My Labor Day began with an alarm,
and my usual morning remorse for the many hours I had not spent sleeping.
“Secretly, no one is counting on
you,” my sleep-deprived brain decided. “You didn’t tell the hospital you would
volunteer today, so they won’t miss you.” But I thought of the required service
hours, and I knew this could easily be my last chance to work at the
information desk. I was sure I was acting against my better judgement, but I grabbed
my knitting, slipped on my tennis shoes, and drove the familiar route to the
Bristol hospital.
I hoped for a good story. Last
month, during my Saturday morning shift, a turkey met its untimely end flying
into a lobby window. The potential for adventure seemed high, and besides that,
this was the morning I’d write about for my assignment. These were the events I’d
immortalize in ink. If my first blog post was funny, my week would be great.
My yarn was teal, my knitting
needles were silver, and as usual, the fingerless glove I was making looked too
big. I spent the early part of the day pulling my project out and re-knitting
the first few rows a couple of different ways. I tried to keep my head up and
smile at the people who passed, and one man stopped to thank me.
“You have a beautiful smile.”
I was startled, and I smiled
more.
I’ve forgotten what I said back.
I hope it included the phrase “thank you.”
Noon drew nearer, and I stopped
looking for my adventure. The day had been thoroughly normal, if not a little
emptier than usual. When someone wanted to visit a patient, I looked the room
number up for them. When someone asked for the elevators or bathroom, I gave
them directions. One family needed to know where the closest grocery store was,
and in my typical “nothing but landmarks matters” fashion, I explained how to
get to Food City. I changed my plan. Perhaps, when I wrote for my blog, I’d
just talk about a normal day. I’d summarize why I got involved with the
hospital, why I keep coming back, and hopefully make the morning’s job sound
important.
An hour before my shift was over,
a lady stopped at the desk, but didn’t ask for anything. I looked up from my
knitting pattern. She’d only come to take some tissues- one for right then and
eight to carry back with her. Tears were streaked across her blotchy red
cheeks, and her nose was wrinkled in a quiet sniff.
I was suddenly still.
She took the tissues back to the
group of chairs in front of the Intensive Care Unit. Five people had sat there
together since nine that morning, and now the oldest woman’s hands were buried
in her face, and the echo of her choked sobs were quietly lost in the large
room. The lady who’d brought the tissues buried herself in the other’s arms.
Three men were standing there beside them, immovable, stone-faced. One wrapped
his arm around the woman with the tissues. One had taken off his baseball cap,
and now held it in his clenched fist.
They were helpless.
I was helpless.
I took the tissue box from the
desk abruptly, and walked over to the group. I handed it to the red-faced lady
numbly. “You can have the whole box, we have plenty.” She gave me a heartbroken
“thank you.”
“Of course.”
There were unopened tissue boxes
under the desk, so I opened an extra and replaced the one I’d given her. I
prayed for them. I did not know them, and I did not know what had happened. “Give them comfort. Give them healing.”
When 12:30 came and my 4 hour
shift was up, I did not know what to write about.
I’m supposed to reflect on my
volunteering.
Somewhere, the point should be
that doing good for your community is important.
The point got lost. My writing
plan got lost too. I know the real point, because I’ve seen it before. I’ve
worked here for years.
Sylvia Meredith, your days are
not rough. Not really.
I needed the reminder.
I’m in college now. It’s a little
bit stressful. It’s a little bit exhausting. I’m great at thinking of reasons
to complain.
But my days are not rough, not
really.
I could’ve left my volunteering
job with the memory of dead turkeys and lost phones.
I could’ve left with the memory
of my normal direction-giving routine.
But I’ll leave remembering the women
who cried.
And I’ll pray for them still.
