Clown: The Divine Interrupter
“How do you do it?” a friend asked me the other day. “I could not clown for sick people, especially sick children, because I would sit down on their beds and sob while they patted my back, saying, ‘Be happy, little clown.’”
For me, part of the answer lies in understanding the role of clown. In early times, during worship services where only Latin was spoken, a door sometimes opened in the chancel, and a clown would pop out and do or say something funny. His task was to break the serious atmosphere in order to make room for a new kind of awareness. He was called a “divine interrupter.”
When I stop outside the open door of a patient’s room, I am focused on my job, which is to break the severity and the order of the patient’s captivity there. It’s not about what I’m feeling. That’s for me to deal with later.
Here’s how it works: a patient, let’s say a middle aged man, is sitting up in bed, staring straight ahead. He’s hooked up to machines and tubes and bags and stuff, I’m not quite sure what it all is; I’m a clown, not a nurse. And anyway, it’s his face I want to see.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of color from the hallway. He turns to see Heart Throb: orange curls, lime green scrubs with red hearts on the pockets, hearts painted on my cheeks and on the tip of my nose. Also, I am wearing a big sign that says, OUT OF ORDER. He blinks. He can’t quite believe it—a clown is standing there. I wave a small, quiet hello.
He nods back.
I ask if he would like a visit. I give him a choice. Everyone else who enters his room does so without asking. If he shakes his head, No, or says, Not right now, or simply looks away, I bow in deference and leave.
If he says yes, I’ll approach his bed very slowly and then introduce myself. Looking again at his I.V. bag, I’ll say, “Why for goodness sake. They gave you an aquarium, but the nurse forgot to stock it.” From my pocket, I pull a neon blue, tropical fish sticker and paste it on the bag. “Now, the nurse is going to need to change the water. And this type of fish really likes company. So you might want to chat with him . . . but, um, I wouldn’t do that when the doctor is in the room.”
What happens next depends entirely on the patient’s response. He may tell me the story of how he came to be in the hospital. Or he may close his eyes in pain or fall asleep due to being medicated. The visit may be over or just beginning. Whatever happens, a whimisical presence has entered the room, a colorful relief from hospital routine.
For me, part of the answer lies in understanding the role of clown. In early times, during worship services where only Latin was spoken, a door sometimes opened in the chancel, and a clown would pop out and do or say something funny. His task was to break the serious atmosphere in order to make room for a new kind of awareness. He was called a “divine interrupter.”
When I stop outside the open door of a patient’s room, I am focused on my job, which is to break the severity and the order of the patient’s captivity there. It’s not about what I’m feeling. That’s for me to deal with later.
Here’s how it works: a patient, let’s say a middle aged man, is sitting up in bed, staring straight ahead. He’s hooked up to machines and tubes and bags and stuff, I’m not quite sure what it all is; I’m a clown, not a nurse. And anyway, it’s his face I want to see.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of color from the hallway. He turns to see Heart Throb: orange curls, lime green scrubs with red hearts on the pockets, hearts painted on my cheeks and on the tip of my nose. Also, I am wearing a big sign that says, OUT OF ORDER. He blinks. He can’t quite believe it—a clown is standing there. I wave a small, quiet hello.
He nods back.
I ask if he would like a visit. I give him a choice. Everyone else who enters his room does so without asking. If he shakes his head, No, or says, Not right now, or simply looks away, I bow in deference and leave.
If he says yes, I’ll approach his bed very slowly and then introduce myself. Looking again at his I.V. bag, I’ll say, “Why for goodness sake. They gave you an aquarium, but the nurse forgot to stock it.” From my pocket, I pull a neon blue, tropical fish sticker and paste it on the bag. “Now, the nurse is going to need to change the water. And this type of fish really likes company. So you might want to chat with him . . . but, um, I wouldn’t do that when the doctor is in the room.”
What happens next depends entirely on the patient’s response. He may tell me the story of how he came to be in the hospital. Or he may close his eyes in pain or fall asleep due to being medicated. The visit may be over or just beginning. Whatever happens, a whimisical presence has entered the room, a colorful relief from hospital routine.
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