“This is the first time I feel like someone has listened to me”
The relationship between bereavement and homelessness The relationship between bereavement and homelessness Catherine and Karita both work with clients who are dealing with death; someone else’s, or their own. It’s often the first time in years clients have been asked what they want. Karita Razzell Everybody deserves a good death, everybody deserves to be treated with dignity at the end of their lives, to be able to die peacefully according to how they choose – just as you’d hope someone you loved would. My role is to help clients get the care that they need as they approach the end of their lives. I remember as we started encouraging clients to start thinking about their future wishes, some said, “What’s the point? It’s never going to be listened to. Nobody is ever going to care what I want.” People experiencing homelessness are not used to having their wishes respected. So the theme that runs through both our jobs is allowing our clients’ voices to be heard and listening to them. One thing people don’t realise about homelessness is that it ages you. The average age of death for people experiencing homelessness is the early forties: as I get older as a stably housed person I’m likely to experience frailty, falls, incontinence or memory difficulties – fingers crossed I’ll be at least 80 before that sort of stuff comes my way. But our clients experience those things a lot younger in life, perhaps in their forties, even without a life-limiting illness like cancer or kidney disease. Clients often die from a complex health condition they don’t know they’ve got. A smear test is not high on your to-do list when you’re struggling with all the other things associated with homelessness. My role is pretty rare. No other homelessness organisation has a role dedicated to helping people die well. People either think my job is depressing or that I’m an angel. Neither is true! But supporting people to experience a good death while being looked after, respected, with their friends and not on the streets, that’s what makes me feel good at the end of the day. “My role is pretty rare. No other homelessness organisation has a role dedicated to helping people die well.” Karita Catherine Hedges I think it’s important to acknowledge the link between homelessness and bereavement. I’m a trained counsellor and help clients process their grief. They’re often historical losses that they haven’t managed to come to terms with, which is often a contributing factor to them losing their home. It might be that, for example, the parents have the house in their name, pass away, the son is living there and has no right to that property, so they’re made homeless that way. Or it might be that they lose their home because of the emotional fallout of grief, where they’ve not had the funds or mental capacity at that moment to pay bills. I’m working with a woman who was in that situation. Slowly her water, gas and electric got turned off and eventually she was evicted. So loss and homelessness are closely intertwined. As far as I know, we’re the only homelessness charity that offers this service. A lot of our clients who have grief use alcohol to block it out. Dates and anniversaries of deaths are often crucial to relapses, so having this kind of support is really helpful to people and their recovery. Often if someone they know has died because of drug or alcohol use they think, ‘I can’t believe it’s not me’, or ‘What if I’m next?’ There’s a lot of survival guilt. One client sticks in my mind. He was in his sixties, and his 19-year-old son passed away. He couldn’t cope, didn’t pay the rent and got evicted. He slept rough for a couple of weeks on Clapham Common before he was found by St Mungo’s and supported. In our sessions, he said “I haven’t grieved or processed it. I was taught you don’t talk about your feelings.” We talked about how he could process his grief and he was adamant that he wouldn’t. But two sessions before we were due to finish he said, “I’ve had a lightbulb moment: It will always be sad and that’s ok.” Then he moved out and was suddenly really hopeful about life in a way he hadn’t been before. His emotions weren’t scary anymore. I think it’s important to acknowledge the link between homelessness and bereavement.” Catherine Our clients have rarely felt heard or listened to, and their opinions aren’t often considered. 85% of our clients have experienced severe childhood trauma, so having anyone listen to and take you seriously and allow you space to process it can be very powerful. They often say “This is the first time I feel like someone’s listened to me”. Other articles from this issue
How gardening helps recovery
How gardening helps recovery from homelessness How gardening helps recovery Clients spend two years in the Putting Down Roots program, tending the garden a few days a week – and the results are astonishing, says Gardener Trainer Rubyjo Narbey. I feel I’ve got the best job at St Mungo’s. I’ve been a Gardener Trainer for the past 9 years, during which I’ve supported 180 clients. That may not seem like a lot, but it’s one of the longest recovery programs: they stay for two years, learning how to garden two or three days a week. Once they finish, they don’t want to go! Putting Down Roots is about bringing people together, bringing them out of their home situations whether they’re in hostels, their own flats, or in recovery in dry houses, they can come and just be themselves. It’s a very non-judgmental group. Really great friendships have formed; there’s so much peer support. The first thing we do is ask what they like to eat; we’re not going to grow brussels sprouts if they don’t like them. They choose, sow the seeds, grow them and eat them. Cucumbers and tomatoes are popular choices, spinach, chard – sweetcorn is always really popular. When we get a good crop we pick it, boil it and eat it right there. Everyone goes wild for it. “Putting Down Roots is about bringing people together.” Rubyjo I absolutely love seeing how people change. When people first come they’re shy and anxious. Often they haven’t laughed for a long time, haven’t been able to let go and be themselves; but nobody has to be anything but themselves here. Sometimes it takes a while to learn that. We see how their confidence grows, the anxiety lessens, and we have fun. A lot of them have worked, they may have been bricklayers or accountants, and for whatever reason they’ve become homeless, so it’s about bringing people’s different skill sets out from their pasts. People’s mental health improves from being outside and having structure back in their lives, and people in recovery can sustain their abstinence better. If they do relapse, we phone them and say, “Come on back, you’re not going to be judged”. I think the biggest thing is they feel part of a community again. On the streets you’re ostracised and ignored. But here they’re creating something from seemingly nothing and they’re so proud of it – and they’ve got every right to be. The fact that it lasts two years is important because you get two years of growing seasons, you see the cycle of life and the bulbs coming through, and every week you come back and see what’s changed. And when a plant fails, that’s life. We had one client referred to us from our men’s crisis house; he had a professional background and something happened in his family that led to a complete breakdown. When he arrived he was like a mouse, he would hardly speak. He came back every couple of days and then started being a bit more open, talking, taking an interest in other people. After about 18 months we asked if he’d like to be a volunteer. He was brilliant, so empathetic and took on all the new clients and taught them what he’d learned. He now works full-time as a support manager at a mental health service here in Bristol. One client was living in a tent when he started with us. He’d be early for every session and take stuff back to his tent to cook. They come away with a certificate in horticulture. Some have gone onto gardening jobs, or their own allotments. But mostly, the change we see in people’s confidence is what makes this such an invaluable program. People are like little closed buds when they turn up, and leave fully blossomed. Wilkins, 62, takes part in the London Putting Down Roots programme and says, “The joy of planting tomatoes and witnessing their growth, knowing I’ll eventually harvest them, instils a profound sense of achievement in me. Engaging in such meaningful activities alongside others fosters a sense of camaraderie and support, turning what could be solitary moments into cherished opportunities for connection and encouragement from the facilitators and colleagues.” “Engaging in such meaningful activities alongside others fosters a sense of camaraderie and support, turning what could be solitary moments into cherished opportunities for connection.” Wilkins Other articles from this issue
Laser’s story
Laser’s story Laser’s story Laser* had to leave her family home after suffering honour-based violence. Like the majority of homeless women in Britain, she avoided rough sleeping at all costs, and resorted to sofa-surfing before she was referred to St Mungo’s. I suffered honour-based violence, and left because I couldn’t deal with it. I don’t think anyone deserves to deal with that. I found myself on my best friend’s floor, lying on a blowup mattress thinking, “What am I going to do?”. I never had to sleep rough thank goodness, it’s quite scary to be in the situation of even thinking of doing that. I have really supportive friends who understood what I’d been going through at home, so when I made the decision to leave they supported it. If anything, the decision to couch surf came from them. I said “What am I going to do now?” and they’d say, “What do you mean? You’re going to sleep exactly where you’re sitting. And if you can’t come to my house you’ll go to so-and-so’s house.” So for about two months, four or five different friends let me couch surf. But they have kids, so I couldn’t stay long. Which is how I found myself in a Hackney service centre, sitting with all my bags and again wondering what I was going to do. That’s when Michelle Chapman walked in. I’m a proud Muslim, and I couldn’t believe it when this Scottish person greeted me with, “Saalam alaikum”. I said, “What did you say?!” It turned out that Michelle was Muslim too. Michelle introduced themself as being from St Mungo’s, and I told Michelle that I’d turned up to the service to present myself as homeless and that they’d told me to come back the next day, but I had nowhere to go. Without hesitation Michelle said, “Let’s get you sorted”. I’d never met this person before in my life, and they fought for me like they’d known me from birth. We didn’t leave that place until I got a set of keys. They put me in 24-hour accommodation, and then in the accommodation I’m in now. At first I was scared in the new place because it was mixed-sex. I slept with a knife under my pillow. The only way I could sleep was to call one of my friends and fall asleep on the phone to them, so that when I woke up I could just say, “Hey, are you up?” My friends are great people. Often I would try to get things sorted on my own, and end up calling Michelle because I was being dismissed. Michelle would call them – sorted. I’m five foot nothing and my voice doesn’t have much grit, I have PTSD (which was undiagnosed at the time), severe depression and anxiety so I can’t really speak as loudly or as quickly as I want to. Michelle fought for me. “I’d never met this person before in my life, and they fought for me like they’d known me from birth.” Laser Domestic violence of any kind leaves you with guilt, as if it’s your fault. But it isn’t. Even if you have done something wrong it should not equal that behaviour, and the only reason you feel guilt is because you would never do that to somebody else, so you automatically think you must deserve what’s happened. But you don’t. Now, that guilt and shame has grown to acceptance. No one can inflict pain on me because they have something going on with them. That lesson came from Michelle, although they insist they just brought it out of me. In a few weeks, I’m starting a new job in a hotel in Shoreditch, doing reception and admin work. I can say without Michelle I have no idea where I’d be. Michelle never closed the door, and I always knew they’d pick up the phone. I know Michelle would now if I called. Other articles from this issue
