But still, they slip through, even if only for a short time.

Years ago, my partner and I were sent on a call to cover our Mental Health Car, a unit pairing of a police officer and a mental health nurse.  They were checking up on a patient who had been deemed ‘appropriate for outside living’ as long as he was monitored bi-weekly.  The unit had received a call from the building manager of the rooming house where the man lived, complaining of the weird noises and smell coming from the man’s room.

Upon our arrival at the front desk, it was clear the manager was glad to see all of us.  He further explained that he had not been able to get John (not his real name, but it’ll do for this post) to answer his door in the last several days.  With only a sink and no toilet facilities in the room, the manager said the reek coming out from the room was horrible.

John’s room was up two flights of stairs in the T of a long hallway and as we approached my partner turned to me, his nose wrinkled in disgust.  We were still 20 ft from John’s door and the manager was right – the stench was awful and I feared John might be dead.

We gathered outside and stood quiet for a few moments.  From the other side of the door was a faint buzzing, like a radio tuned to static.  The nurse knocked and called out John’s name.  The only answer was the muffled shuffle of something moving along the floor, so the nurse knocked again.  Nothing.  Just another bump.

Taking the key from the manager, one of us unlocked the door, calling out John’s name and telling him we were the Mental Health Car and the police.  As the door swung open the stench from inside exploded out in a black cloud.  Flies.  Hundreds of them.

Not a good sign.  So imagine the look my partner gave me when a man’s voice croaked out from inside the room.

John was very much alive.

Tucked into a corner, sitting with his knees bent up to his chin, was John.  He looked to have been in the same spot for days; the floor beneath him was stained with urine and feces.  His were clothes stiff and filthy.  Flies buzzed about him, alighting on his arms and face.  The room was in complete disarray, with food rotting in the sink, garbage littered everywhere, and what must have been a honey bucket, tipped over and spilling it’s rancid contents across the floor in a splash.  I had never seen such conditions before (or since), and that someone could actually survive for days was a wonder of human tenacity.

The nurse, paying no attention to the smell, went forward, bending low so as not to startle John.  The nurse was a big man with a gentle spirit, and he softened his deep tenor voice to speak soothing words to John.  In the same way music tames a wild beast, his voice had the same effect on John, and John’s eyes blinked alive.

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The smell of death ingrains itself into your skin, your hair, and your clothing.  Even after a shower and a change of clothes, the odor of decaying flesh lingers in your sinuses.  In this case, John was still with us, and was transported to a hospital for treatment of the gangrenous wounds to his legs caused by poor health and hygiene.

I drove home that night, deep in thought about the future of humanity when such atrocities exist among us.  John had slipped through the cracks.

We must do better by one another.

We must.

Having worked a few fill-in shifts on the officer side of the team, I witnessed first hand the compassion and understanding the nurses showed to those with mental health issues.  On one night, the nurse had several patients on his list to follow-up with, and we were working our way around the city.  The nurse’s cell phone rang, and it was an urgent request to follow up with a woman who had just called into the crisis line, threatening suicide.

We went to the address provided, where we found the woman.  She was clearly in distress, crying and sobbing, telling us she didn’t want to live.  There were fresh scrapes on both of her wrists, and even though the marks were superficial, they were a good indicator of how the woman was feeling.  The Car 87 nurse talked with her at length, but no amount of encouragement could convince the woman to come with us to the hospital voluntarily.  She did not want to go, and told us that when we left her, she would kill herself.

That’s where the Mental Health Act came into play.  Once I explained what my apprehension powers were under the MHA, and that the decision of whether or not she should go to the hospital had been taken out of both of our hands, the woman reluctantly agreed to be transported.  She was taken to the hospital in an ambulance, where she was admitted to receive the care and follow-up she needed.

That incident ended peacefully, but not all such calls end with the patient walking themselves out to the ambulance.  Sometimes, the patient has gone un-medicated for days and needs to be restrained.  Other times, the patient is angry, hostile and aggressive, and it takes several officers to load the person into a waiting ambulance.  But in every case where I have seen this happen, the Car 87 nurse has always remained as the ’safe person’, continuing to show kindness, compassion and gentle caring to the patient who often does not understand what is happening.  Being a Car 87 nurse is a job that takes a special type of person, and I am thankful for their expertise.