Clown, At Home
Years ago, I read a line written by the master poet Rilke:
“And now you must go out into your heart as onto a vast plain.”
I’ve thought a lot about how his image pertains to being a hospital clown. I grew up on the Nebraska plains. As a child, as I walked in the plains, the view was wide open, unobstructed by trees or houses, nothing but continuous grasslands as far as the eye could see. When you’re on a vast plain, you are wholly there, without distractions, wholly present with your feelings. At the hospital, when I am clowning, it is my job to be present, not with my own feelings, but with the patient and the moment we are sharing.
At home, at the end of the day, it’s a different story. As I hang my orange wig on its hook in the hall, the first thing I feel is overwhelmingly tired. In order to remove the top of my scrubs, I have to lift it over my head. Consequently, I can’t take it off until I remove my make up. And removing my makeup means washing my face thoroughly with baby shampoo and a paper towel while checking in the mirror for missed spots. All of this is too much for me when I first get home. A nap is what I need. I lie down on the couch and instantly fall asleep. When I wake up, I’m starving. Still in costume, I consume a big dinner I’ve picked up at Boston Market on the way home.
After I’m back in my regular clothes, I pocket three mini Hershey bars and head to my computer, where I open the file called “Clown Notes.” Finally, I let the day spill back over me.
I remember, in particular, the older gentlemen, his eyes half open, who, when he saw me standing at his door and waving at him, responded by simply lifting the little finger of his right hand, palm down on the blanket.
“Would you like to have a visit?” I ask.
Again, the little finger raises and lowers in what seems to be a yes.
I enter and with my green feather duster clean off the face of his TV, the top edge of his bulletin board, my red shoe. Silent, he watches me. I look around his room.
“Hmm.” I say. “You could use some color in here. Shall we make some together?” A nod from his little finger.
“Okay. Here we go. Let’s see if we can make something beautiful out of my silly old feather duster. I’m going to turn around in a circle.
When I come back around, you wave your little finger. Then, I’ll say, ‘Pink Panther,’ and let’s see what happens.” His eyes are steady on mine. We each do our part and Voila—brilliant red, green, and blue flowers sprout from the end of my duster.
“Wow,” I say, “We’re awesome.” His little finger seconds the motion.
At home, as I write, I wonder if he’s had a stroke. I feel my chest constrict at the mere thought of not being able to speak, of not being able to write. How could I bear not being able to speak or write? I think of the dignity and courage he showed simply by moving his little finger in willingness to play with a clown.
The people I have met stay with me, float through my sleep into the next day. I write a few of them down—especially, the patient whose daughter told me as soon as I entered the room that her mother didn’t speak any English. Right away, her mother began patting the left side of her chest. “She wants me to tell you that she has cancer and had to have her breast removed,” the daughter explained. “This whole ordeal has been even worse for her because she can’t understand what the doctor is saying. She feels so helpless.” At this point, her mother reached out her hand to me. And, later, she put on the red nose I offered to her to wear the next time the doctor visited. Recalling her deep brown eyes, I acknowledge my fear that like my mother I will someday get breast cancer.
A part of me hopes to pirate the courage I witness for the day I will need it. Writing, I feel fear and sorrow and inspiration. In other words, I go out onto “the vast plain” of my heart.
“And now you must go out into your heart as onto a vast plain.”
I’ve thought a lot about how his image pertains to being a hospital clown. I grew up on the Nebraska plains. As a child, as I walked in the plains, the view was wide open, unobstructed by trees or houses, nothing but continuous grasslands as far as the eye could see. When you’re on a vast plain, you are wholly there, without distractions, wholly present with your feelings. At the hospital, when I am clowning, it is my job to be present, not with my own feelings, but with the patient and the moment we are sharing.
At home, at the end of the day, it’s a different story. As I hang my orange wig on its hook in the hall, the first thing I feel is overwhelmingly tired. In order to remove the top of my scrubs, I have to lift it over my head. Consequently, I can’t take it off until I remove my make up. And removing my makeup means washing my face thoroughly with baby shampoo and a paper towel while checking in the mirror for missed spots. All of this is too much for me when I first get home. A nap is what I need. I lie down on the couch and instantly fall asleep. When I wake up, I’m starving. Still in costume, I consume a big dinner I’ve picked up at Boston Market on the way home.
After I’m back in my regular clothes, I pocket three mini Hershey bars and head to my computer, where I open the file called “Clown Notes.” Finally, I let the day spill back over me.
I remember, in particular, the older gentlemen, his eyes half open, who, when he saw me standing at his door and waving at him, responded by simply lifting the little finger of his right hand, palm down on the blanket.
“Would you like to have a visit?” I ask.
Again, the little finger raises and lowers in what seems to be a yes.
I enter and with my green feather duster clean off the face of his TV, the top edge of his bulletin board, my red shoe. Silent, he watches me. I look around his room.
“Hmm.” I say. “You could use some color in here. Shall we make some together?” A nod from his little finger.
“Okay. Here we go. Let’s see if we can make something beautiful out of my silly old feather duster. I’m going to turn around in a circle.
When I come back around, you wave your little finger. Then, I’ll say, ‘Pink Panther,’ and let’s see what happens.” His eyes are steady on mine. We each do our part and Voila—brilliant red, green, and blue flowers sprout from the end of my duster.
“Wow,” I say, “We’re awesome.” His little finger seconds the motion.
At home, as I write, I wonder if he’s had a stroke. I feel my chest constrict at the mere thought of not being able to speak, of not being able to write. How could I bear not being able to speak or write? I think of the dignity and courage he showed simply by moving his little finger in willingness to play with a clown.
The people I have met stay with me, float through my sleep into the next day. I write a few of them down—especially, the patient whose daughter told me as soon as I entered the room that her mother didn’t speak any English. Right away, her mother began patting the left side of her chest. “She wants me to tell you that she has cancer and had to have her breast removed,” the daughter explained. “This whole ordeal has been even worse for her because she can’t understand what the doctor is saying. She feels so helpless.” At this point, her mother reached out her hand to me. And, later, she put on the red nose I offered to her to wear the next time the doctor visited. Recalling her deep brown eyes, I acknowledge my fear that like my mother I will someday get breast cancer.
A part of me hopes to pirate the courage I witness for the day I will need it. Writing, I feel fear and sorrow and inspiration. In other words, I go out onto “the vast plain” of my heart.
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