Page 72 of King

A sigh escapes King’s lips, filled with warmth and longing. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, King. Can’t wait to see you.”

“Same here. Have a good day and be careful at the shelter.”

“I will. Talk to you later.”

Smiling, I tap my phone on my chin as I ponder the conversation but then realize I’ve got work to do so I head into the building.

I step inside, feeling the weight of the worn door as it closes behind me. The warmth of the interior is a welcome embrace after battling the cold outside. The reception area is simple yet clean, with faded walls adorned with motivational posters and community notices. A handful of plastic chairs are lined up against one wall, occupied by individuals patiently waiting for assistance.

The reception desk, a plain wooden counter, is manned by a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a kind smile. Her name tag reads Kathy and she greets me warmly as I approach, recognizing me as a regular visitor.

“Good morning, Dr. Montreaux,” she says. “You’re just in time. I’ll buzz you through.”

I return her smile gratefully. “Good morning, Kathy. Thank you.”

She presses a button and I hear the familiar click of the mechanism unlocking. Pushing my way through the heavy metal door, I enter the main area of the shelter.

The space is functional rather than inviting, with rows of cots neatly arranged in the sleeping quarters. The smell of industrial cleaner lingers in the air, mingling with the aroma of breakfast being served in a nearby dining hall. Residents are beginning their day—some sitting on their cots while others line up for food. There is a mix of quiet conversations, clattering cutlery and the low drone of a television mounted in the corner.

I walk down a narrow hallway adorned with more motivational posters and community announcements until I reach the medical suite. The door is slightly ajar and I push it farther to enter a small but well-organized room. It’s been painted a calming shade of blue, with white cabinets lining one wall and an examination table situated in the center. Shelves stocked with medical supplies and equipment are meticulously organized throughout the room.

My nurse assistant for the day, Sarah, is already there preparing for our morning appointments. She’s a young woman with a bright smile and an air of serene competence that always puts me at ease.

“Good morning, Sarah,” I greet her as I set my bag down on a chair by the door.

“Good morning, Dr. Montreaux,” she replies warmly, looking up from her work. “Everything is ready for you. Our first patient is ready when you are.”

I take a moment to scan the room, appreciating the small touches that make it feel more welcoming despite its clinical setting. Potted plants perched on the windowsill bring some much-needed greenery and drapes hang over the windows.

My heart is heavy with the realities I face here. No amount of experience makes it easier to see people struggling with their health in such dire conditions. The shelter’s bustling with activity as volunteers and medical staff attend to the needs of the residents.

Sarah hands me the first file. “We’ve got a tough first case today. A man named Joe. He’s an alcoholic and has uncontrolled diabetes. His leg is really swollen and discolored. I’ve been trying to convince him to go to the hospital, but he’s refusing.”

I sigh as I flip through the sparse notes. Most of these folks won’t seek care so I don’t have a lot to go on. “Let’s call him in.”

Sarah leaves and when she returns, Joe shuffles in slowly behind her, his face twisted in pain. His clothes are tattered, his hair is dirty and his skin bears the jaundiced hue of chronic alcoholism. I have no clue if he’s a resident here because you don’t have to be to access the medical care we offer. I’m guessing by his appearance he’s out on the streets since the shelter has a strict ban against alcohol and drugs while in residence.

Sarah helps him up onto the exam table and I approach. “Good morning, Joe. I’m Dr. Montreaux. I understand you’re experiencing some issues with your leg.”

Slowly lifting his bloodshot eyes to meet mine, Joe grunts in confirmation. “Yeah, Doc. It’s been killing me,” he admits, wincing as he shifts uncomfortably.

“Can you show me what’s bothering you?” I ask calmly.

Joe hesitates for a moment before slowly rolling up his pant leg to reveal a grotesquely swollen and discolored limb from the knee down. The skin is tight and glossy, with patches of angry red and purple with one area rubbed raw with an open wound.

“Joe, this looks quite serious,” I state firmly yet empathetically. “This swelling and discoloration could indicate a bacterial infection known as cellulitis. It needs treatment and it’s bad enough, I think a trip to the hospital would be warranted.”

But Joe shakes his head stubbornly. “No hospitals, Doc. I just can’t do it.”

I understand the fear and reluctance many homeless individuals harbor toward healthcare, as well as their reluctance to leave the streets. Joe is likely worried about losing access to the alcohol he needs to avoid withdrawals.

“Okay, Joe,” I say softly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I won’t force you to go, but please understand that this is a serious matter. I will do my best to treat it here, but it is not a good substitute for what they can do for you in the hospital.”

“Do what you can, Doc. I’ll be fine.”

I seriously doubt that, but I force myself to let it go. One of the things I had to learn early on as a doctor is that I cannot force people to do the right thing. I can only advise and treat as best I can.

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