Paralyzed gunshot victims worry coronavirus isolation will pull them back to that ‘sunken place’ | Helen Ubiñas

Jaleel King and Victoria Wylie were first on the video call.

Next came the ever-upbeat Chuck Horton, “Yo, what’s up?.. .What’s up? It’s Chuck.”

And then, the cheerful greeting from Corynna Martin: “Hellllo. Hey, everybody!”

This week’s meeting of the support group for paralyzed gunshot survivors was canceled for the same reason the whole world has been put on pause: the coronavirus.

Suddenly support groups that used to meet in church basements and recreation centers are having to find other ways to stay connected.

It’s a challenge for anyone who depends on these face-to-face lifelines. But for these men and women, the isolation that we’re told may be the only thing that saves lives is also what nearly killed them. Even after surviving the gunshots, they had to dig their way out of the mental and physical aftermath. Often on their own.​

Jalil Frazier nearly lost his life after he was shot while protecting three children during a robbery at a Philadelphia barbershop. It’s been a roller coaster of a recovery since 2018. But now the young father who was confined to the first floor of his North Philly row home is mostly in a good place. The relationships he’s forged with fellow survivors helped.

Every month since July, a group of about 15 men and women have consistently gathered at the Carousel House recreation center. A fellowship of the mostly forgotten victims of Philadelphia’s gun violence. Some have been paralyzed for years; others, just months.

» READ MORE: They were paralyzed and alone. Here’s what’s happened since they started a gunshot survivor group. | Helen Ubiñas

In December, they held a Christmas party, complete with red tablecloths and lots of food. They brought their families.

Last month they took their struggles and stories to City Hall.

They planned some group outings when the weather got warmer.

And then came the virus, potentially trapping them in situations from which many had used every ounce of grit to free themselves. While some are lucky to have ramps, chair lifts, even shower chairs, others are still grappling with the bureaucratic scavenger hunt for the most basic services.

A few hours before the video chat, I checked in with Frazier. He was waiting on a scheduled delivery of catheters. He’d given a box to a young man who had recently been shot and paralyzed, and now he was short. Maybe because of the virus, he wasn’t sure, the delivery was late and the supply company wasn’t responding. If they didn’t arrive soon, he told me, he’d be forced to head to the emergency room.

Frazier was heeding some of the coronavirus precautions, but he conceded that staying inside was a struggle.

“I be thinking too much if I have to stay in the house,” he said. “If I have to stay here, I definitely know that I will dip off into thoughts I’ve been running from, and I can’t go back there. I don’t know if I can make it back if I go back there. You can only run so long.”

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As the group waited on other members to join the call, they caught up. Horton, a longtime Philadelphia disability advocate who was shot 31 years ago, sent the group some tips for keeping their wheelchairs sanitized. They laughed when the jokester of the group, Ty Shoemake, sent a picture of himself in a mask.

And then Martin, who was shot and paralyzed in 2013 by a man she knew, confided that she was worried that isolation might lead to depression.

“I’ve worked so hard to get out of that sunken place that if I feel dormant, I can easily go back. …That’s the truth.”

She didn’t have to say much more. They all understood.

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Horton encouraged the group not to text. Call, he said. FaceTime. “Do whatever you have to do to stay connected, you know, safely.” Wylie, the group’s facilitator, said she’d set up a video chat every week until they could meet in person again.

“I hope it won’t be too long,” Martin said.