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Commentary: I was moved by his ‘vulnerability and courage’

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If you ever wind up on the streets of Costa Mesa, one of the first things you learn is that people around you die younger than average — mostly before their time — and that tragedy waits around every corner. I first learned this lesson when I met a stranger at Taco Bell in the summer of 2011.

Having just given 30 days notice at a slum apartment complex, I stopped in to grab lunch and figure out what my next move would be. An attractive man, around my own age, sat nearby. He struck up a conversation and we discovered there were things in common. It turned out that he had just been evicted from a neighboring motel that same day – the Costa Mesa Motor Inn on Harbor Boulevard. It was a chance meeting, and I will never be the same.

We talked for a couple of hours about his life and the ways that his mood disorder and physical ailments shaped and colored it. He wearily conveyed how psychiatric issues had persisted for years and vividly described how the chronicity of it all wore him down. At some point during our meeting, he announced the sense of a seizure coming on and instructed me not to feel scared or worried, but he also did something else — he asked me not to leave. He labeled the condition a “mini-seizure” and explained he might lose speech for a few minutes.

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At his request, I sat there and observed as he helplessly succumbed to this recurring brainstorm. After it subsided and his brain was once again at rest, he noted that he wasn’t afraid of the seizures anymore. He simply resigned himself to his fate. In my own mind, I quietly wondered if that were true and if so, why he wanted me, a total stranger, to stay with him during this most recent episode. I was deeply moved by both his vulnerability and his courage.

Later that night, I jotted down his name – Jeff Amati — in my journal. He kept repeating it earlier, as though he wanted me to remember it or remember him, not really sure why. I had told him I would research his name online later and see what I could find. That made him smile. We made an unusual connection and thoughts of him and his situation haunted me over the next several months.

A year later, his obituary appeared in the local paper. He died of an overdose at the age of 49, according to a tribute page posted online by his mother. I discovered the posting online as I sat in the room of a motel, only a few doors down from the room he was evicted from a year earlier. Unlike myself, he had family and they loved him.

Five months after his passing, my life took a turn for the worse, and I ended up on the streets. So many other people have crossed my path since then. I wish I could write about all the people who lost their lives over the last couple of years — either on the streets or among the marginalized communities of substance abusers or those suffering from a variety of illnesses or simply poverty.

Each person was someone’s precious baby when life began. They will forever remain children of God. Although some died alone, others were surrounded by friends and family who loved them. I want to honor their memories.

Freelance writer KATHY CLINKENBEARD lives in Costa Mesa.

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