Food

Food is a nearly constant concern. Thankfully, there are several programs and organizations throughout the city that provide free and low-cost food. Connecting donors with recipients can be difficult because distributions aren’t usually advertised, and most events are on a first come first served basis. The distributions are mostly canned goods and staples, like beans, rice, or sometimes bread; the remainder is usually made up of a mixture of fresh food, usually nearing its expiry, and convenience foods, like ramen or granola bars.

Among the more communal villages, like the one I’m currently staying near, there is a great deal of cooperation and coordination in securing food. Some organizations are known to give away lots of fresh produce; these are generally avoided because, given the state of sanitation and lack of cold storage, fresh produce is more of a burden than a blessing in a tent village. (These organizations do good work; it’s just better for people who either live in food deserts or can’t afford such food.) Other organizations distribute a consistent quality and quantity of food, but on an erratic schedule, such as when they have built up enough food and found enough volunteers to sort it into roughly equitable parcels. Many organizations provide certain special items like hygiene products, baby food, or pet items upon request; infant formula seems to be in constant short supply across all organizations.

Once the food is secured, preparing it presents another set of challenges. Drinking water can normally be purchased by the gallon, some people boil or filter water from a public tap. Heat sources include camp stoves and larger grills. Most of the grills, while designed for charcoal, now burn wood, paper, or anything else flammable. Open flames are generally discouraged for safety reasons. In some of the more well-equipped encampments, you can find hotplates and toaster ovens; I’m not sure about the source of their power.

Stressing that I have only limited experience with the encampments it seems that meals, as such, are not served, rather a main dish of several ingredients is made available when it’s been thoroughly cooked. In some camps everyone is responsible for feeding themselves.

Encampments and Sanitation

In recent weeks the city has been trying to improve the cleanliness of the camps. These efforts have included increased trash collection and the installation of several portable toilets. While these efforts have improved the conditions of the camps I’ve visited, I would like to point out that the tent-dwellers weren’t just living in their own filth waiting for someone to clean things up. Many of the camps are placed near facilities that aid their cleanliness. Some are placed near police precinct buildings, which provide some of the only 24-hour restroom facilities available to all members of the public; others are located near shelters and other establishments that provide showers and bathing facilities.

”Susan”

“Susan” was the impetus for my first visit to one of the encampments. I was introduced to her by someone I met in one of the programs.

Susan is an elderly woman who was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes a little less than a year ago. She participates in one or more programs that essentially make her medication and supplies free to her.

In an attempt to make some extra money, she had been trying to control her diabetes through diet while foregoing the use of her medication. She had been selling her medication and supplies to organizations that offered cash for such things; these organizations, some legitimate others illicit, would then resell her supplies or medication at a sharp discount from their retail price.

When I first met her, she was suffering from many of the symptoms of hyperglycemia. Upon testing, her unit only registered that the sample was higher than 720 mg/dl. She refused to go to a hospital for reasons she refused to specify. Using what little of her medication she had retained, we were eventually able to get her to a normal blood glucose level.

When she felt well, she explained her plan. While she had maintained a healthy weight and cut out sugar and sweets from her diet, it quickly became apparent that she was unaware starches (like bread, potatoes, or rice) could also raise her blood sugar. She revealed that aside from being shown how to inject insulin, she hadn’t been given any in-person counselling regarding her disease. I was dumbfounded that in America, a patient with a chronic illness hadn’t been counselled about exactly what foods could exacerbate her condition.

I’ve seen Susan recently: she has continued to sell a portion of her supplies while attempting to control her diabetes with diet. Now that she knows how various foods will affect her, she’s kept blood sugar under control and hasn’t had anymore medical episodes.

Back to the Train

While I’m waiting to move into the apartment, I’ve returned to living on public transport. I’ve made a few innovations that have made things a bit more bearable than my earlier attempts.

I no longer allow myself to sleep at night. I achieve this by drinking copious amounts of coffee from the early evening throughout the night. I acquire it from the most unguarded of free sources such as: hotel lobbies, car dealership, and the like. Sadly, by the time I pilfer their coffee, most of the foodstuffs, such as digestive biscuits and breakfast cereals, have been polished off, so I’ve been rather hungry over the past few days. At times the hunger can be distracting, but that aspect seems to be diminishing with time. It seems that everyday I am becoming more and more a real life version of Dr. Zoidberg.

Instead of trying to stay awake for several days at a time, as I did in the beginning, I now sleep for one or two hours each day by taking a CTA bus with a long route and low ridership. The long route busses usually have built-in USB chargers, so I’m able to charge my phone while I sleep. The unpopularity of these routes creates a simulacrum of privacy; I’ve yet to wake up and find my things being or having been gone through. I’m constantly tired and I’m unable to think quickly or clearly at times. That having been said, the worst of my sleep deprivation symptoms, namely the realistic and relentless hallucinations, have been kept to a minimum. I’ve also noticed that I’m a bit less inhibited and risk-averse in this state.

I’ve been spending my nights on the train revising and refining my Spanish and Vietnamese language skills; skills which I regrettably allowed to lapse when I returned to the States.

My clothes are mostly freshly laundered. I’ve been using a sink to bathe—not exactly the hygienic equivalent of a shower, but better than nothing. An imam has allowed me to use his mosque’s foot bath to clean and re-dress my foot up to twice per day.

More Thorough Update About Mike

So, it turns out Mike had no real reason to be homeless. In addition to his government pension, he also had a sizable settlement from the incident that rendered him disabled. He had no knowledge of it until his new social worker informed him of it; it’s just been sitting in a trust for several years at this point. His old social worker, either through ignorance or negligence, never disclosed the existence of the settlement to Mike. Between his settlement, the interest it has earned while being untouched, and his pension, Mike will be able to live out his remaining years in the safety and comfort he deserves.

Thanks to one of you in particular, who I gather wishes to remain anonymous, I was able to put a deposit down on an apartment: thank you for all the big things you’ve done, but especially thank you for the small things that kept me going when I thought about giving up. I’d like to thank that person, everyone who donated to the GoFundMe, and those of you who helped me out in other ways; you will always have my sincere gratitude. I’ve had a few unpleasant moments over the past several months, but your support has made those moments infinitely more bearable than if I were to face them alone.

The Apartment

I emptied out my bank account and put a deposit down on an apartment. We did paperwork, scheduled a viewing after a deep cleaning, and arranged to have the utilities turned on.

The apartment is a partially furnished studio in the South Side. It’s on the small side, but not cramped considering it’s for a single occupant. The immediate area has a relatively low crime rate, particularly for a low-income area in the city. I should be able to move-in within the next 12 or so days.

Tutoring Again

I was offered another tutoring gig with the same student, for similar compensation, while I was trying to earn and gather money for the deposit. The position was still open after I had made the deposit; so, I took it. This time I was granted nicer budget hotel room but my meals were limited by a set dollar value.

This is the second half of my student’s differential equations course: where the first half focused on theory and technique, this half seems to focus on practical applications and technical refinement. Though our tutoring period was shorter than the first time, I believe he’ll do just fine on his exam.

He did do fine. He passed with a higher score than last time. He still does not want to be an engineer though.

Update on Mike

You might recall Mike: he was one of the first unhoused people I met; you helped him regain control of his money with a prepaid debit card that he could use to receive direct deposits. He has since rid himself of the debit card because he recently qualified for a proper bank account. He got his new ID card.

He’s moved into what I thought was a group home, but from his description sounds more like an assisted living facility. He has a private room and shared bathroom. They provide his physical therapy on-site and arrange travel to and from his medical appointments. They even have outings to theaters, shopping centers, and a swimming pool.

Overall, he says he’s the happiest he’s been in years; his only complaint being the shared bathroom.

Odds and Ends

This was just a short update; I’m probably going to rewrite or expand it in the near future—I just wanted to fill you in on what’s been going on. My foot is healing well. I haven’t been able to sleep recently. I’ve been a bit hungry, for above stated reasons—of course, those of you who’ve met me in real life know that I could stand to skip a few meals. I’ve switched back to looking for permanent employment; this was a practical decision because it’s been next to impossible to get to either temp agency, from where I’m presently based, before they’re exhausted for the day.