This last fall I started a job that epitomizes what I feel is the best use of a theatrical and artistic career: I clown for children at the hospital.
No, we don’t walk in and just start ignorantly trying to make children laugh through their tears. And as I’ve known quite a few people with Coulrophobia – the very real fear of clowns – I certainly respect this possibility in our wide range of interactions. But here we come, to entertain the children where they are and change the mood of the room we enter, be it in pre-op, post-op, regular appointment waiting rooms or extended stays. We walk in, armed with our classical training, to be there in times of high stress; to be there and, hopefully, make patients and families laugh or, at least, focus on something a little lighter for a little while.
The amount of memorable moments in the day . . . well, they’re plentiful. It’s everything good theater should be.
And I want to write about specific moments, and while I realize there’s no way to personally identify the patients involved, I still feel like it’s violating some rule to state anything at all about these interactions. Like, I can’t say anything at all.
But, knowing how much I talk in generalities, and that nothing specific can be garnered from the following words, I will venture to say that I love you guys: the multiple kids I’ve witnessed stop crying because your attention was turned to the squeaking bubbles; the catharsis grandmother; my autistic buddy who gave us potato chips because he loves clowns (which SO floored me considering I know so many more people who HATE clowns); the girl who called us back in to her room when she had to get a shot; the girl who hugged me after our furniture-rearranging party in the waiting room; the frequent flyers, with whom I’ve established different relationships; the squeaking nose girl; the kid who, through anesthetic stupor, completed his mission to share his joke from beginning to end of day; my own buddy from church; the girl I played basketball with (while you were in a wheelchair!!! YOU ROCK GIRL! LIKE, SERIOUSLY, YOU’RE AWESOME!); the kid who watched my first fumble-through with the monkey stick; the dad who kept stealing our balls to show us his own juggling skills; all of the kids lying helpless in pre-op (that still smile; I don’t know if it’s out of politeness or a genuine mini-vacation from the other crap happening around you, but either way, we’re here and you’re here and we connect); the kid who clapped for us, even though his anesthesia was already kicking in and his hands couldn’t find each other in the air; all of the kids who watch us glassy-eyed immediately out of post-op – no, you aren’t dreaming, yes, we are goofy, and yes, we’ll leave you alone to get ready to go home now; all the little girls who “hate” clowns but “love princesses” (my nose puts me in the first category but my makeup and wings apparently put me in the second); the kids I’ve bonded with over cat shoes; the poor girl who gave us the slow stink-eye because she thought we were going to steal her popsicle; all of the poor kids whose parents automatically wave “no” from your rooms but you prove wrong by deciding that yes, you do want to see us); and the babies. I love singing to you babies. I’ve watched you fall asleep, smile, track, and come alive. I’ve even had a mom hand her baby to me unexpectedly (and I was fascinated that he was fascinated by my nose and, yet, didn’t cry) and managed to make many a baby smile.
We go through training to prepare us for different roles: classical training prepares us for Shakespeare and Chekhov, improv prepares us for … stuff like this. The unexpected. Life. So where does theater make its biggest impact? When an audience goes home, emotionally changed and charged from the experience?
Nobody should have to spend time in the hospital, but if you do, it shouldn’t be miserable. Hopefully, we get to make it a little bit better.
Erika Diane 