I got nothin’

Daughter and I turned down the sweets aisle intent on choosing a treat for afters. I averted my eyes from the blocks of chocolate—there has been too much chocolate in my world this week—and thought instead of childhood lollies.

My nose wrinkled. Odd to smell something off in such an aisle. Is it even possible for chocolate and sugar to go off?

Then I noticed a lady trying to decide which sweetie she would enjoy later. She was a little dishevelled. Her bags were sat on the floor around her as she quietly debated the merits of one sugar against another, muttering her arguments under her breath.

I smiled, understanding the dilemma of choosing.

And then it came to me. The smell was her. She was unwashed and had to have been for some time, like a wet toddler in need of a bath. She was unwell. Unaware or unable to adequately care for herself.

A man backed away, deciding that there were other things he might snack on.

As Daughter and I chose our treats, I tried to think what I could do to ease this woman’s suffering.

Could I pay for her groceries? We weren’t at the check out so that would be weird: ‘excuse me, ma’am, I notice you smell, can I pay for your groceries?’

Could I take her home and tend to her needs? No. I’ve been low-level unwell myself this week. Hubby calls it ‘not being yourself’. We are starting to recognise my PTSD and its different presentations.

So, no. I couldn’t bring her into my home without the risk of triggering my already fragile sense of safety. My home is absolutely my safe place, a place to rest and renew. A spontaneous stranger in need of care in my home, while appearing the “right” thing to do, will not be helped if I go under.

And there is the little issue of this lady’s autonomy and dignity. She might not want the care of strangers and the implied shame of her current situation.

So at 7pm, with a packet of retro-sweets in my hand, I was at a loss. Daughter and I went and paid for our dessert and walked to collect our hot chips from the fish and chip shop.

‘Did you see that lady?’ I asked. Daughter nodded. ‘I hope she has somewhere to sleep tonight. It’s going to be cold.’ We shared a grim nod, looking at the cloudless night sky.

‘I didn’t know what to do.’

We walked in silence.

I often find myself shrugging in hopelessness, saying ‘I got nothin’. But, usually, I say it in a jokey way. Not this time.

This morning, Paramedic Hubby, home from a night shift in a nearby town, listened to my tale of privileged helplessness.

‘It’s more frequent than you know’, he explained.

‘I just hope she had a house to go to,’ I said.

‘Not just a house. Adequate housing. She might not have any water or heating and that is why she can’t manage to wash.’

Adequate housing.

Inequality in my very own town. Not just that my house is bigger than yours but that my house has heating and hot water so that I can shower as many times a day as I like and yours does not, so you don’t wash at all because it is just too cold.

And you comfort yourself in the warm supermarket choosing sweets but you have to think carefully about it because you don’t have much money so you are going for the thing that will, for a moment, bring you the most comfort, take your mind off this life of yours, and maybe remind you of happier times.

Sweets for this lady, alcohol for that one.