That’s Not Fair

(Authored October 2021)

We had just driven across the country in three days. We were ecstatic to arrive at our new home – the basecamp for our new adventure. Since we arrived on a Saturday, the Director of Hospital Housing was out of the office. But we were assured the key to our house would be left with the nursing supervisor. We excitedly pulled into the hospital parking lot, walked through the doors, and set out for the supervisor. The hospital, being one floor and less than two minute’s walk from end to end, was not difficult to navigate; we quickly found the office we needed. Greeted by a stunningly charismatic woman, we introduced ourselves and asked politely for our house key.  She put in a page to the housing officer on call and hurried off. Ten minutes passed, then thirty minutes, then sixty minutes passed before we were told to go get lunch and we would be called when our key was ready.   

Having only fast food options available, we settled on Sonic Burgers and a milkshake. I am seldom disappointed by a milkshake. Soon after, we were called back to the hospital and met a barrel chested and serious housing officer. He informed us our house was not yet ready – even though were arrived two days later than the day we had planned. In fact, our house was nowhere near ready. It had been used as a storage center for the last two years during the COVID pandemic and every room was filled to the brim with boxes. Before we could move in, the contents needed a new location, the gas, electricity, and water needed to be turned on, the walls needed painting, and the yard needed to be cleared of two year’s worth of weeds and shrubbery. We were disheartened, but we knew every part of this endeavor was going to require flexibility. We asked what we could do.  Even more disappointing was that we were told “nothing.” We technically didn’t have health insurance yet as we had not started our jobs, and the hospital could not be liable for any injury we sustained while doing maintenance on our rental house.

We were given the key to a “crash pad” trailer down the road that would be our home for the next few days. We were relieved that our belongings were still en route and that we did not need temporary storage. For three days, the housing crew worked round the clock to get our home in order. We were stunned at how quickly they worked to help people they did not know.  We felt exceptionally guilty – especially since we could contribute nothing. It was not the crew’s fault the house wasn’t ready. They didn’t know we were coming. As often happens here, the message was lost somewhere. And yet, they were working weekend and evening hours to make up for it. In the end, the house was finished just as our moving truck arrived and unpacking went seamlessly, but we felt an awful sense of unease – as if our presence had already made things worse.

Two weeks later, we received a bill – a bill for a pet violation/cleaning fee. As it turns out, dogs were not allowed in the crash pad trailers and because we had our beloved dog, Daisy, with us while awaiting our house completion, we had to pay the fee. My initial response was “THAT’S NOT FAIR! We wouldn’t have had to stay in the darn pet free tailer if they would have had our housing ready on time. We confirmed the date with the hospital long ago and listed that we were bringing our dog.” I began to rapidly compose an email. But by God’s grace, I paused. Was I really going to insist on fairness in this place? To a group of people that has been marginalized for decades? Was that the impression I wanted to create for myself on arrival here? Especially after my arrival and “need” for a home meant four people missed dinner and family time for three nights in a row with no extra compensation. No, no, and no. Absolutely not. I came here to insist on fairness for others, not myself. And in the process, I can only hope to gain grace, patience, and humility.