I Lost My Housing, Ended Up in Hospital, and Still Do Not Know What Comes Next
Since My Last Post, I Lost My Housing, Ended Up in Hospital, and Still Do Not Know What Comes Next
By Randy Millis
When I published my previous article on May 11, 2026, I still believed there might be enough time for the situation to stabilize.
There wasn’t.
Within days, I lost my housing, ended up in hospital with severe exhaustion and dangerously low magnesium levels, and found myself trying to manage diabetes, storage units, court deadlines, hotel costs, and basic survival logistics all at the same time.
I am writing this from a hotel room while trying to determine where I may be sleeping tomorrow night.
I cannot capture every conversation, symptom, logistical problem, or emotional swing from the past week. There were too many. Too many moving parts. Too little sleep. Too many moments where survival itself became the full-time activity.
The move-out itself became chaotic very quickly.
Friends stepped in to help move belongings into storage while I was already physically deteriorating. By that point I was dealing with migraines, exhaustion, nausea, weakness, poor sleep, and cognitive overload. I was not doing most of the heavy lifting myself. Mostly I was trying to sort items, make decisions, coordinate logistics, and keep the process moving while physically struggling to function.
Even then, the pressure never really stopped.
While the move was still underway, the landlord attended multiple times and referenced towing the moving truck if it was not removed quickly enough. I documented those interactions through cameras, timestamps, and recordings because by that stage I no longer trusted my own exhausted memory alone.
What stands out to me now is not one dramatic confrontation.
It is how relentless everything became.
Every hour seemed to involve another decision, another deadline, another physical task, another logistical problem, another phone call, another form, another cost, another fear about what would happen next.
At one point I finally slept for only a few hours before waking up severely ill.
By the following morning I was vomiting, dry heaving, weak, dehydrated, and struggling to think clearly. Eventually an ambulance was called and I ended up at Kelowna General Hospital.
Doctors treated dehydration and severely low magnesium levels. I received IV fluids, anti-nausea medications, and magnesium replacement.
The low magnesium issue itself became strangely symbolic of the entire situation.
Stress, poor sleep, poor nutrition, exhaustion, dehydration, diabetes management, and prolonged crisis conditions had all been stacking on top of one another for months. Then the magnesium supplements themselves started causing diarrhea, creating yet another cycle where trying to solve one problem created another.
That is what the last several months have often felt like.
Not one catastrophic moment.
Just endless cascading instability.
One moment in hospital still stands out very clearly to me.
At some point I clicked “home” on my phone’s maps application.
Instead of comfort, I realized almost instantly that it no longer felt like home anymore.
That realization hit harder than I expected.
The legal process itself also consumed enormous amounts of energy long before the actual displacement happened. By May I had already documented hundreds of hours spent dealing with hearings, evidence preservation, filings, printing, legal preparation, and housing-related logistics.
What people often do not see is how complicated survival becomes once housing destabilizes while managing chronic illness.
It is not simply “finding somewhere to sleep.”
It becomes:
Where do insulin supplies go?
How do devices stay charged?
Where can medications be safely stored?
How do you refrigerate insulin?
How do you safely manage continuous glucose monitoring equipment?
How do you transport documents, electronics, and medical supplies while physically exhausted?
How do you recover physically while also fighting court deadlines and trying not to lose everything you own?
Those realities are rarely visible in public conversations about homelessness or housing instability.
Even after leaving hospital, the instability continued.
Belongings remained tightly packed into storage units. Hotel costs immediately became another source of pressure. I found myself trying to preserve cash while simultaneously realizing that shelters may create additional medical and logistical risks that many people never think about.
At the same time, I was also trying to continue documenting what was happening.
Ironically, one of the first things I ended up doing while displaced was rebuilding my own website article from an iPhone after portions of it appeared to disappear due to WordPress/mobile editing problems.
Even that became part of the larger pattern.
Nothing was simple anymore.
Not housing.
Not health.
Not technology.
Not sleep.
Not basic administration.
Not even keeping a pair of sweatpants from falling down after unexpectedly losing weight from stress and illness.
Today, while driving past the property with a friend out of habit, we noticed something else that has stayed with me.
Items that had unfortunately been left behind on the balcony during the chaotic move-out still appeared to be there.
I want to be careful not to overstate what that means. I cannot speak to what work may or may not have been happening internally or behind the scenes.
But after hearing repeated urgency arguments throughout the legal process, it was difficult not to notice the contrast.
Right now I still do not know exactly what tomorrow looks like.
I may be able to secure a room.
I may need to extend the hotel briefly if I can afford it.
I may need to make decisions very quickly with very little margin left.
But what I understand now far more clearly than before is this:
Housing collapse is rarely one dramatic cinematic moment.
It is administrative fragmentation.
It is exhaustion.
It is paperwork.
It is physical decline under stress.
It is endless small decisions made while sleep deprived and frightened.
It is trying to preserve enough stability to keep functioning while the systems around you continue moving anyway.
And sometimes it is sitting alone in a hotel room, trying to reconstruct your own life story from backups, receipts, screenshots, hospital bracelets, and fragmented memories before exhaustion erases parts of it again.
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