Steven Block can’t remember much of his first day as a homeless person.
But somehow, he ended up in the lobby of the Coyote South on the Santa Fe strip.
The night clerk called Steven’s emergency contact, his brother-in-law Terrie Gulden, in Minnesota.
Terrie thought Steven, 69 at the time, was still in a nursing home in Taos, N.M.
“I had no idea what was happening,” Terrie said. He had no money, no papers. He was just out on the street.”
Steven fills the blank spaces left by dementia with stories. He told Terrie he went to the Coyote South for an all-expenses-paid resort weekend.
Steven’s older recollections are clearer. He can tell you all about growing up on his family’s farm in southwestern Minnesota.
He got married. He studied journalism at community college in Minnesota.
He moved into a bungalow in Raton, N.M, where he lined history books on shelves in a spare bedroom.
For more than 10 years he drove his Cadillac along the Old Santa Fe Trail and through the mountains to Trinidad, Colo., where he worked as a reporter for two community newspapers before retiring three years ago.
He was as much a fixture in the little town of Trinidad as the politicians he covered.
He speaks fondly of his ex-wife, Rosalie, who left him five years ago. He misses his old dog, Grace Elizabeth.
People said Steven drank too much.
Steven relates the twists that plunged him into crisis in a jumble of vivid stories. He said he was run over walking out of the newsroom one day.
There is no evidence that is true. The police report in Raton says he fell in his home and smashed into the dining room table sometime before noon on May 22, 2022.
An ambulance bill indicates he was taken to a small hospital in Raton then transferred to a bigger hospital in Albuquerque.
“He had a broken hip and shoulder,” Terrie said. “It was there that they first told me he had alcohol-induced dementia.”
Steven moved to the Taos Healthcare nursing home to heal.
It’s got a view of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range but low ratings from the federal government.
Steven would remain there almost eight months, burning through personal funds and then as a beneficiary of New Mexico Medicaid insurance.
Steven thinks he also worked there managing nursing aides on the night shift.
“The administrator looked through my records and said with my background, I could qualify for a supervisory job,” he said. “I was on staff 24 hours a day.”
Signs of trouble arose in January. The nursing home told Terrie it wanted to move Steven to a facility in Albuquerque, N.M., that allowed smoking.
But then it “discharged” Steven — that’s the nursing home industry lingo for evicted — on Jan. 31. Steven had no place to go.
“They put him on the street,” Terrie said.
Taos Healthcare did not respond to requests for comment. When Terrie complained later to the state, an official wrote back saying the facility operators acted appropriately. State officials declined to explain to The Washington Post how they reached that conclusion, citing Steven’s medical privacy rights.
No one can say how Steven made it to Santa Fe by that evening. A shuttle bus offers rides between the cities, but whether Steven boarded is unknown.
From the hotel, Santa Fe’s fire and rescue team gave Steven a ride to Consuelo’s Place, a homeless shelter, Terrie said.
Steven would stay there two weeks.
A Santa Fe firefighter brought Steven to the Albuquerque airport. Terrie met Steven there and accompanied him on a plane to Sioux Falls, S.D., the closest airport to their family in southwestern Minnesota.
“He looked like a person who had been homeless on the street forever,” Terrie said. “It just broke my heart.”
Steven’s plight is not an isolated case. In 2019, a quarter-million Americans over 55 spent some part of the year homeless.
The number of complaints to states alleging unfair nursing home evictions or transfers in 2021 was 10,359, according to federal data.
Steven is now living alone in an apartment in Worthington, Minn., where he watches ESPN and goes outside to smoke cigarettes. Family members help him get food and take him to medical appointments.
He’s bracing for his first full Minnesota winter in many years and not sure what comes next.
Steven Block can’t remember much of his first day as a homeless person.
But somehow, he ended up in the lobby of the Coyote South on the Santa Fe strip.
The night clerk called Steven’s emergency contact, his brother-in-law Terrie Gulden, in Minnesota.
Terrie thought Steven, 69 at the time, was still in a nursing home in Taos, N.M.
“I had no idea what was happening,” Terrie said. He had no money, no papers. He was just out on the street.”
Steven fills the blank spaces left by dementia with stories. He told Terrie he went to the Coyote South for an all-expenses-paid resort weekend.
Steven’s older recollections are clearer. He can tell you all about growing up on his family’s farm in southwestern Minnesota.
He got married. He studied journalism at community college in Minnesota.
He moved into a bungalow in Raton, N.M., where he lined history books on shelves in a spare bedroom.
For more than 10 years he drove his Cadillac along the Old Santa Fe Trail and through the mountains to Trinidad, Colo., where he worked as a reporter for two different community newspapers before retiring three years ago.
He was as much a fixture in the little town of Trinidad as the politicians he covered.
He speaks fondly of his ex-wife, Rosalie, who left him five years ago. He misses his old dog, Grace Elizabeth.
People said Steven drank too much.
Steven relates the twists that plunged him into crisis in a jumble of vivid stories. He said he was run over walking out of the newsroom one day.
There is no evidence that is true.
The police report in Raton says he fell in his home and smashed into the dining room table sometime before noon on May 22, 2022.
An ambulance bill indicates he was taken to a small hospital in Raton then transferred to a bigger hospital in Albuquerque.
“He had a broken hip and a shoulder,” Terrie said. “It was there that they first told me he had alcohol-induced dementia.”
Steven moved to the Taos Healthcare nursing home to heal.
It’s got a view of the surrounding Sangre de Cristo mountain range but low ratings from the federal government.
Steven would remain there almost eight months, burning through personal funds and then as a beneficiary of New Mexico Medicaid insurance.
Steven thinks he also worked there managing nursing aides on the night shift.
“The administrator looked through my records and said with my background, I could qualify for a supervisory job,” he said. “I was on staff 24 hours a day.”
Signs of trouble arose in January.
The nursing home told Terrie it wanted to move Steven to a facility in Albuquerque, N.M., that allowed smoking.
But then it “discharged” Steven — that’s the nursing home industry lingo for evicted — on Jan. 31. Steven had no place to go.
“They put him on the street,” Terrie said.
Taos Healthcare did not respond to requests for comment. When Terrie complained later to the state, an official wrote back saying the facility operators acted appropriately. State officials declined to explain to The Washington Post how they reached that conclusion, citing Steven’s medical privacy rights.
No one can say how Steven made it to Santa Fe by that evening. A shuttle bus offers rides between the cities, but whether Steven boarded is unknown.
From the hotel, Santa Fe’s fire and rescue team gave Steven a ride to Consuelo’s Place, a homeless shelter, Terrie said.
Steven would stay there two weeks.
A Santa Fe firefighter brought Steven to the Albuquerque airport. Terrie met Steven there and accompanied him on a plane to Sioux Falls, S.D., the closest airport to their family in southwestern Minnesota.
“He looked like a person who had been homeless on the street forever,” Terrie said. “It just broke my heart.”
Steven’s plight is not an isolated case. In 2019, a quarter-million Americans over 55 spent some part of the year homeless.
The number of complaints to states alleging unfair nursing home evictions or transfers in 2021 was 10,359, according to federal data.
Steven is now living alone in an apartment in Worthington, Minn., where he watches ESPN and goes outside to smoke cigarettes. Family members help him get food and take him to medical appointments.
He’s bracing for his first full Minnesota winter in many years and not sure what comes next.
Steven Block can’t remember much of his first day as a homeless person.
But somehow, he ended up in the lobby
of the Coyote South on the Santa Fe strip.
The night clerk called Steven’s emergency contact, his brother-in-law
Terrie Gulden, in Minnesota.
Terrie thought Steven, 69 at the time,
was still in a nursing home in Taos, N.M.
“I had no idea what was happening,” Terrie said. “He had no money, no papers.
He was just out on the street.”
Steven fills the blank spaces left by dementia with stories. He told Terrie later he went to the Coyote South for an all-expenses-paid resort weekend.
Steven’s older recollections are clearer. He can tell you all about growing up on his family’s farm in southwestern Minnesota.
He studied journalism
at community college
in Minnesota.
He moved into a bungalow in Raton, N.M. …
…where he lined history books on shelves in a spare bedroom.
For more than 10 years,
he drove his Cadillac along the Old Santa Fe Trail and through the mountains to Trinidad, Colo., where he worked as a reporter for two community newspapers before retiring three years ago.
He was as much a figure in the little town of Trinidad as the politicians he covered.
He speaks fondly of his ex-wife, Rosalie, who left him five years ago.
He misses his old dog,
Grace Elizabeth.
People said Steven drank too much.
Steven relates the twists that plunged him into crisis in a jumble of vivid stories. He said he was run over walking out of the newsroom one day.
There is no evidence that is true. The police report in Raton says he fell in his home and smashed into the dining table sometime before noon on May 22, 2022.
An ambulance bill indicates he was taken to a small hospital in Raton
then transferred to a bigger hospital in Albuquerque.
“He had a broken hip and shoulder,” Terrie said.
“It was there that they first told me he had alcohol-induced dementia.”
It’s got a view of the surrounding Sangre de Cristo mountain range
but low ratings from the federal
government.
Steven moved to the Taos Healthcare nursing home to heal.
Steven would remain there almost eight months, burning through personal funds
and then as a beneficiary of New Mexico Medicaid insurance.
Steven thinks he also worked there managing nursing aides on the night shift.
Signs of trouble arose
in January.
The nursing home told Terrie it wanted to move Steven to a facility
in Albuquerque that allowed smoking.
But then it “discharged” Steven — that’s the nursing home industry lingo for evicted — on Jan. 31. Steven had no place to go.
“They put him on the street,” Terrie said.
Taos Healthcare did not respond to requests for comment. When Terrie complained later to the state, an official wrote back saying the facility operators acted appropriately. State officials declined to explain to The Washington Post how they reached that conclusion, citing Steven’s medical privacy rights.
No one can say how Steven made it to Santa Fe by that evening. A shuttle bus offers rides between the cities, but whether Steven boarded is unknown.
From the hotel, Santa Fe’s fire and rescue team gave Steven a ride
to Consuelo’s Place, a homeless shelter, Terrie said.
Steven would stay
there two weeks.
A Santa Fe firefighter brought Steven to the Albuquerque airport.
Terrie met Steven there and accompanied him on a plane to Sioux Falls, S.D.,
the closest airport to their family in southwestern Minnesota.
“He looked like a person who had been homeless on the street forever,” Terrie said.
“It just broke my heart.”
Steven’s plight is not an isolated case.
In 2019, a quarter-million Americans over
55 spent some part of the year homeless.
The number of complaints to states
alleging unfair nursing home evictions or transfers in 2021 was 10,359, according to federal data.
Steven is now living alone in an apartment in Worthington, Minn., where he watches ESPN and goes outside to smoke cigarettes. Family members help him get food and take him to medical appointments. He’s bracing for his first full Minnesota winter in many years and not sure what comes next.
Steven Block can’t remember much of his first day as a homeless person.
But somehow, he ended up in the lobby
of the Coyote South on the Santa Fe strip.
The night clerk called Steven’s emergency contact, his brother-in-law
Terrie Gulden, in Minnesota.
Terrie thought Steven, 69 at the time,
was still in a nursing home in Taos, N.M.
“I had no idea what was happening,” Terrie said. “He had no money, no papers.
He was just out on the street.”
Steven fills the blank spaces left by dementia with stories. He told Terrie later he went to the Coyote South for an all-expenses-paid resort weekend.
Steven’s older recollections are clearer. He can tell you all about growing up on his family’s farm in southwestern Minnesota.
He studied journalism
at community college
in Minnesota.
He moved into a bungalow in Raton, N.M. …
…where he lined history books on shelves in a spare bedroom.
For more than 10 years,
he drove his Cadillac along the Old Santa Fe Trail and through the mountains to Trinidad, Colo., where he worked as a reporter for two community newspapers before retiring three years ago.
He was as much a figure in the little town of Trinidad as the politicians he covered.
He speaks fondly of his ex-wife, Rosalie, who left him five years ago. He misses his old dog, Grace Elizabeth.
People said Steven drank too much.
Steven relates the twists that plunged him into crisis in a jumble of vivid stories. He said he was run over walking out of the newsroom one day.
There is no evidence that is true. The police report in Raton says he fell in his home and smashed into the dining table sometime before noon on May 22, 2022.
An ambulance bill indicates he was taken to a small hospital in Raton then transferred to a bigger hospital in Albuquerque.
“He had a broken hip and shoulder,” Terrie said.
“It was there that they first told me he had alcohol-induced dementia.”
It’s got a view of the surrounding Sangre de Cristo mountain range
but low ratings from the federal
government.
Steven moved to the Taos Healthcare nursing home to heal.
Steven would remain there almost eight months, burning through personal funds
and then as a beneficiary of New Mexico Medicaid insurance.
Steven thinks he also worked there managing nursing aides on the night shift.
Signs of trouble arose
in January.
The nursing home told Terrie it wanted to move Steven to a facility in Albuquerque that allowed smoking.
But then it “discharged” Steven — that’s the nursing home industry lingo for evicted — on Jan. 31. Steven had no place to go.
“They put him on the street,” Terrie said.
Taos Healthcare did not respond to requests
for comment. When Terrie complained later
to the state, an official wrote back saying
the facility operators acted appropriately.
State officials declined to explain to
The Washington Post how they reached that conclusion, citing Steven’s medical
privacy rights.
No one can say how Steven made it to Santa Fe by that evening. A shuttle bus offers rides between the cities, but whether Steven boarded is unknown.
From the hotel, Santa Fe’s fire and rescue team gave Steven a ride
to Consuelo’s Place, a homeless shelter, Terrie said.
Steven would stay
there two weeks.
A Santa Fe firefighter brought Steven to the Albuquerque airport.
Terrie met Steven there and accompanied him on a plane to Sioux Falls, S.D.,
the closest airport to their family in southwestern Minnesota.
“He looked like a person who had been homeless on the street forever,” Terrie said.
“It just broke my heart.”
Steven’s plight is not an isolated case.
In 2019, a quarter-million Americans over
55 spent some part of the year homeless.
The number of complaints to states
alleging unfair nursing home evictions or transfers in 2021 was 10,359, according to federal data.
Steven is now living alone in an apartment in Worthington, Minn., where he watches ESPN and goes outside to smoke cigarettes. Family members help him get food and take him to medical appointments. He’s bracing for his first full Minnesota winter in many years and not sure what comes next.
Narration begins: Steven Block can’t remember much of his first day as a homeless person.
A comics-style illustration of a street with stop light, power lines and orange sky. The street sign says Carillos Road.
But somehow, he ended up in the lobby of the Coyote South on the Santa Fe strip.
A sign for the Coyote South motel reads “wander in.” The facade of an unassuming geometric building.
The silhouette of a man walking into the motel from further away,.
View of the man closer and facing the reader. Doors “clak” behind him. He is an older man with tufts of white hair and glasses.
A sequence of actions in quick succession: The man speaks to a motel employee at the front desk. Close up of a card with a medical symbol and unintelligible writing. The motel employee dialing a number on the phone. She holds it in the crook of her ear as she reads the card: Is this Mr. Gulden? What’s going on? The man on the other end replies.
The night clerk called Steven’s emergency contact, his brother-in-law Terrie Gulden, in Minnesota.
Steven sits on a couch in the motel lobby. The motel employee continues her conversation: He showed up here thinking he had a free room, which is not the case. N: Terrie thought Steven, 69 at the time, was still in a nursing home in Taos, N.M.
Quote: “I had no idea what was happening,” Terrie said. “He had no money, no papers. He was just out on the street.”
A sequence of Terrie on the other end of the phone, with his wife. The motel attendant on the line says: We don’t know what to do. Terrie responds: I would be really grateful if you would call the local police.
Terrie continues in the following panels as the view of him shifts: And have them come and check on him. He needs help.
Steven fills the blank spaces left by dementia with stories. He told Terrie he went to the Coyote South for an all-expenses-paid resort weekend.
An orange-colored, fantastical view of an ocean-view resort with palms trees, tropical plants and a pool in contrast with the simple facade of the Coyote South rendered in a stark blue gray.
A sequence of Steven facing the reader, speaking. His face shifts from furrowed browns, to downcast, and then to raised eyebrows as he says: They wouldn’t let me check in. The guy who made arrangements for the deal… the credit card he used was no good.
Steven’s older recollections are clearer. He can tell you all about growing up on his family’s farm in southwestern Minnesota.
A sepia-toned overhead view of a farm with rows of crops, silos and barns.
Steven as a young child perched on a tractor beside his grandpa. He says: My grandparents had it since 1910, about 540 acres.
He got married. He studied journalism at community college in Minnesota. He moved into a bungalow in Raton, N.M. …where he lined history books on shelves in a spare bedroom.
A sequence of memories: Steven posing next to his wife in their wedding portraits. Steven writing hunched over a notebook. A far view of the facade of a one-story house with a yard. Moving boxes packed with books. Steven placing books on a shelf filled wall-to-wall with books.
For more than 10 years, he drove his Cadillac along the Old Santa Fe Trail and through the mountains to Trinidad, Co., where he worked as a reporter for two community newspapers before retiring three years ago.
A snowy road with a Cadillac driving by a “welcome to colorful Colorado” sign. The interior of the Cadillac with Steven driving and looking to the reader. He says: You gotta make the Raton Pass twice a day. That can be challenging in bad weather. He wears a derby cap and smiles.
He was as much a figure in the little town of Trinidad as the politicians he covered.
The facade of The Chronicle newsroom with a silhouette of Steven in the window.
He speaks fondly of his ex-wife, Rosalie, who left him five years ago. He misses his old dog, Grace Elizabeth.
Steven’s ex-wife Rosalie sits on the couch in front of a Christmas tree with a large light-colored dog.
Steven sips whiskey on the rocks and smokes a cigarette. His hand rests on his cheek.
People said Steven drank too much. He disagreed.
A bottle of bourbon pours into a rocks glass beside two other glasses with various amounts of whiskey.
Steven sits at a kitchen table with a bottle of bourbon and a glass. He looks out the window. An chair sits empty opposite him.
Date stamp: May 2022. N: Steven relates the twists that plunged him into crisis in a jumble of vivid stories. He said he was run over walking out of the newsroom one day.
A vivid, orange-toned scene of broken glasses, a Cadillac sputtering exhaust and feet of a man splayed on the ground out of frame.
Steven relays the story: A big red Cadillac came across the street and walloped me and I would up on a sidewalk on the other side of the street.
There is no evidence that is true. The police report in Raton says he fell in his home and smashed into the dining table sometime before noon on May 22, 2022.
A police report rests on a table over top a pocket-sized notebook. It reads: Raton Police Department Offense/Incident report. Scribbled notes read: Fell, broken, confused.
An ambulance bill indicates he was taken to a small hospital in Raton then transferred to a bigger hospital in Albuquerque.
A sequence of images: An ambulance with flashing lights: Steven in a hospital bed with a sling on his arm. A doctor having a conversation with Terrie next to slatted hospital window blinds.
Quote: “He had a broken hip and a shoulder,” Terrie said.
“It was there that they first told me he had alcohol-induced dementia.”
Steven moved to the Taos Healthcare nursing home to heal.
Establishing view of the nursing home facility bestled in between snowy mountains. It has a simple, geometric shape with an awning over the entrance.
It’s got a view of the surrounding Sangre de Cristo mountain range but low ratings from the federal government.
Steven sits in a bed within the facility gazing out the window to mountains in the distance.
Steven would remain there almost eight months, burning through personal funds and then as a beneficiary of New Mexico Medicaid insurance.
A sequence of images: A television playing baseball; a pudding cup on a dining tray with segmented compartments: Steven in a wheelchair beside a window.
Steven thinks he also worked there managing nursing aides on the night shift.
A nursing home aid maneuvers a woman in a wheelchair down the hallway. Steven, in the foreground, looks to them and says: The administrator looked through my records and said with my background I could qualify for a supervisory job. I was on staff 24 hours a day.
Signs of trouble arose in January.
The nursing home told Terrie it wanted to move Steven to a facility in Albuquerque that allowed smoking.
A close up of Steven exhaling cigarette smoke. A cigarette is hoisted between his fingers.
But then it “discharged” Steven — that’s the nursing home industry lingo for evicted — on Jan. 31. Steven had no place to go.
A wide view of Steven leaving the nursing home, a bag in his hand and at his feet. He faces the surrounding mountains.
A view from slightly below of Steven looking beyond the frame of the image. Trees and clouds are visible behind him.
Quote: “They put him on the street,” Terrie said.
Taos Healthcare did not respond to requests for comment. When Terrie complained later to the state, an official wrote back saying the facility operators acted appropriately.
State officials declined to explain to The Washington Post how they reached that conclusion, citing Steven’s medical privacy rights.
Terrie reads a letter with a furrowed brow. His wife stands beside him.
Terrie continues reading the letter with a furrowed brow and says: This should not have happened to Steven and should not happen to anyone else.
No one can say how Steven made it to Santa Fe by that evening. A shuttle bus offers rides between the cities but whether Steven boarded is unknown.
A series of vignettes: A bus travels down a twilight-lit highway. A gas station sign. Steven sitting among rows of passengers. A setting sun on the highway.
From the hotel, Santa Fe’s fire and rescue team gave Steven a ride to Consuelo’s Place, a homeless shelter, Terrie said.
The facade of Consuelo’s Place at night. The building is geometric and one-story with window light casting shadows onto the sidewalk.
View of Steven from above sitting on a cot beside other shelter occupants.
He rifles through his bag.
Steven would stay there two weeks.
A Santa Fe firefighter brought Steven to the Albuquerque ax–irport. Terrie met Steven there and accompanied him on a plane to Sioux Falls, S.D., the closest airport to their family in southwestern Minnesota.
A firefighter guides Steven into the airport, her arm around him for support. Steven is noticeably more disheveled, with a close-fitting cap on his head, stained and ripped clothing and his belongings in a sack. His cheeks are more hollow and his frame is thin.
A close up of the sack in his fist. Another view of Steven and the firefighter from above.
Terrie clutches a blanket to his chest, his eyebrows knitted in the center.
Quote: “He looked like a person who had been homeless on the street forever,”Terrie said. “It just broke my heart.”
Terrie embraces Steven, with one hand on his shoulder. Steven guides Terrie through the airport. Signage above a door reads: A B Gates / Boarding Pass Required Beyond This …”
A plane takes off into the night above a runway dotted with lights.
Comic ends: Steven’s plight is not an isolated case. In 2019, a quarter-million Americans over 55 spent some part of the year homeless.
The number of complaints to states alleging unfair evictions or transfers in 2021 was 10,359, according to federal data.
Silhouetted clouds dot a blue and orange sky.
The roofs of a row of apartment complexes.
Steven is now living alone in an apartment in Worthington, Minn., where he watches ESPN and goes outside to smoke cigarettes. Family members help him get food and take him to medical appointments. He’s bracing for his first full Minnesota winter in many years and not sure what comes next.
Steven rests on a couch watching TV.
Terrie’s wife enters the apartment, smiling and holding a bag of groceries. Steven looks over his shoulder to greet them.
Steven smokes on the patio of his apartment.
Two close-up of Steven speaking to the reader. He says: I’ve adjusted to where I am now. I don’t know quite where I want to be.
Source link: https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/2023/12/21/elderly-homeless-comic-senior-homelessness/