Yesterday was just a travel day.  But it turned out to be magic.

We are (still, as I write this) headed to Vancouver by way of Victoria for a wedding and delivering our W’fer, Lina, to her new digs at the local hostel in downtown Vic.   I had scheduled an appointment in Campbell River to attend to on my way out.   Time: 12:30.  Everything was timed to the half-hour and, as we had successfully caught the intended ferry, we were right on schedule for what was going to be a very long day.  And I showed up at exactly 12:30.

The receptionist looked at me and I asked for the fellow.  “Sorry”, she said, “he’s not here.  Did you have an appointment?” 

“Yes.  For 12:30.  Booked a week ago.  Confirmed two days ago.  E-mailed confirmation again yesterday.” 

“Oh!  I’ll call him.” She did and reported that he would make it in about half an hour. 

I glowered.  I was not happy.  But, as this was a favour for a friend, I said, “I’ll wait.” 

“I know you!”


“I don’t think so”, I said.  “I live on a remote island”.


“Did you use to live in Vancouver?” 


“Yes.  Grew up on the Eastside.” 


“I used to hang out on the Eastside.  I was on skid row for a couple of years.  I was a pretty strung-out heroin addict in my twenties.” 


“I used to run the Downtown Clinic on Cordova Street when I was in my twenties.  How old are you?” 


“61.  And I remember you.  I remember your face from the clinic.  I used to go there a lot.  Sometimes two or three times a week.  I was pretty skinny and sick back then.” 

I was staring at a woman my age, well dressed, nice hair, pleasant smile.  She had a matronly figure and she was looking at me like she knew me.  I didn’t have a clue as to who she was.  Not a flicker of recognition.  I didn’t know what to say.

But the phone rang and she answered it and I used the interruption to go outside.  And I tried to remember.  Names came up.  Scenes reappeared.  The general feel and smell of the place all returned.  It was a mixed feeling.

The Downtown Clinic was in the heart of skid row.  It was a very busy place.  Think: field hospital very near the front line in a battle still heavily engaged.  But it wasn’t large.  I had 34 staff in about 3000 square feet of space.  We saw as many as 400 people a day.  Names, faces and dates were blurry even at the time.  We were working in constant daily chaos.  It was ugly.     

And it burned me out after just a smidge over four years.

When I decided to leave, I didn’t linger long over the decision.  The last few months there were lived ‘on edge’.  I was exhausted.  A bit angry.  More than a little depressed.  I hated it.  I felt as if I had wasted my time there for the most part.   What was different?  What was the point?   I had no answers.  Even though there were a few survivors amongst the slaughter, I had no feelings for the place by then and even less for the poor souls who frequented it.  Bombing skid row seemed like the only alternative to the mass of disease and misery that overwhelmed us every day.  It was so bloody hopeless.

I didn’t even try to remember it.   

But there she was.  Happy, healthy and, clearly, she remembered me.  Maybe we had made some sort of difference, after all. 

All of a sudden I felt like going back in to the office.  I was no longer ticked off that the guy was late.  I had been given a chance to look into my past a bit and it looked a little better than I had remembered it.  I walked back in.

She got out from behind her desk and came towards me smiling and holding out her hand.  I instinctively held out my arms.  She and I hugged for at least a minute.

Yes, there were a few tears.

We spoke some more.  Remembered a few mutual ‘acquaintances’.  Talked a bit about life.  My appointment came in and I went to my meeting.  Before she left for her lunch, she interrupted us and said, “Sorry.  I just had to tell David  to come again.  He made my day!” 

We held hands for a second, “You made mine.”