A Story Behind the Numbers

The end of the year always brings reflection for us. When I look over the last year, one story in particular sticks out to me. We went on a year-long journey with a beloved client. We’ll call him Tom.

When I first started volunteering at TOPSS, back when we were in the old building by the cemetery, Tom was a longtime client I often shopped with. He was tall, thin, gentle, a little hard of hearing, and always ready to laugh and joke around. He didn’t ask for much. He was a true sweetheart.

As I became more involved at TOPSS, I learned that Tom lived in a small shed on a farm outside of town, among a small group of people who were unhoused.

Over time, I started to see his situation decline. His truck broke down, and he couldn’t afford to fix it, so he couldn’t leave the farm unless someone gave him a ride. His phone broke, leaving him with no way to communicate. When he could get into town, he would ask for me and catch me up on whatever was going on in his life.

I gently tried to talk with him about housing options, but the farm was all he had known for a long time. He liked living in the country. He had a friend there. He liked working on tractors and being around the farm. I didn’t push. I brought food out to everyone on the farm. Sometimes there were arguments. Sometimes food went missing. It wasn’t perfect, but it was his world.

As the pantry grew busier and my role changed, it became harder to make the trip out there. The road was difficult. I once got stuck in the mud when I was bringing Tom back from an appointment, and that alone was an ordeal. I worried about Tom often, but I had to pull back because the needs at the pantry were increasing every day.

In early January, we learned that Tom’s friend on the farm had passed away. Later that month, during a stretch of subzero temperatures, we got a knock at the door. An Uber driver was at the door. He said he’d brought someone from the hospital. I looked out to see Tom step out from behind the car door.

He was wearing paper clothes and carrying a bundle of blackened, melted fabric. His shed had caught fire, and he barely escaped. He had burns and was visibly shaken.

We brought him inside, warmed him up, and gave him clothes from our closet, supported by Thread Up Oxford. Our interns were in tears. This was our friend. Of all people, it just felt unbearably unfair. Not that anyone ever deserves something like that.

At the time, we were running a cold shelter using hotel rooms, and I tried to get Tom checked in. The hotels were hesitant because he had no ID. I ended up driving him back to the farm to see if we could find his wallet in the remains.

When we arrived, people were already going through what was left of his belongings and moving them to their camps. It was heartbreaking. We couldn’t find an ID.

I sat in the car with Tom while he called the only other friend he had and asked if he could stay for a few days. The friend, understandably, said no. They had recently dealt with bed bugs from Tom’s friend and couldn’t risk it again.

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

Eventually, thanks to Nicola’s advocacy, one of the hotels agreed to take Tom on our word that we would cover any issues. That was easy to promise. Tom was no trouble at all.

Over the next weeks, Tom was in and out of the hospital as his burns were treated. Through it all, he stayed gentle and kind. When I brought him food to his roadside motel room, he told me he felt like he was staying at the plaza. He couldn’t believe he had lived so long without running water or heat.

Chase, our social worker, took him to medical appointments. We kept extending his hotel stay. And then, finally, an apartment came through. We were ecstatic!

We helped move him in and made sure he had everything. A bed. A chair. A TV. A microwave. Towels. Dish soap. All the little things people need to live. Tom was thrilled. He eventually got a small scooter so he could get back and forth to the store. We helped him get a phone. We delivered food weekly and kept taking him to follow-up appointments.

As time went on, we noticed he was struggling to keep up with cleaning and laundry. We tried to connect him with help, but it became harder to reach him. He stopped answering the phone and the door.

In December, Tom called Chase and said he needed an ambulance because his back had gone out and he couldn’t get up.

We didn’t know then that it would be the last time we would hear from him. Tom unexpectedly passed away at the hospital.

They called us because our number was listed from the many times Chase had taken him to appointments. We were the only contact Tom had. They asked if we knew of any family. We didn’t.

We were heartbroken.

And yet, in a strange way, I’m grateful that Tom had us. We did everything we could to give him one last chance. After decades of being unhoused, he had a home. He was warm. He was cared for. He had people in his corner.

As the year closes, I find myself wondering how many people out there only have us. And how meaningful that is.

This is what we want to be. Support for people who have no support. Presence when there’s no one else to call. We are honored to fill that role. We were honored to be a part of Tom’s story.

I wrestled with whether to share this. It feels deeply personal, and there’s always a line between telling a story and protecting someone’s dignity. But sharing it also feels like a kind of closure. A way to honor someone we cared about, and the work that allowed him to be seen, housed, and cared for at the end of his life.

Thank you for being part of the work that makes stories like Tom’s possible.

(Some details were changed for privacy)