Taken For Granted

   A conversation on Sunday caused me to reflect upon my volunteer service hours in my early days of Pre-Med. I was a newly declared Biology major, (or maybe it was Physics or Architecture, as it changed often) that was most excited to tell everyone that I was going to be a doctor. Having never graduated High School, and being insecure of myself, there was an underlying arrogance each time somebody would ask me what I was doing in school.


   Planning and preparing to get accepted into medical school starts long before the application. In addition to top notch grades, and excellent community participation, you must also meet a certain number of volunteer service hours. Being interested in helping kids, I made my mind up that I would volunteer at Primary Children's Hospital. I saw myself as a noble knight on a white horse who was going to be a doctor and save kids.



   When I inquired about volunteer opportunities, I was directed to the Volunteer Coordinator over the Immuno-compromised unit. I knew nothing of the unit, nor could I even pronounce it. I thought that was great because I knew that meant it had to be important. Everything was going according to plan.


   I was called in for an interview with the Coordinator. He sat me down in his cramped office, said hello, and asked me how I was doing. Then, without any real warning, he shifted in his seat, looked at me pointedly, and asked, "So, what kind of experience do you have with death?"


   I was not expecting that. But, being the valiant, noble Pre-med student that I was, I maintained my composure and came up with a solid reply. I shared with him a summary of the story of losing my best friend. I believed this somehow made me practically an expert in the subject and therefore, next question sir.


   The interview continued and he seemed to accept my replies as we went. He outlined what my schedule would be and explained the gist of what I would be doing. Basically, I was there to clean and sterilize the toys and to play with the kids. Simple enough. Before we concluded, he paused to emphasize the nature of the kids on the unit.


   He explained to me that many of the kids there would die. He made it clear that those kids were really sick and I had to be extremely careful in how I interacted with them. He iterated again in plain words, "You will fall in love with these kids and then one day you'll show up and they will have died. You have to prepare yourself for that." I'm not sure how anyone prepares for that, but I acknowledged his words anyway.

   I passed the interview and my volunteer hours commenced the following Thursday. I began by trying to learn the names of each kid. I practiced memorization techniques while I steam-cleaned the toys. There were several play areas on the unit and a few tables scattered throughout. I spent time playing board games or working on puzzles with the kids. Sometimes I'd sit in a cozy chair and read stories with a small kiddo on my lap.

   Each kid was different. Some were very shy and hesitant to interact. Some were lively and playful from the start. They all ended up having fun once they felt comfortable with you. Aside from hospital gowns, some medical tubing, and the sterile smells of the unit, it was kind of like being at a home-based daycare. There were family members, aunts, uncles, grandmas and grandpas, parents, and siblings visiting at any given time. Movies played in the background. Half-completed puzzles on the tables, coloring pages and crayons scattered around, toys everywhere. For all intents and purposes, it was fun. Like, really fun.

   I loved hearing the kids giggle when you'd tickle them or tell silly jokes. They had fun coming up with their own jokes that didn't make any sense or even just repeating your jokes. There was one little girl who liked to give me a big bear hug every time I walked onto the unit. She would yell out something silly down the hall and then run up and jump at me. I'd catch her mid flight and end it with a big teddy bear squeeze. She was so sweet and always made me feel so important.

   I remember one time when I came onto the unit, she went through her same routine of running and jumping, but the catch ended up a little bit rough. Her face went stoic and you could tell she was embarrassed. She was only about 6 years old so it seemed strange to me that she'd be embarrassed. It took a few minutes for me to realize that her colostomy bag had leaked when I caught her. A colostomy bag is what catches your excretions if you can't poop normally. It has to be plumbed into your intestines and has the consistency of diarrhea. It's warn externally to the abdomen and has to be emptied whenever you have a bowel movement. When she jumped and we collided, the bag leaked and I was covered in fecal matter down the front of my shirt.

   You might think that my first thought would be to react to the grossness of the situation, but surprisingly that wasn't the case. My first thought was to help set her mind at ease. I've said it before, I'm a sucker for little kids, so her tender feelings were far more important than the fact that I was dripping with shit.

   As soon as I realized what was going on, I gave her a big hug and made a joke about what had happened. She appeared to be close to tears so I reassured her that it was no big deal, that I loved her, and that we should go get cleaned up fast so we could play. A big smile broke through her chagrin, and she was soon restored to her happy, giggly self. It didn't take long to get cleaned up and we had a great time playing that day.

   I need to clear the air here. I feel as though I'm misleading things. It may sound as though I was a diligent pre-med student that volunteered and participated in weekly service with kids, but that's not the whole truth. I did in fact volunteer, and my shift was every Thursday. But I'm not the guy I wish that I was. I didn't always show up for my shift. I called in sick on several occasions. I was much better at bragging about being a pre-med student than I was at actually being a great student. And even though I loved the kids, being around kids and playing with kids was really hard for me. I was a little awkward with kids. I had anxiety leading up to my volunteer shifts and often wimped out by calling in with some lame excuse. My visits were not consistent.

   What was amazing to me was how the kids seemed to look past all of that. They loved me just the same every time I arrived. They treated me as though I hadn't bailed on them the week before. They welcomed me in each time and we always ended up having fun. Despite my grotesque inadequacies, they loved me unconditionally. Their perfect love began to take effect in me. I found myself wanting to be better than I was. I made a goal to be more consistent and overcome my insecurities.
With a new found drive to be a better volunteer, to be a better friend to those kids, I once again arrived for my Thursday shift.

   I arrived at Primary Children's with excitement. I was looking forward to a big bear-hug from my little friend with the colostomy bag. I needed to hear her giggle and see her bright smiling face. I wandered the unit looking for her in all the usual places. She must have been hiding or something because I couldn't find her anywhere, so I asked the nurse where she was. The nurse's look appeared cold an irritated. She told me I needed to go talk to the Volunteer Coordinator, then turned away abruptly. I started to panic. I worried he was going to fire me because I had been so inconsistent. I was certain I was in for a good talking to.

   When I found him, he sat me down in his office. I started to try and explain myself and make excuses for all of my absences. He stopped me mid-story and said, "You're not in trouble Joe". I sighed a breath of relief. "She died last week", he told me.

   "Wait, what?" I asked. "What are you talking about?"

   "I know the two of you were really close, so I wanted to tell you myself. She died last week. It was sudden and she went peacefully, but she's gone." Then he reminded me softly, "I told you that this would happen, but I know that doesn't make it any easier."

   My poor little friend had succumbed to her illness and my heart filled with sorrow. My lungs felt heavy and I was once again struggling to grasp the course of events.

   I left that day with brow furled in frustration and despair. I struggled to return to any future shifts. I eventually called the volunteer coordinator and told him I wasn't the right man for the job and that I quit. I praised him for his efforts and his diligence in the face of so much sadness. I suppose in the back of my mind I thought that by emphasizing his greatness, it somehow minimized my weakness.

   I never went to medical school. I never became an important doctor that makes lots of money. I never volunteered at Primary Children's Hospital again. I have a lot of regrets in life. The list is long and uncomfortable. I regret that I didn't spend more time with those kids. I regret that those kids taught me and did more for me than I ever did for them. I regret that I wasn't there when my little friend died. I regret that I had my head so far up my ass with the concerns of the world that I couldn't fully appreciate the blessings that were right in front of me.

 
   When I think of a rough stone rolling, in relation to the refining process of life, I forget how loud and thunderous that would be. I have to imagine that if a large stone was tumbling down a mountainside, it would be ferocious. It would snap branches and crush smaller rocks. It would rip down the mountainside with no regard for what's in front of it. The developing smoothed edges of the rolling stone would be like scars from everything that was in its path. I don't think it's quite as ceremoniously divine as I have previously considered. The refining process leaves a trail of destruction and debris.

   This life seems to be a great place to have regrets. A great place to make mistakes. A life full of crushing those in my way. I have ruined so much throughout my life without realizing it at the time. I feel the only thing that can make sense of it all is if I choose to learn from my mistakes. I won't get it perfect. There will be more casualties in my path as I tumble down the mountainside. But I'm grateful for the love and example of others. I'm grateful for the tender spirits that live long enough to remind us of what's important in this life. I sincerely hope that I can properly recognize the special things in this life more often than I take them for granted.