Accepting Death

I knock on the open door of a room where  a gentleman with curly white hair is sitting in the chair beside his bed. He holds his shoulders pressed back as if he wishes to maintain proper posture.
Or perhaps he is one of those people who possesses a regal carriage.

"Well, well, what have we here," he calls out to me.

"Oh, I'm just stopping by to make sure you are having fun!"

"Right. I'm regaled with pleasure. Come in. Aren't you a breath of fresh air, my dear. What ever is that contraption hanging around your neck?"

"Oh, this? This is the high powered stethoscope I use to listen to patients' hearts. I'm a heart specialist."

He sits up even straighter in his chair and places his hand on his chest. "Capital. No one has listened to my heart today."

"Great," I say, going over to his chair. "This stethoscope has some of the same technology they used in the space shuttle so it's very accurate." I place my red sink plunger on top of his hospital gown on the side of his chest. "Now just breathe deeply." I listen. "Oh, wow.This is amazing. Could you take one more breath so I can hear that again?"

He obliges, leaning his ear to that side as though he might be able to listen in. Drawing back, I say, "Your heart sounds great, PLUS, there is something very unusual about it. Gosh, this is so rare. I've  only had this happen one other time in a thousand cases."

"What is that?" He is looking at me with raised eyebrows and clear blue eyes.

"Your heart is singing!"

"Ah, yes," he says, nodding, not surprised.

"Did you already know you have a singing heart?"

"Well, I don't doubt it, that's all. Because I am a singer. I sang in the choir for fifty-two years."

"Really! Do you feel like singing something for me?"

"Certainly, I'd be charmed," he says and closes his eyes. In a sweet, strong tenor, he sings, "Ave Maria," his voice full of chapel light.

"Oh," I say, clapping, "that was beautiful. You really are a singer. Do you perform for audiences?"

"Well, not since I fell ill." He shifts slightly in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "I had some bad news this morning. Five doctors consulted, and they all came up with the same conclusion. I am going to die soon."

"No!" The word flies out of my mouth and my arms fall to my sides.

"Don't look so sad," he says, gently. "You're a clown."  

All week, I've been playing back this encounter in my mind, asking myself what a clown's relationship to Death is. As a hospital clown, I have been trained how to sit with a dying patient and breathe with him in his final minutes, if need be. I have been taught to listen, hold a hand, talk about it, or not talk about it, in general to be supportive of what the patient wants at that moment. I know that it is okay to cry with a patient.

Possibly what my gentleman meant when he said, "Don't be so sad. You're a clown" was that Death can't beat down a clown's spirit. A clown knows Death is always close by. If she chooses, she can cock her innocent head to one side and play in the face of it.


What happened next at the hospital was that having taken a deep breath, I said, "You know what?" I see your nurse in the hall. I'd like to call her in---to hear you sing something. And I'd like to hear you again. Would you mind?"

"Why, no," he said. "I'd be delighted."      

"You're Not a Real Clown"

Last Thursday at the hospital, as I pushed my cart down the hall in
pediatrics, a small boy, holding the hand of a young woman, came out of one
of the rooms to see me. His dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses made him
look like a small version of Harry Potter. Because some children are afraid
of clowns, I stopped and waved but stayed beside the cart instead of
approaching him.
Coming closer, the child pointed at my lime green scrubs, stating in a loud
voice, “That’s just a costume.” And pointing at the patches around my eyes,
“That’s just white paint. And that rabbit sitting on your arm, that’s a
puppet.”
I have to admit that in spite of attending six weeks of hospital clown
school where I studied the history of clowning, how to apply clown makeup,
create a costume, a clown walk, work with a puppet, do clown magic, develop
a character, incorporate methods of improvisational theater, and adapt
clowning techniques to a therapeutic setting—in spite of being mentored for
one year and clowning once a week for three years, I still worry that a
child will one day look at me and say, “You’re not a real clown.”
What am I dreading? I’m not exactly sure. I don’t want to feel like an
imitation of a clown. I’m aiming for a level of artistry where I am
thoroughly in my clown character, purely “Nurse Heart Throb.” But mine is
not simply an actor’s wish. I also aspire to honor the larger concept of
“Clowndom.” I want to please the Ethereal Clown Board, presided over by
Emmett Kelly, who will, when he looks down on me, elbow his buddies and say,
“Now there’s a real clown!” And by that he will mean that I am a clown from
the inside out, that I have the playful, loving, vulnerable, wonder-filled
instincts of a clown, that even if all I had for a costume was a red nose, I
would be believable.
And there’s more. Remember when you believed in Santa Claus? What if, when
you were a small child, sick and afraid, Santa Claus had come into your
hospital room, and instead of just dropping off a present, he stayed and
played quietly with you, made up a song with your name in it, maybe asked
you to help him do some magic? What if he listened to the heart of your
teddy bear with a North Pole stethoscope and said your bear was very, very
brave? Or put a fish sticker on your I.V. bag to turn it into an aquarium? I
want to step, however briefly, into that magical, healing space that
“believing’ creates.
Meanwhile, Harry Potter is calling us over . . .
“This is my son, Zachery, “ the young woman says, in a tone which suggests
that this little boy is a genius.
I bow to him. “How do you do, Zachery.”
Zachery glances past me at the cart, decorated with a large cardboard cut
out of a clown and bobbing helium balloons. He studies an array of objects
on the lower shelf of the cart.
“Would you like to try one of those?” I am about to offer a rubber reflex
tester that makes the sound of breaking bones upon contact with an arm, but
he chooses a magic wand.
“Bow,” he commands, waving the wand at me, and, of course, I do, as low as I
can go.
“Turn around three times,” he says, and I obey so fast that I stagger
dizzily into the wall. Zachery hoots in delight.
“You know, Sir Zachery, you really are very good with that wand. I wonder if
you’d like to wear a red nose?’
He nods yes, and I give him a sponge nose, which he puts on.
“And now,” he says, walking over to his mother, who has been watching him in
silent adoration, “ I am going to turn you into a cat—a nice cat, but
still—a cat!”

Watching Zachery wield his magic wand, I was reminded that the goal of
hospital clowning is to empower others. However and whenever that happens,
magic is in the air.