I Feel Good Helping People
[big]A Christmas Story (2009)[/big]
The house was empty and quiet. Because of this, I volunteered to work today, in an effort to keep my self busy and occupied– figuring that if I did so, I would be able to distract myself from the reality of my children not being here with me today. In my line of work, we transport folks who are wheelchair bound, or medically challenged and cannot transport themselves. Today was no different, except that instead of the medical insurance footing the bill, it was private pay billing. I only had two runs, transporting a wheelchair bound elderly woman who appeared to me to have suffered a stroke and couldn’t talk anymore or barely even move, to Stephentown, NY, to spend a few hours with her family for the holiday, and then back again.
Heading out, I picked her up from the nursing facility, and in my usual manner of good cheer, strapped the chair down, and told her what was happening. “Next stop, Stephentown!” I announced when all done, and leaped from the van lift, closing up the door as she smiled and laughed. We had an uneventful trip out, and I chatted with her, making sure she was doing okay in the back, as I navigated the winding secondary roads that lead me from Lenox, MA to Stephentown, NY. When I arrived, the family greeted me, and I unloaded her onto their porch from the van, where they wheeled her in. She was in great spirits.
I returned back to the base, and chatted with the dispatcher for a few moments before heading home. Once home, I discovered that my father had called, and I immediately called him back. After all, he spoke with one son, might as well get a shot at the other. After a nice conversation, and sharing of all the recent news in both of our lives [his being the better of the two, thanks to him retiring in March], it came time for me to once again head out and pick up the client and transport her back home to the nursing facility.
I pulled up a few moments early, and told them as they came out to greet me that there was no rush, and please feel free to take as much time as they wanted. They packed her up, and wheeled her out to the porch, bringing her to me, to load onto the van. She began… well, there’s no better way to describe it except… keening… a mournful wailing and crying. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to return to the nursing home.
I locked the chair into place, and paused for a moment, as her grandchildren are asking her not to cry. I look her in the eye, my own eyes tearing up. “I don’t want to take you from your family, but I have to. If there was any way to keep you here, I would. I’m sorry.” I leap from the van, and before raising the lift, I turn to the family, my eyes still brimming with tears. “She’s breaking my heart. Before I close the door, if anyone wants to give her one last hug…?” Her grand-daughter enters the van, and hugs her, telling her how much she loves her, and that she’d see her soon. I close up the van, and I begin the trip back to the nursing home, with her crying in the back of the van for nearly the entire trip.
I cried nearly the entire trip myself… because I understood her pain, her lament. She was being separated from her family, to a place that I am sure she didn't want to be, alone. And it brought up all the hurt and pain and anguish that I had been keeping under wraps, going through this day without my children— being a week and a half without my children.
When we returned, as I undid her chair, I looked her in the eye, and told her that I understood her sadness more than she knew, and shared that I was without my children today, and that she was fortunate that her own children loved her so much that they paid me to bring her. That it was my honor and privilege to have been her driver today, and I was glad to have shared just a few moments with her and her family together for this holiday. That she shouldn't be sad, but grateful for the hours she did get with them. I wheeled her inside, with her expression completely changed.
As I said goodbye, she tried so hard to tell me something… and I knew it was thanking me, and best wishes for getting to see my children again. She raised the one hand she still could move a little, it trembling mere inches from her lap. I knew she wanted me to take it… so I did. She squeezed with reassurance, comforting me in the only way she could, and with a smile on her face. Tearing up again, as the nurses looked on amazed because she seemed to have forged this connection with me, I told her I had to go… but I hoped that I would see her again, and that I think I understood what she was trying to tell me. She beamed a wide smile, and waved to me once I let go.
I cried on the way home. But I am so glad that she and I met today.
The house was empty and quiet. Because of this, I volunteered to work today, in an effort to keep my self busy and occupied– figuring that if I did so, I would be able to distract myself from the reality of my children not being here with me today. In my line of work, we transport folks who are wheelchair bound, or medically challenged and cannot transport themselves. Today was no different, except that instead of the medical insurance footing the bill, it was private pay billing. I only had two runs, transporting a wheelchair bound elderly woman who appeared to me to have suffered a stroke and couldn’t talk anymore or barely even move, to Stephentown, NY, to spend a few hours with her family for the holiday, and then back again.
Heading out, I picked her up from the nursing facility, and in my usual manner of good cheer, strapped the chair down, and told her what was happening. “Next stop, Stephentown!” I announced when all done, and leaped from the van lift, closing up the door as she smiled and laughed. We had an uneventful trip out, and I chatted with her, making sure she was doing okay in the back, as I navigated the winding secondary roads that lead me from Lenox, MA to Stephentown, NY. When I arrived, the family greeted me, and I unloaded her onto their porch from the van, where they wheeled her in. She was in great spirits.
I returned back to the base, and chatted with the dispatcher for a few moments before heading home. Once home, I discovered that my father had called, and I immediately called him back. After all, he spoke with one son, might as well get a shot at the other. After a nice conversation, and sharing of all the recent news in both of our lives [his being the better of the two, thanks to him retiring in March], it came time for me to once again head out and pick up the client and transport her back home to the nursing facility.
I pulled up a few moments early, and told them as they came out to greet me that there was no rush, and please feel free to take as much time as they wanted. They packed her up, and wheeled her out to the porch, bringing her to me, to load onto the van. She began… well, there’s no better way to describe it except… keening… a mournful wailing and crying. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to return to the nursing home.
I locked the chair into place, and paused for a moment, as her grandchildren are asking her not to cry. I look her in the eye, my own eyes tearing up. “I don’t want to take you from your family, but I have to. If there was any way to keep you here, I would. I’m sorry.” I leap from the van, and before raising the lift, I turn to the family, my eyes still brimming with tears. “She’s breaking my heart. Before I close the door, if anyone wants to give her one last hug…?” Her grand-daughter enters the van, and hugs her, telling her how much she loves her, and that she’d see her soon. I close up the van, and I begin the trip back to the nursing home, with her crying in the back of the van for nearly the entire trip.
I cried nearly the entire trip myself… because I understood her pain, her lament. She was being separated from her family, to a place that I am sure she didn't want to be, alone. And it brought up all the hurt and pain and anguish that I had been keeping under wraps, going through this day without my children— being a week and a half without my children.
When we returned, as I undid her chair, I looked her in the eye, and told her that I understood her sadness more than she knew, and shared that I was without my children today, and that she was fortunate that her own children loved her so much that they paid me to bring her. That it was my honor and privilege to have been her driver today, and I was glad to have shared just a few moments with her and her family together for this holiday. That she shouldn't be sad, but grateful for the hours she did get with them. I wheeled her inside, with her expression completely changed.
As I said goodbye, she tried so hard to tell me something… and I knew it was thanking me, and best wishes for getting to see my children again. She raised the one hand she still could move a little, it trembling mere inches from her lap. I knew she wanted me to take it… so I did. She squeezed with reassurance, comforting me in the only way she could, and with a smile on her face. Tearing up again, as the nurses looked on amazed because she seemed to have forged this connection with me, I told her I had to go… but I hoped that I would see her again, and that I think I understood what she was trying to tell me. She beamed a wide smile, and waved to me once I let go.
I cried on the way home. But I am so glad that she and I met today.
56-60, M
