Nighttime at the Hospital

I was twelve.  I had shredded the meniscus in my right knee doing my stellar junior high cheerleader moves.  Arthroscopic surgery was in the near future, but would not arrive in time for me.  I needed surgery.  The old-fashioned, kind-of-a-big-deal kind.  In those days it meant five nights in the hospital.  A night before to prep for the big day, and four to recuperate enough to go home.

I was twelve.  I should have been old enough to be fine on my own.  I should have been.  But I’ll admit it.  I did not like the hospital at night.  The daytime was fine.  There were nurses in and out, and hovering parents, intercom announcements, and meals like clockwork. 

But the night…

The nights were quiet, and parents were shooed out to go home and “let her rest.”  The lights were dimmed and nurses clung to their station.  Even at twelve years of age, I was lonely, in pain, and a wee bit afraid.  Even at twelve.

Imagine for a moment what very young children in the hospital experience in the dim hours of the night.  It is dark, too quiet, and hours to drag on allowing them to focus on their discomfort.  At least hospitals have made great leaps in terms of parents allowed to stay with their child, and comfortable, inviting rooms.  The hospital in which I am a volunteer has done an amazing job of creating an atmosphere of ease and comfort. 

But I think nights must still be challenging, regardless. 

I had an idea a few weeks ago that I think might help in this very area.  Next week, I will fill my bag with “Goodnight, Moon” (Brown), “Guess How Much I Love You” (McBratney), and “It’s Time to Sleep, My Love” (Tillman), along with other bedtime classics, and head to the hospital late in the evening to read to young patients.  It is my hope that the magic of those and other lyrical classics will soothe fevered brows, and make eyelids heavy.  My wonderful volunteers are onboard, too.  I am hoping we can get in to read to sleepy children several nights a week this summer, spread between volunteers.  I am hoping it will help ease wee ones into those nighttime hours.

Here’s where you can help.  I am hoping some who read this will feel compelled to donate books or money to purchase some classic bedtime stories.  I just found and ordered some of the aforementioned books for very reasonable prices.  If you would like to be a part of this new venture, please consider helping us grow our “bedtime story inventory.” Please see the "Wish List" tab for titles (scroll to the bottom of the page.)  Or send us your favorite.

You have blessed many children already with your wonderful donations.  I know you will help us again, and make nights just a little easier for precious tots. 

Blessings,

Vonda

Please send checks/books to:

Project Armchair

PO Box 826

Mandan, ND  58554

The Atlanta Airport and Project Armchair

I spent this weekend in Atlanta attending a really good reading conference, as conferences go. Sometimes you spend two days wondering why in the world you missed work to attend such a time-waster.  This was not the case.  I loved it.  And Atlanta in May is something to behold.  Eighty degrees and flowering Magnolia trees do the heart good.  Especially when you hear that it’s snowing at home. 

Yesterday morning I didn’t oversleep, got myself dressed and packed in good time, checked out of the hotel, and found a taxi to shuttle me to the airport.  I was feeling pretty darn proud of myself for being so cosmopolitan and efficient. 

I thought the check-in desks were doing a brisk business for 6:15 a.m. (“busy airport” back home means the lady in front of you forgot that she packed her rheumatism medicine in her check-in bag and needs to fish it out, thus holding up the line, such as it is).  I checked my suitcase and headed to the security checkpoint.  As I read the signs for security, more and more people began to swirl around me, like minnows in a tide pool.  Generally, if I don’t know where I am going, I just start following the masses, assuming SOMEONE in the group knows.  I adopted this survival skill once again.  The pack and I were stopped by personnel before long and told that the security station we were seeking was not usable.  We were told to head the other direction and try another one.  The pack and I dutifully obeyed and wandered until we sighted a line ahead.  A very, very long line.  Did I mention it was long?? And growing exponentially by the minute. 

The line soon snaked around the first three baggage claim carousels.  Then carousels #’s four and five.  Soon the entire baggage claim area was flooded with frustrated, disbelieving passengers.  We were so far away from the actual security check-point that it was not even visible.  I may or may not have overheard a few expletives.  The tension in the air was palpable.  Tempers were sizzling.  The poor business man behind me conveyed that his flight was boarding at that very moment.  It left before he even got through security. 

In the chaos of that scene, I suddenly heard the soft strains of… stringed music?  I set my carry-on down for a moment to give my screaming shoulder a rest and craned my neck to try to detect the source.  Not far behind me, there in the corner, stood a young woman.  She couldn’t have been more than twenty-something.  She had a music stand in front of her and was playing classical music, with eyes closed, and a soft smile on her face.  She seemed sweetly oblivious to the maelstrom around her. 

There was something so charming and peaceful and utterly out of place about the scene.  I have grown to expect Hip Hop blaring out of somebody’s earbuds.  Classical music, not so much.  As I stood trying to watch her, even as the lines lunged and lurched forward, I felt the tension around me dissipate.  Saw it melt from the faces around me.  Sensed it roll off my own shoulders.  That sweet, young angel had done something good.  It felt a little magical.

I couldn’t help but connect that scene to the children my team and I read to every week.  It has always been my hope, my dream, my goal, that we would have the same therapeutic effect on those precious, confused, suffering, frustrated children.  That they would crane their necks searching for the source of magic, and find one of us; there… in the corner.  A joy on our face that infuses them with hope.  A hope that brings serenity in the midst of cacophony.

Thank you, Airport Angel, for brightening my day.  I hope we do the same for others.

I found a story about her in a Google search - her name is Jennifer Warrilaw

Project Armchair

The sun streams through tall windows in yellow shafts of warmth.  The room is quiet, save for the gentle tick of the mantle clock, and speckles of golden dust float noiselessly in the vacuum of sound.  The chair is massive, soft, and well-worn; like the hug of an old, fuzzy bear.  A child is there, lost in the hug of the chair, mesmerized by the hush of the sanctuary.  The book in his lap is a portal to another universe.  One without pain,  fear, or uncertainty.  The child in the enormous chair does not hear the tick of the clock or see the golden specks that float around his head.  He is only cognizant of the place he has entered through The Portal.  His heart is light and his world at peace.  For this magic, sacred moment, all is well.

I  walked into Room 658 on the pediatric floor of the red-bricked hospital.  The child is obviously ill.  Eyes are clouded, lethargy dominates.  Parents share tired, worried expressions.  "Hi, I am Mrs. Dahl.  I am a reading teacher and the nurse's station said you might be interested in having your child read to."  Surprised expressions and then weary half-smiles.  "Sure, that would be nice."  I lay three or four age-appropriate books in front of the child and a tiny, fevered finger points to a bright cover.  

I never ask about the illness.  Let the weary children and parents have a moment's reprieve from the nightmare.  There are people enough to agitate the waters of worry.

I read the title and open the front cover.  Once the story begins I can feel child and adult alike pulled into the melodic rhythm of the text and the beautiful accompanying illustrations.  Soon there are smiles - even giggles, and looks of delighted surprise from exhausted parents' eyes.  And for those golden, brief, priceless moments, there are no beeping machines, no IV tethers, and no grim prognoses.  There is only the magic of the written word and the visual splendor of artful illustrations.

When we have finished and I whisper, "The End," I hand the book to the child, see the gratitude on the face of the parent, and smile brightly, hoping to wordlessly convey HOPE.

And occasionally as I walk out the door, I hear the flip of a page and a childish voice retelling the story, just as I had read it to them moments before.  I smile to myself because I know that child has entered The Portal where the written word has transported them to an island of peace.