Part III Nowhere to Go

This part of the story will cover the period of October 14, 2023 – May 9, 2024.

Part One The Logistics of Survival

The Un-Routine

The days blended into each other. We quickly settled into a routine.

8 am -12 pm The shelter closed at 8 am. Everyone had to leave. I’d be there in the car, waiting for Spencer to emerge. I would have breakfast prepared for him, or we would go get him an Egg McMuffin. Then we would park at the Auburn library and wait. Wait for the library to open, so that Spencer had somewhere warm and safe to stay without me. There were so many ways Spencer could get in trouble. I rarely left him alone, except when he could stay at the library or the shelter. Spencer was living in psychosis and had almost no appreciation for consequences. He was impulsive, simultaneously paranoid and trusting of strangers, and unable to recognize danger. Keeping him company wasn’t about hovering. It was about getting him safely to noon. The library was one of the few places where Spencer could spend several hours indoors without having to buy anything or explain himself. Until the doors opened, there was nowhere else for him to be.

The morning hours passed so slowly. I slept a lot. I had a particular fleece cheetah print blanket that I could bunch up into a pillow. I slept while Spencer smoked and watched YouTube videos on my phone. He had, by then, lost so many phones that I simply couldn’t afford to keep up. This made communication very difficult, which was why we had a regular routine. He smoked so much in my car that year that when I finally got around to cleaning it, I had to use a kitchen scrubby with dish soap to remove the nicotine residue from the car windows. We hung out in the car until the library opened.

But Spencer never wanted to get out of my car. He always wanted one last song, or all of a sudden he was hungry and needed lunch before I could leave and go home to Ricky, or his back hurt and he needed more time. The negotiations over when Spencer would leave my car could stretch on for over an hour. At the same time, I knew my car was home to Spencer. It was the only place where he could sit and relax. Where he could let down his guard. Where he felt safe. It was a terrible clashing of my needs and his.

Around noon, I would be free to return home to Ricky. Spencer would sleep in the library. As the weather improved, he would wander the park nearby. At 1 pm, the shelter would open for drop-in hours. This gave Spencer somewhere else to go. At 5:30 pm, I would leave for my second shift of the day. I met Spencer outside the shelter at 6 pm. Sometimes he wasn’t there and I would have to go look for him at the library or the park. The librarians were kind and could sometimes point me in the right direction if they had seen Spencer around. One way or another, Spencer and I would find each other, then would begin the long evening sitting in my car waiting for the shelter to open at 9 pm.

Getting Spencer to the shelter on time was a constant source of worry and struggle. At first, it was the problem of getting in line and hoping for a spot. Spencer wasn’t capable of standing in line by himself, you see. He would wander away. So he waited in the car with me.

During the last couple of months he stayed at Arcadia, the staff made an accommodation for this, and allowed me to “check in” for Spencer via text. This was wonderful because it ensured that he always got a bed. But it pushed the problem an hour later, because Spencer had to get to the shelter by 10 pm in order to be allowed in for the night. So instead of me nagging him to get there to line up, I had to nag him to get him there in time to stay at all. Spencer had a particular need to push the envelope as far as it could possibly go, and then some. He always needed to know where the edges were.

Finally, at 10 pm, after watching Spencer walk in the door of the shelter, I was free to go home for the night.

Only to get up and do it all over again the next day.

Sleeping in the car

Sometimes we would get to the shelter too late and there wasn’t a bed. Those were the hardest nights. At first, I used a credit card to buy Spencer a night at a hotel. After it maxed out, we typically slept in my car. I couldn’t leave him alone to sleep on the street. There were too many ways for Spencer to get into trouble. And I couldn’t leave him to sleep alone. He couldn’t be trusted with my car – even without the keys – unsupervised. The only solution was for me to sleep there with him. We would sleep in the library parking lot. I would sleep in the driver’s seat, leaning back, swathed in my cheetah print fleece blanket. Spencer would curl up in the back seat with a pillow. In winter, I would leave the car running at times during the night, just to stay warm. I developed the habit of locking and re-locking the car over and over again throughout the night.

One morning, after a difficult night in which Spencer had raged until 1 am, wanting a hotel room, I woke at 7 am and walked to the gas station to use the restroom and buy a hot coffee. When I came back, I found that the bag of trash we had left next to our car had been picked up, presumably by the library cleaning staff. It was a small gesture that meant a lot. We were not invisible. Our suffering mattered.

Spending all that time in the car, we encountered a lot of unique situations, at least from my perspective as someone who has always been housed. There was the time we saw a man shoved out the door of a moving vehicle on Auburn Way South. The time Spencer was sitting in the front passenger seat with his window rolled down. A young man approached and started asking about “blues.” Spencer rolled up the window in his face, mid-sentence. The young man who showed us the gun in his waistband, pointed to a group of other youth standing across the parking lot, and asked if we wanted anything. The man who approached us one dark winter evening, asking if we could give him a jump.

The Saturday morning in early spring. I remember the trees in the Auburn library parking lot were flowering. Spencer experienced some kind of hallucination and burst out of the car, screaming at a young man and his girlfriend nearby. That altercation almost turned violent. Fortunately, passers-by were able to grab hold of the young man as he came at Spencer with a large rock in his hand. I just never knew what to expect.

The Night I Picked Him Up At Chevron and other Unexpected Events

The late night phone calls. During those years, unknown numbers were never just unknown numbers. They might be a police officer, a social worker, a stranger, or Spencer himself calling from someone else’s phone.

One night I left him to wait for the shelter to open. I went home and went to bed early, grateful for a night off. At 1:20 am my phone rang. An unfamiliar number. It was a stranger calling me at Spencer’s behest. The shelter had been full, he had wandered away in search of pho and found himself lost in the middle of the night. He did not know where he was. “It’s a gas station,” he said into the stranger’s phone. The woman explained where to find him and I did pick him up. The problem, at 2 am, was where to go from here. We were lucky in that my aunt had a spare room at the time. She allowed us to come in the middle of the night and settle in until morning. Honestly, it was little mercies like that that kept me going.

Another time, I had just gotten home. It was early evening in winter-time – already dark outside. My phone rang. An unfamiliar number. My stomach tightened. I answered and heard the unmistakable whooshing sound of traffic in the background. “DO YOU KNOW SOMEONE NAMED SPENCER?” a man shouted at the other end of the line. Spencer had taken the bus. I do not recall where it was he wanted to go, but he had no idea which bus to take and got on one at random. In this case, he’d traveled all the way to the International District in downtown Seattle. Not having a phone, he’d accosted passers-by for help until this man had taken pity and decided to help. God bless that man. I shouted back, “TELL HIM I WILL FIND HIM AT UWAJIMAYA!” Then I hopped in the car and drove, against traffic, to downtown Seattle. We found each other, by the grace of God, and drove all the way back home.

A third time I remember happened in early spring. It was evening. Spencer and I were passing time in my car in the Auburn library parking lot. A girl walked past. Spencer knew her. He got out of the car and told me to go home for the night. I clarified with him that they were going to spend the evening together and that he would get in line for the shelter at 8 pm. I had my doubts about this situation. I had the distinct sense that this night would go awry. Which it did. Another late night phone call, this time from a 7-11 on R Street. The shelter had been full, he said, and so they had gone for a walk. Spencer wanted a hotel room. I refused. He raged, but eventually gave out because his alternative was the sidewalk.

To this day, my heart skips a beat when I get a call like that, from an unknown number or No Caller ID.

Part Two Rainbow

It was 8 am in late October. Cold and rainy. One of his first mornings at the shelter. I was waiting with the car running when Spencer emerged and threw himself into the front passenger seat to escape the rain. “Rainbow” by Kacey Musgraves was playing on the radio. Video and lyrics here.

He listened to the song. Time stood still. I had an inkling – call it mother’s intuition – that the lyrics might evoke an emotional reaction. He had been through so much, and Spencer, in particular, was someone who struggled with change. I watched him carefully. His face crumpled. He started sobbing. I grabbed his hand and encouraged him, in my best Authoritative Mom voice, to hold on:

“This is temporary, Spencer. We have been through hard times before. We will get through this.”

He continued to weep. All I could do was sit in silence with him, willing him to be able to feel my love wrap around him. Mirror neurons and all…

The song ended. Spencer wiped his face and blew his nose on his shirt sleeve. He didn’t say a word. He couldn’t, really. By that point, psychosis had stolen his ability to talk about what he was feeling. We drove away.

For a long time, I wondered how much of those months Spencer remembered. He was so deeply psychotic that I sometimes questioned whether he understood what was happening around him.

Recently, he answered that question for me. We were talking about the time he was homeless when he looked at me with something like wonder and said,

“You came every day.”

Maybe he couldn’t tell me what the song meant to him. Maybe he couldn’t explain why he cried that morning. But I know this: he remembers that he wasn’t alone.

Part Three Joel’s Law

Part three, if I want to stay chronological, should be Spencer’s hospitalization in October-November 2023. I don’t remember the exact dates. This is unusual for me, but I wonder if it’s because the experience itself was so very forgettable. Here’s what happened: As soon as Spencer became homeless, I put in another referral to the DCRs. They met with him at the shelter and, again, found that he did not meet their criteria for involuntary treatment. I filed a Joel’s law petition. The judge granted it and ordered Spencer’s arrest. His next police contact, a few days later, landed him in the emergency room at Auburn Multicare hospital. I was ecstatic. Surely, now, Spencer would get the help he needed. He stayed about two weeks. He was discharged back to the shelter with two prescription bottles. He declined to continue his medications and promptly lost both of them.

Part Four “Thank you”

February 5, 2024. 8 am.

I remember picking up Spencer that morning. He flung himself into the front passenger seat with more force than usual. I was scrolling on my phone and heard him breathing heavily. Curious and a little concerned, I looked over at him. His nose was running. There was a red spot on his left cheekbone. He was staring at the door to the shelter with a particular intensity.

“Did you get in a fight?!”

Spencer did not answer me. That was enough of an answer. I tried calling the shelter but there was no answer. I had no choice but to drive over to the library and continue our usual routine.

A little while later, we were sitting in the car facing away from the library toward the giant crow statue. There was still mist in the air and dew on the grass. I was watching the news on my phone and Spencer was sitting in the back seat with the tablet. I looked up and saw a teenage boy of slight build approaching our car. He walked around to Spencer’s side and knocked on the window. Spencer rolled it down.

“I wanted to say thanks,” the boy said.

Spencer nodded.

“Are you barred?” he asked.

Spencer shrugged in reply.

I was alarmed as the young man turned and walked away toward the bus stop. Again I questioned Spencer, but could get nothing out of him. He was beyond my reach.

February 5, 2024. 1:12 pm.

I saved that voicemail for the longest time. Leaving an appointment, I saw the notification on my phone and my heart sank. There it was. The call telling me he couldn’t come back. That he was barred forever for fighting. I listened to the message. Keith, Spencer’s Arcadia case manager, was on the other end. His voice was different. Hesitant, as if he were searching for the right words. Spencer was not barred, he said. In fact they were pleased to welcome Spencer back that very night. It was only later, with C’s help (who knew everything there was to know about everything at Arcadia) that I pieced together what had transpired:

That morning, while getting ready to go, an older youth had threatened the younger boy – the boy who had stopped by our car to thank Spencer. Spencer, who never talked, had stepped forward and invited the older youth to attack him instead. He obliged and a fight ensued until shelter staff were able to intervene. The older youth was barred but Spencer was allowed to stay, because he hadn’t instigated it.

Part Five What to do With Spencer?

Spencer stayed at the shelter for over six months. It took the staff awhile to figure out what to do with him; that the normal work they required from shelter youth was beyond Spencer’s level of functioning. After several months, they determined that they would report him to Adult Protective Services. I do not recall how that played out. I don’t think I was ever told. He wasn’t taken into care so clearly APS chose not to act.

I tried again to apply for long term care . DSHS called me a few days after I submitted his application. I clarified that Spencer was homeless and stayed at Arcadia shelter at night. It turns out, they were unable to help. In order to access long term care, the state must conduct an assessment in the individual’s home environment. The assessment is a prerequisite for care. But when an individual is homeless, they do not have a home environment, and thus they must be housed before an assessment can be done. All I remember is crying on the phone in the library parking lot. I couldn’t call in front of Spencer, you see. So I was standing in the parking lot just stunned at the absurdity of the situation. The DCRs wouldn’t take Spencer because he didn’t meet their criteria. He couldn’t live independently. He couldn’t live around “normal” folk without getting trespassed for erratic behavior. The state long term care program wasn’t accessible. There was literally nowhere for Spencer to go.

Part Six Spencer is Accepted at Phoenix Rising

April 13, 2024

This was the day. Six months to the day from when Spencer first became homeless, I found out there was an end in sight.

It was 6:00 pm. I was waiting for Spencer to come out of the shelter. He emerged, followed closely by Keith. Spencer jumped into the backseat. I rolled down my window as Keith approached the car. He had a huge smile on his face.

“Spencer’s been accepted at Phoenix Rising,” he exclaimed.

I was stunned. We had discussed the idea of Phoenix Rising previously but Spencer didn’t meet one of their criteria. Keith had applied anyway.

We soon found out from the staff at Phoenix Rising that they needed a copy of Spencer’s ID as part of the intake process. The problem was, he had long ago lost any ID he’d ever had. This meant Spencer needed to get a new one. As soon as possible. My heart sank upon hearing this. Spencer lived in his own world. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, without regard for any goal I might have for him. I would not be able to convince Spencer of the necessity of waiting at the DMV full of people. I had to tread lightly with him. He would become angry if I pushed him too hard to do something. I didn’t know how I was going to orchestrate this miracle. Undeterred, I did some research and found out one could make an appointment there. I found what appeared to be the least busy DMV and made an appointment.

Thursday April 18, 2024

The day of Spencer’s DMV appointment. I was on tenterhooks. I had tried to anticipate what might get in the way of making it to his appointment on time. I’d brought him lunch. I’d made sure he had his smokes. We arrived thirty minutes early. I parked away from any other cars, knowing Spencer would need time for a final smoke. Everything was going according to plan. Five minutes before his appointment, I got out of the car. Spencer sat still, smoking. I walked around to his car door and opened it, frankly begging him by then. He got out. Thank you, God. He ambled along behind me as I walked toward the entrance to the building. I walked inside and checked him in. They called his name. He was still outside smoking. In front of the window. Right next to the “NO SMOKING” sign. I begged them to wait and ran outside to get him. He only obliged after one last drag on his cigarette.

Getting him inside turned out to be the only hard part. Once in front of the clerk, he followed instructions and got his picture taken without mishap. I paid. The fee for the ID card was prohibitive. Fortunately, Spencer’s dad saved the day and fronted the money.

Mission accomplished.

Part Seven Moving Day

May 9, 2024 was a complicated day. Spencer had to be at PXR to sign his lease at 10 am. Ricky had an appointment at the same day and time. My mom helped. She drove Spencer to Phoenix Rising with the household supplies he would need: bedding, towels, shower curtain, toilet paper, etc. Once he signed the lease, staff would help Spencer move his belongings into his new room. This was all pre-arranged since I couldn’t be there. It was maddening to not know what was happening.

Around noon Ricky and I were walking out of his appointment. I thought to call Ms. J, Spencer’s PXR case manager, to check in and find out how the move went. Spencer, of course, didn’t have a phone. But before I could do that, my phone rang. It was Ms. J. I needed to come, she said. I dropped Ricky off at home and drove to Phoenix Rising. Spencer was waiting in front of the office when I pulled up. He didn’t say anything, but promptly climbed in my car and pulled up YouTube on my phone. This was self-soothing behavior, I had noticed. J was waiting by the door watching Spencer as I approached. She invited me into her office. I don’t remember her exact words, but the gist of our conversation was that Spencer was too severe to live here. Residents, she explained, were expected to keep their room clean, shop and prepare food, and pay rent on time. All of this was beyond Spencer. She was frustrated with the situation because, she said, the shelter staff should have known. I never told her this, but after six months, I think the staff there had exhausted their options with Spencer and applied to PXR out of desperation. This was my own opinion which I kept to myself. J had to consult with Arcadia staff. It was decided that Spencer would spend that night at the shelter. I walked out of the meeting not knowing whether Spencer had a place to live anymore.