the other morning i am at kent community, a small hospital in G-Rap where many of the patients are long term. I mean, I remember meeting Beverly eight years ago in her bed on wheels, she is still there. The majority of these people come here to die, even if death doesn't arrive for another twenty years.
Eight churches take turns leading a worship service for the residents.
once every other month my sister kate and i join a small handful of seymour members in gathering in the multi-purpose room on the first floor to sing "trust and obey", "what a friend we have in Jesus", and listen to (now it's Al, it used to be Harold, but he is now in a home himself) give a short sermon on going to heaven.
Kate plays her flute. I "escort" patients. Yes, that is what they call it- escort. Really it means i go to the various floors, ask people if they want to go to church, and if they seem to be in favor of the idea, off we go. At the end, i return them to the appropriate floors, sometimes bringing them to the lunch room, sometimes back to their room, and every once in awhile, if the patient is especially bitter with me, i just leave them in the hall out side the elevator (for my benefit AND theirs, sometimes by the request of the nurses).
So, here is where the story begins:
I had just dropped someone off at the lunch room and am walking back to the stairs.
just chilling there in his wheelchair right before the elevators is this cute old man. or so i thought.
"hello!" he says to me, holding out his hand as if he wants to shake my hand.
so i shake his hand, no big deal, right? In my 12 years of experience here (yes: 12 years, which is 12 years longer than the new "professional volunteer" with her stupid nametag that indicates her status who was down-talking me earlier) i've learned that the patients here crave human contact, and sometimes just want to hold your hand for a minute. One time, a woman even lured me in by asking me to button her shirt cuff and wouldn't let go for a minute (or five). but it's always harmless.
until today. this was no innocent handshake.
"no, no." he says. "come closer"
"well, i should get going," i say with a smile. "You have a good day."
I try to get away, but this old man has quite a grip. Meanwhile, the other hand is making it's way around me, and i find it is now tapping my bum.
"Okay." I say. "now that we have that all done, i should really get going."
"noooo." he says, as if i'm being silly.
and then with the hand that is patting my derrière, proceeds to grip my other wrist, and brings it to the first hand so that he has my hands cuffed with one hand and the other is free from the distraction of my hands to go ahead and full out GRAB MY BUM not one, oh no, but several times.
"ALRIGHTY then," i say finally ripping myself from his nasty grip (on both my hands AND my butt)
but wait, i'm not done:
viewing the entire scene is a fellow volunteer. just watching. standing there. a little surprised i think, but doing absolutely nothing despite all the desperate looks i'm shooting at her.
so i'm free. i lunge towards the stairs. i continue on with my duties as if nothing happened, just taking extra care to avoid the fourth floor.
while i am bringing cute, but slightly depressed Beatrice Willams to "a special place" aka lunch, the volunteer-witness approaches kate and says to her "wow that man really liked touching you."
This comment leads kate to a state of speechless confusion. She doesn't recall anyone touching her while she was playing....
"oooh. that wasn't you. that was the other little girl that you come with." the unhelping volunteer woman says.
really? can one not tell the difference between us?
furthermore, is that appropriate to say to the person you just left hanging on the front line?
i return to the first floor after all the patients are (not so much) happily at lunch.
kate is waiting for me:
"I know there's a story. Tell me."
Eight churches take turns leading a worship service for the residents.
once every other month my sister kate and i join a small handful of seymour members in gathering in the multi-purpose room on the first floor to sing "trust and obey", "what a friend we have in Jesus", and listen to (now it's Al, it used to be Harold, but he is now in a home himself) give a short sermon on going to heaven.
Kate plays her flute. I "escort" patients. Yes, that is what they call it- escort. Really it means i go to the various floors, ask people if they want to go to church, and if they seem to be in favor of the idea, off we go. At the end, i return them to the appropriate floors, sometimes bringing them to the lunch room, sometimes back to their room, and every once in awhile, if the patient is especially bitter with me, i just leave them in the hall out side the elevator (for my benefit AND theirs, sometimes by the request of the nurses).
So, here is where the story begins:
I had just dropped someone off at the lunch room and am walking back to the stairs.
just chilling there in his wheelchair right before the elevators is this cute old man. or so i thought.
"hello!" he says to me, holding out his hand as if he wants to shake my hand.
so i shake his hand, no big deal, right? In my 12 years of experience here (yes: 12 years, which is 12 years longer than the new "professional volunteer" with her stupid nametag that indicates her status who was down-talking me earlier) i've learned that the patients here crave human contact, and sometimes just want to hold your hand for a minute. One time, a woman even lured me in by asking me to button her shirt cuff and wouldn't let go for a minute (or five). but it's always harmless.
until today. this was no innocent handshake.
"no, no." he says. "come closer"
"well, i should get going," i say with a smile. "You have a good day."
I try to get away, but this old man has quite a grip. Meanwhile, the other hand is making it's way around me, and i find it is now tapping my bum.
"Okay." I say. "now that we have that all done, i should really get going."
"noooo." he says, as if i'm being silly.
and then with the hand that is patting my derrière, proceeds to grip my other wrist, and brings it to the first hand so that he has my hands cuffed with one hand and the other is free from the distraction of my hands to go ahead and full out GRAB MY BUM not one, oh no, but several times.
"ALRIGHTY then," i say finally ripping myself from his nasty grip (on both my hands AND my butt)
but wait, i'm not done:
viewing the entire scene is a fellow volunteer. just watching. standing there. a little surprised i think, but doing absolutely nothing despite all the desperate looks i'm shooting at her.
so i'm free. i lunge towards the stairs. i continue on with my duties as if nothing happened, just taking extra care to avoid the fourth floor.
while i am bringing cute, but slightly depressed Beatrice Willams to "a special place" aka lunch, the volunteer-witness approaches kate and says to her "wow that man really liked touching you."
This comment leads kate to a state of speechless confusion. She doesn't recall anyone touching her while she was playing....
"oooh. that wasn't you. that was the other little girl that you come with." the unhelping volunteer woman says.
really? can one not tell the difference between us?
furthermore, is that appropriate to say to the person you just left hanging on the front line?
i return to the first floor after all the patients are (not so much) happily at lunch.
kate is waiting for me:
"I know there's a story. Tell me."
No comments:
Post a Comment