A wheelchair, a hospital, a tent, and the question nobody could answer

PERSONAL DISPATCHES | SPECIAL INVESTIGATION

By Randy Millis | Kelowna, British Columbia | November 2026

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“And if I’m not ready to go then?”

“Then security will be called.”

There it was.

A question. An answer. And approximately 1:30 in the afternoon as the deadline.

On November 3, 2026, I was sitting in my wheelchair at Kelowna General Hospital, being told that my discharge would proceed.

I had already explained that I had nowhere to go.

Not that I didn’t like the accommodation being offered. Not that I wanted a better room. Not that I was refusing to cooperate.

I had nowhere to go.

A hospital representative told me she had spoken with Six West management.

“We are going to be moving forward with this discharge,” she said.

“This is not a hospital acute care issue, unfortunately.”

She added that she wished they could support everyone in that situation.

And then came the deadline.

I asked what would happen if I wasn’t ready.

“Then security will be called.”

I recorded that conversation.

I also recorded other discussions during my hospitalization, including a conversation about Medical Assistance in Dying, commonly known as MAID, and the difficulty of finding somewhere to live.

Those recordings are part of a much larger documentary record: medical imaging, physician correspondence, shelter communications, complaints, and three articles I published while these events were unfolding.

This isn’t a story I’ve reconstructed months afterward.

It’s a story I was documenting while trying to survive it.

And it raises a question that should concern anyone who believes our healthcare, housing and social-service systems are supposed to protect vulnerable people.

When a patient no longer requires acute hospital care but has no safe, accessible place to go, who takes responsibility for what happens next?

It started with a wheelchair

On July 18, 2026, I moved into Kelowna Gospel Mission’s Bay Avenue Shelter.

I arrived with my wheelchair.

I am an ambulatory wheelchair user.

That means I can walk limited distances under certain circumstances. It does not mean I can safely spend an entire day relying on a walker.

There is an enormous difference.

I have lived with the consequences of serious spinal problems for more than twenty years.

Following surgery for a ruptured L5–S1 disc, I experienced nerve damage and weakness affecting my right leg.

Over time, I regained considerable function. I cycled, rode motorcycles, and participated in activities that might surprise people who see me using a wheelchair today.

But recovery isn’t a straight line.

Additional medical problems, surgery, prolonged inactivity and worsening pain changed what I could safely do.

At Bay Avenue, I was rebuilding strength with the limited resources available.

I could manage certain activities independently. I used my walker when appropriate and my wheelchair when necessary.

Then, on October 15, I was told I had approximately one week to stop keeping and using my wheelchair at the shelter and rely on my walker instead.

I was told the wheelchair arrangement had been understood as temporary.

I asked for time to obtain a medical assessment.

I wasn’t refusing rehabilitation.

I wanted to rehabilitate safely.

There is a difference between encouraging someone to improve their mobility and demanding that they demonstrate independence they haven’t yet regained.

I requested accommodation and sought assistance before the deadline.

On October 22, I lost my shelter bed.

That same day, I published When Mission Statements Become Muscle Memory.

It examined the distance between the values organizations proclaim and the decisions they make when someone’s circumstances don’t fit neatly into their procedures.

Compassion. Dignity. Respect. Accountability.

Those words appear everywhere in the charitable and social-service world.

But what happens when someone needs an exception?

When a disability complicates the operation of a facility?

When the person affected challenges a decision?

I had just experienced one possible answer.

And I was about to experience another.

Proving I needed the wheelchair

After losing my shelter placement, I spent a short period in temporary hotel accommodation made possible by people who stepped forward to help.

I also continued seeking medical assessment.

On October 28, a physician provided documentation supporting my need to use a wheelchair for much of the day.

By then, the shelter discharge had already happened.

That timing matters.

The accommodation I had requested was time to obtain medical evidence.

The evidence arrived after the decision had taken effect.

As my back pain worsened, I ended up at Kelowna General Hospital.

My concerns went beyond finding somewhere to sleep.

I wanted to understand what was happening to my spine, what was causing problems with my foot and toes, and whether I could realistically begin the rehabilitation activities I had hoped would help me regain more independence.

I also wanted pain relief that would allow me to function without leaving me excessively sedated.

On November 2, hospital imaging documented significant degenerative changes in my lower spine.

The report described severe disc-space narrowing at L4–L5 that had progressed compared with October 2025, as well as progression of narrowing at L5–S1.

It also identified severe bilateral facet arthropathy.

Those findings don’t independently establish how far I can walk or precisely what accommodation I require.

But they do document significant spinal disease.

More importantly, I underwent a functional mobility assessment.

A hospital physiotherapist named Tanya had me walk approximately half the length of the unit, turn around, and return.

Following that assessment, she told me she did not consider me ready to use a walker full-time.

Her verbal recommendation was that I continue using my wheelchair for ordinary daily activities.

She also expressed reservations about my readiness for gym and pool rehabilitation at that stage.

I asked about a written report. She indicated that she would provide a verbal report, but I have not confirmed whether a written assessment was completed.

I had spent weeks explaining why walking a short distance didn’t establish that I could safely carry my belongings and function throughout an entire day without my wheelchair.

Now a hospital physiotherapist had reached a similar conclusion.

Yet I still had nowhere suitable to go.

A bed is not a destination

On November 2, while still hospitalized, I published A Bed Is Not a Destination.

That article explored something larger than one shelter or one hospital.

Homelessness is not merely the absence of a roof.

It’s the loss of countless ordinary freedoms.

When you can sleep.

When you can eat.

Whether you can lie down when you’re in pain.

Where you can store your belongings.

Whether you can charge essential equipment.

Whether you can close a door.

And whether you can question a decision without fearing that the person making it also controls where you sleep that night.

I’ve stayed in shelters where staff were compassionate and worked extraordinarily hard.

I’ve also encountered conditions and practices that I considered unacceptable.

Both realities can exist together.

There are good people working inside deeply inadequate systems.

But good intentions don’t make an inaccessible building accessible.

A referral doesn’t become a placement simply because somebody has made a telephone call.

And telling someone to go somewhere else doesn’t create somewhere else for them to go.

That was the situation I faced as November 3 approached.

The hospital considered me ready to leave acute care.

I understood that an acute-care hospital couldn’t become my permanent accommodation.

But understanding the hospital’s purpose did nothing to solve the immediate problem.

I still needed somewhere I could safely exist.

The conversation about assisted dying

One of the more unusual conversations during my hospitalization concerned Medical Assistance in Dying.

I want to be absolutely clear about how that conversation began.

I asked for the paperwork.

The hospital did not suggest assisted dying as a solution to homelessness.

In the recording, I told the worker:

“So the doctor said I get the MAID forms from you.”

She asked:

“Okay, you’re wanting MAID forms?”

“Yeah.”

She agreed to print them.

She also asked whether I had any questions about MAID.

I asked what the process looked like.

She explained that the application would need to be completed and submitted for review, and that further assessments would be required if I appeared to qualify.

Her explanation was conversational rather than a formal legal or medical determination of eligibility.

At one point, she described the possibility of approval and subsequent discussions about ending one’s life.

I asked about the approval timeline.

She indicated that the process could sometimes move relatively quickly, mentioning a couple of weeks as a possibility.

That was her description during our conversation, not a guarantee of eligibility or timing.

The worker offered to print the application and process information.

Then the discussion returned to something much more immediate.

Where was I supposed to go?

I told her:

“Well, I don’t really have anywhere to fill them out, so.”

She began suggesting possibilities.

I interrupted with the more fundamental problem.

“And I have nowhere to go, so.”

She acknowledged that.

Then I said:

“I’m not sure where I’m going.”

There is something profoundly revealing about that exchange.

Here I was, discussing a formal process concerning the possible end of my life, while also trying to determine where I would physically go when the hospital discharged me.

Those were separate matters, and they must not be confused.

But they were occurring in the same hospital room, during the same period of uncertainty.

The worker asked whether I had family or friends in the area.

I said no.

She offered to print a list of low-income housing options.

I explained that I had already applied to the housing programs.

She mentioned another rental listing.

I asked what qualified as lower-income rent.

She suggested amounts around $700 or $800.

But my concern wasn’t simply identifying a rental listing.

I asked:

“The thing is, like, what am I going to do between now and getting housed? It’s been five months now.”

That was the question.

Not whether another list could be printed.

Not whether I could complete another application.

What was I supposed to do between now and the day somebody might actually offer me somewhere to live?

The worker was courteous. She offered information and assistance.

I don’t question that she was trying to help.

But the conversation illustrates how easily immediate survival becomes lost among longer-term administrative processes.

A housing application is not housing.

A rental listing is not a rental agreement.

And being resourceful doesn’t mean a person can create an accessible place to live out of nothing.

When the remaining option is a tent

During the broader discharge-planning discussions, the possibility of obtaining a tent was raised.

I want to be precise about that.

I was not formally ordered to live in a tent.

The possibility was discussed in the context of limited available shelter options.

But consider what that meant.

I use a wheelchair.

I have diabetes requiring insulin management, medical equipment, medication and significant mobility limitations.

I was experiencing worsening spinal pain.

A hospital physiotherapist had just advised that I was not ready to rely on a walker full-time.

And a tent was among the possibilities being considered.

Where?

On what accessible ground?

With what sanitation?

What provision for medication, equipment and physical safety?

How was I supposed to manage transfers, personal care, meals and ordinary daily activities?

A tent is not an accessible housing plan simply because it provides something between a person and the rain.

I recognize that a social worker may have very few resources available and may be trying to find anything that prevents someone from sleeping completely exposed.

But that is precisely what makes the situation so troubling.

When a tent becomes a possible destination for a disabled patient leaving hospital, the problem is bigger than the employee trying to find one.

It is a question about the resources available, the decisions that preceded the crisis, and the responsibilities of the institutions involved.

The discharge deadline

Later on November 3, the discussion became considerably more direct.

A staff member approached and told me I would be discharged soon.

She offered assistance with forms and any calls I needed to make before leaving.

I replied:

“Well, I have nowhere to go, so.”

Another representative then explained that she had spoken with Six West management.

“We are going to be moving forward with this discharge,” she said.

“This is not a hospital acute care issue, unfortunately.”

She continued:

“I wish we could support everyone in that sense.”

The intended discharge time was approximately 1:30 p.m.

I asked what would happen if I wasn’t ready to go.

“Then security will be called.”

I acknowledged the answer.

I thanked the staff.

And the conversation ended.

I have retained the original recording.

The recording does not establish that security physically removed me.

It establishes that I was warned security would be called if I was not ready to leave.

It also doesn’t establish that every member of hospital management personally approved those exact words.

It establishes what I was told by a representative who said she had spoken with management.

And what I was told was that discharge would proceed despite my having no confirmed accessible destination.

I understand the distinction between being medically ready to leave acute care and being adequately housed.

I don’t expect an acute-care hospital to become a permanent shelter.

But I do expect the institutions involved to confront what happens when a disabled patient has nowhere suitable to go.

At that moment, the difference between an administrative process and a human being’s immediate circumstances became painfully obvious.

The hospital had a discharge process.

I had a wheelchair, my belongings, limited money, and nowhere confirmed to sleep.

Those are not equivalent things.

The unanswered questions

By November 3, I had contacted multiple organizations and public offices seeking assistance, clarification or accountability.

My concerns about the Bay Avenue discharge had been communicated to BC Housing and others before I lost my shelter placement.

On November 2, BC Housing’s Complaint Resolution office acknowledged my earlier October correspondence and indicated that it had recorded the complaint dates.

I provided consent for my identity to be disclosed to Kelowna Gospel Mission leadership as part of the complaint process.

I requested information about the review, applicable standards, what intervention had occurred, and what assistance might be available to secure suitable accommodation.

I had also consulted a human-rights legal advocate and continued seeking guidance about possible remedies.

But complaint processes and emergency housing operate on very different timelines.

A complaint can take weeks or months to investigate.

A person facing discharge may need somewhere to sleep in a matter of hours.

And that leaves questions that deserve answers.

For Kelowna Gospel Mission: What accommodation assessment supported requiring me to transition away from my wheelchair? What alternatives were considered before ending my Bay Avenue placement? What weight was given to my request for time to obtain medical evidence?

For BC Housing: What oversight mechanisms apply when a funded shelter cannot accommodate a resident’s disability-related mobility needs? What steps were taken after my concerns were raised? What assistance is available when a placement ends without a suitable alternative?

For Interior Health: What discharge-planning steps were taken after it became clear that I had no confirmed accessible shelter? How were my mobility assessment, medical equipment needs and personal safety considered? What alternatives were examined before the discharge deadline was communicated?

These are questions, not findings of legal liability.

The organizations involved may have explanations, policies or records I haven’t seen.

I want those explanations.

I also want the decisions examined against what actually happened.

Because when three different systems each have a reason why they cannot resolve a problem, the person caught between them still has to live with the consequences.

And then, Room 301

After everything that happened on November 3, I managed to secure a room at the Oasis Inn in Kelowna.

I had stayed there before.

In fact, some of my earliest Personal Dispatches writing had taken shape there, before I ended up at Richter Street Shelter and later Bay Avenue.

The motel had a room available.

Room 301.

The same room.

I had to move money between bank accounts because my bank card was giving me trouble.

The room charge was approximately $114.

The refundable deposit was $200.

I paid for one night.

And then I found myself lying on the bed.

I had a bathroom.

A bathtub.

A door I could close.

I could rest when I needed to.

Nobody was telling me where I could keep my wheelchair.

Nobody was asking me to demonstrate that I could walk farther.

For the first time in days, I felt physically safe.

And I started crying.

Not because the problem was solved.

Because, for one night, I didn’t have to keep fighting just to find somewhere to exist.

I published Room 301. The Oasis Inn. Of All the Fucking Places that evening.

It was a strange, emotional return to the place where so much of my writing about homelessness had begun.

Six months earlier, I could not have imagined everything that would happen between those stays.

The shelters.

The people I met.

The kindness.

The indignities.

The hospitalizations.

The wheelchair dispute.

The correspondence, complaints and unanswered questions.

And now I was back in the same room, writing about what had happened.

There is something almost absurd about that.

I had gone from fighting to keep a shelter bed to fighting to leave hospital with somewhere safe to go.

And after all the agencies, conversations and procedures, I found myself arranging my own temporary accommodation.

With money I could barely afford to spend.

This isn’t an attack on frontline workers

There is something important I want to say before going further.

I’ve met people working in shelters, hospitals and outreach services who genuinely care.

I’ve benefited from their kindness.

I’ve watched people go beyond their job descriptions to help someone who otherwise might have been forgotten.

This investigation is not an attempt to portray every employee of Kelowna Gospel Mission, Interior Health or BC Housing as indifferent.

Nor is it an attempt to humiliate an individual social worker or hospital employee.

The issue is what happens when the available resources, institutional rules and responsibilities fail to produce a workable outcome.

A compassionate employee can still be unable to find an accessible shelter bed.

A hospital representative can accurately describe a patient as no longer requiring acute care while that patient remains at serious risk outside the hospital.

A shelter can have legitimate operational constraints while its decisions still raise important disability-accommodation questions.

Those realities are not mutually exclusive.

But recognizing the complexity does not eliminate the need for accountability.

It makes accountability more important.

What happens to the next person?

I am a journalist.

I have a website, a growing readership, recording equipment, experience documenting events, and enough familiarity with public institutions to ask questions and pursue complaints.

I can write.

I can preserve correspondence.

I can record conversations in which I participate.

I can identify inconsistencies, organize evidence, and make my experience public.

And even with those advantages, I struggled to obtain clear answers and secure somewhere safe to sleep.

So I keep coming back to another question.

What happens to someone who cannot do those things?

Someone who doesn’t know how to write a formal complaint?

Someone without a phone, reliable internet access or the ability to keep records?

Someone whose first language isn’t English?

Someone with cognitive difficulties, serious illness or no one willing to advocate for them?

Someone who simply accepts what they’re told because they are afraid that questioning it will make their situation worse?

How many people disappear into these administrative gaps without ever producing a documentary record?

How many decisions go unexamined because the people most affected are too exhausted, too sick or too frightened to challenge them?

I don’t know.

But after everything I’ve experienced, I think those questions deserve far more attention than they receive.

A place to sleep is not the same as a place to live

I began this story with a hospital representative telling me that security would be called if I wasn’t ready to leave.

I could end it there.

It would certainly make for a dramatic conclusion.

But that isn’t where the day ended.

It ended at the Oasis Inn.

Room 301.

A familiar room with a bed, a bathroom and a door.

For one night, I was safe.

And that matters.

But safety purchased one night at a time, with the last of your available money, is not stability.

A motel room is not a long-term housing plan.

A tent is not an accessible discharge destination.

A referral is not a placement.

A medical assessment is not meaningful accommodation if the decision it was requested to inform has already taken effect.

And a complaint process is not immediate protection for someone who needs somewhere to sleep tonight.

I don’t expect one organization to solve every problem associated with homelessness, disability and healthcare.

I do expect the organizations responsible for different parts of those systems to recognize what happens when their decisions intersect.

Because people don’t live in separate administrative categories.

I am not a shelter issue in one office, a medical issue in another, and an income-assistance issue somewhere else.

I am one person.

With one body.

One wheelchair.

One set of medical needs.

And one life to live.

On November 3, I managed to find somewhere safe to sleep.

But I am still asking the question that brought me to this investigation.

When every organization can explain why the problem belongs somewhere else, who takes responsibility for the person left with nowhere to go?

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About this investigation

This first-person investigation draws on my direct experiences, contemporaneous notes, medical documentation, correspondence, published dispatches and audio recordings of conversations in which I participated.

The quoted MAID and final-discharge exchanges were checked against the recordings. Other conversations and events are described from my contemporaneous accounts and supporting records.

The original audio files have been retained. The recordings establish what was said during the conversations; they do not establish that security physically removed me, that the hospital proposed MAID as a response to homelessness, or that any organization has been found legally responsible for discrimination.

The physiotherapist’s recommendation was communicated verbally to me. I have not confirmed whether a written report was completed.

Relevant evidence may be provided to journalists, legal representatives and oversight bodies, subject to appropriate privacy considerations.

Personal Dispatches welcomes factual corrections, additional documentation and substantive responses from the organizations involved. Any material corrections or responses will be considered for a dated update.

Previous reporting

• When Mission Statements Become Muscle Memory — October 22, 2026
• A Bed Is Not a Destination — November 2, 2026
• Room 301. The Oasis Inn. Of All the Fucking Places — November 3, 2026

Personal Dispatches — True Stories. Real People. Public Good.