What if I Fail?

At the end of a day of clowning at the hospital, I am often amazed at how many times I have visited patients who were initially glum but by the end of the visit are laughing or singing. This turnabout I attribute to the largesse of the human spirit as well as to the art and playful spirit of clowning. But it does not always work this way. Sometimes a patient glances out into the hall and looks quickly away, pretending not to see me. Sometimes a patient will make eye contact, frown, and shake his head to make it clear he does not want a visit. At times like these, I am reminded of the advice of Richard Snowberg, founder of the world famous school for clowns at the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse and author of the book The Caring Clowns. He says, “Caring clowns distinguish themselves from other clown entertainers in their need and willingness to accurately assess the needs of their audience and meet those needs—no more and no less.” If the patient wants less of me, I keep moving. I admit I feel a smidgeon of rejection. Inside a caring clown, there’s a friendly puppy that wants to play with everyone it sees.

Occasionally, someone other than the patient will invite me into a room. Last week, a nurse asked me to visit a patient. “The man in 232 really needs cheering,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “He’s a sweetheart.” She knocked on the patient’s door, and in a cheerful voice, addressed an older man sitting in his recliner, which was tipped way back, a pillow propped behind his head. “Look,” she said, “There’s a visitor here to see you!” She ushered me over and then quietly left the room.

The gentlemen opened and closed heavy lidded eyes. Deep grooves turned down from his mouth as if it had been locked into a position of sadness for a long time. “My name is Heart Throb,” I said softly. His eyes opened and closed. “I’m just going to dust your TV for you.” I ran my green feather duster over it for a bit. His eyes, a worn blue, focused for a second on the TV and then closed. I thought he saw me, but I couldn’t be sure. “Well,” I said, going over to stand beside him, “I’ll be going now. I hope you will remember that a clown brought you love today,” and I touched the top of his hand lightly. It seemed to me that the tension in the muscles around his eyebrows relaxed.

In the hall, I thanked the nurse for asking me to make the visit, and I said I wasn’t able to cheer him. She nodded her head to say she understood and went off to see her other patients.

At home that night, writing in my clown journal, I kept wondering what else I could have done. Maybe I could have sung to him. Or played the little music box I carry in my bag. As I sat there thinking, a rule we learned in clown school came back to me: Never touch the patient without asking permission. Remember, the doctors and nurses will be coming into the room all the time to perform medical procedures. Your job is to honor the patient’s need for privacy and personal space.

Was it possible that he didn’t like my touching his hand? Yes, it was. Or maybe, the non-invasive touch was a relief. Perhaps it registered as love. I have no way of knowing. As a caring clown, I’m not going to reach every patient. And I’m not always going to do the perfect thing. That’s okay. It’s part of the job. It never keeps me from looking forward to my next chance to visit patients.