Montezuma Street
There were times when what happened at the hospital followed me all the way home to where I lived on Montezuma Street, which was on the north side of Bernal Heights. We had incredible views of the Mission District spread out before us, the Castro and Twin Peaks and a small red tip of the Golden Gate Bridge to the left, downtown and Coit Tower and the Bay Bridge in the distance, San Francisco General Hospital to the right.
I could see the AIDS ward from my bedroom window and when I was on the unit I could see my apartment from the Elizabeth Taylor Lounge. It was a 20-minute walk back and forth from the hospital to home, through the Mission District with streets that had odd names for San Francisco’s largest Mexican neighborhood. Hampsire, York, Florida, Alabama, Balmy, Lucky, Treat, Folsom, Shotwell, Virgil. Since we lived high up on Bernal Hill, my morning walk to the unit began easily, as my body moved down the Stoneman Stairs and across Precita Park. When I came home at the end of my shift, the last five minutes were straight up hill, and I’d have to stop and catch my breath.
On some days, no matter how hard I tried, what I’d seen and heard on the ward had me in its grip and wouldn’t let go. I’d take deep breaths as I walked home, trying to release the images I’d seen and the sounds I’d heard. Sometimes I’d purposefully leave the concrete sidewalk and feel the hard earth of Precita Park. Once, after an especially terrible death, I took my shoes off and walked on the damp ground, but it didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
My therapist pointed out that being able see the hospital from home underscored how everything I was experiencing there followed me through all my days and nights. I’d forget at times, not what was happening in those rooms on the 5th floor, but the impact that it had on anyone who asked me how I was, so I got better at not talking about my job and the intensity of what I’d seen and heard and felt there.