
After almost every room visit and patient interaction during clown doctor rounds, I’ll jot down some notes in crayon on the small pad I keep in the pocket of Dr. Fun E. Bone’s lab coat.
Why crayon? It’s the only writing utensil I’ve got with me, usually used to draw blood, do x-rays, write tickets to the ER or ICU, give IV’s, or make brownies (brown E’s) — silly, literal, simple stuff. (Don’t think too deeply on those; remember they come from the Chief of Stupidity.)
The notes catch the essence of the encounter, and I use them to remember, reflect, and learn. I might capture a funny bit, a playful improvisation, a joke the patient told, a moment of grace or joy or ah-ha or ha-ha, or a surprising turn that I can store in my memory bank or medicine bag to call on again sometime in the future.
Things sometimes happen so quickly, spontaneously, or surprisingly that unless I stop and think about it right afterwards, I might not catch all that went on. The crayon and pad are my simple mind’s flash drive memory, my journal on-the-fly.
Here are a couple of stories from recent clown doctor rounds, courtesy my crayon and pad.
The other day, I checked in at the first nurses’ station in the Emergency Department and was told about a 9-year old boy. He’d been in the ER for several days. My jaw dropped. Wow, there must be a lot going on there.
The nurse noticed my shock, so I asked if there was anything I needed to know (I never ask and generally don't need to know anything about the patient's condition) and she added, “he’s kind of aggressive.” Would he be up for a visit? “You might want to check with his nurse,” although there wasn’t a lot of hope in her voice. I noticed his room was dark, then checked with his nurse, who shrugged, “You could give it a try.”
I’m all-in for kids like this. That’s why the clown doctor is always in.
I knocked on the door, said hi, it’s Dr. Fun E. Bone, are you up for a visit? Although the room was dark, I could see a figure rush to the door and flip on the lights. There he was, big smile, right in my face. He told me his name, and we fist-bumped.
The room was full of videos and video games, so I knew it was time to play. He was a livewire. I introduced him to my lovely assistant and rubber chicken, Dr. Fowlbreath, and he was all over her. His hands were quick like lightning, so I had to measure my distance and be quicker than he was with my reflexes.
“What’s in there?” as he dove for my medicine bag just outside the door. Here, sit on the bed and I’ll show you. So, rapid fire, we did some card tricks, made up magic words, tried some clown doctor magic, and told some jokes (his made-up jokes were the best). All the while, his big brown eyes stayed wide and focused on me.
Told him it was time to go, I had to see more patients. We hugged, and he said, “Bye bye, Dr. Fun E. Bone.” Do you want me to leave the lights on? “Yes, please.”
Another day, I had completed rounds and was in the hospital’s main lobby, making a paper napkin rose for a teenage hospital volunteer playing the piano. I saw a woman (I’ve stopped describing people as ‘older’ when they’re about the same age as I am) approach me out of the corner of my eye; she had a little grin on her face.
“Do you just visit children? Would you visit my brother? He’s having a tough time right now.”
Of course I would! I go wherever I’m requested or invited.
He was facing some impending bad news, or even worse news, and she thought he could use a little uplift and distraction. We headed up to the Trauma ICU, someplace I’d never visited before. The nurses were amused and assured me a visit would be OK.
She led me into the room, introduced me, and he broke into a big grin that he tried to stifle but couldn’t. Along with the silly stuff, I did a lot of listening. He was full of stories about all the doctors he’d seen over the years. Then he motioned to me to have a seat “and tell me the news” – I think he half expected some real medical news – and I went through the good news and the bad news: The bad news is, I've got no good news. But the good news is, I've got no bad news. A sigh, followed by a grin and a snicker.
After a few card tricks and a blood draw, we shook hands, hugged, and took some pictures. The mood in the room was decidedly different from when I strolled in. There were tears of appreciation in the woman’s eyes. “Thank you, doctor.” It was indeed my pleasure and honor.
I just celebrated my 5th anniversary of doing clown doctor rounds at Salem Hospital (Salem, Oregon). When I was there Tuesday, I told the PEDS nurses “Happy 5th Anniversary of putting up with me!” and made them a red nose rose.
Why crayon? It’s the only writing utensil I’ve got with me, usually used to draw blood, do x-rays, write tickets to the ER or ICU, give IV’s, or make brownies (brown E’s) — silly, literal, simple stuff. (Don’t think too deeply on those; remember they come from the Chief of Stupidity.)
The notes catch the essence of the encounter, and I use them to remember, reflect, and learn. I might capture a funny bit, a playful improvisation, a joke the patient told, a moment of grace or joy or ah-ha or ha-ha, or a surprising turn that I can store in my memory bank or medicine bag to call on again sometime in the future.
Things sometimes happen so quickly, spontaneously, or surprisingly that unless I stop and think about it right afterwards, I might not catch all that went on. The crayon and pad are my simple mind’s flash drive memory, my journal on-the-fly.
Here are a couple of stories from recent clown doctor rounds, courtesy my crayon and pad.
The other day, I checked in at the first nurses’ station in the Emergency Department and was told about a 9-year old boy. He’d been in the ER for several days. My jaw dropped. Wow, there must be a lot going on there.
The nurse noticed my shock, so I asked if there was anything I needed to know (I never ask and generally don't need to know anything about the patient's condition) and she added, “he’s kind of aggressive.” Would he be up for a visit? “You might want to check with his nurse,” although there wasn’t a lot of hope in her voice. I noticed his room was dark, then checked with his nurse, who shrugged, “You could give it a try.”
I’m all-in for kids like this. That’s why the clown doctor is always in.
I knocked on the door, said hi, it’s Dr. Fun E. Bone, are you up for a visit? Although the room was dark, I could see a figure rush to the door and flip on the lights. There he was, big smile, right in my face. He told me his name, and we fist-bumped.
The room was full of videos and video games, so I knew it was time to play. He was a livewire. I introduced him to my lovely assistant and rubber chicken, Dr. Fowlbreath, and he was all over her. His hands were quick like lightning, so I had to measure my distance and be quicker than he was with my reflexes.
“What’s in there?” as he dove for my medicine bag just outside the door. Here, sit on the bed and I’ll show you. So, rapid fire, we did some card tricks, made up magic words, tried some clown doctor magic, and told some jokes (his made-up jokes were the best). All the while, his big brown eyes stayed wide and focused on me.
Told him it was time to go, I had to see more patients. We hugged, and he said, “Bye bye, Dr. Fun E. Bone.” Do you want me to leave the lights on? “Yes, please.”
Another day, I had completed rounds and was in the hospital’s main lobby, making a paper napkin rose for a teenage hospital volunteer playing the piano. I saw a woman (I’ve stopped describing people as ‘older’ when they’re about the same age as I am) approach me out of the corner of my eye; she had a little grin on her face.
“Do you just visit children? Would you visit my brother? He’s having a tough time right now.”
Of course I would! I go wherever I’m requested or invited.
He was facing some impending bad news, or even worse news, and she thought he could use a little uplift and distraction. We headed up to the Trauma ICU, someplace I’d never visited before. The nurses were amused and assured me a visit would be OK.
She led me into the room, introduced me, and he broke into a big grin that he tried to stifle but couldn’t. Along with the silly stuff, I did a lot of listening. He was full of stories about all the doctors he’d seen over the years. Then he motioned to me to have a seat “and tell me the news” – I think he half expected some real medical news – and I went through the good news and the bad news: The bad news is, I've got no good news. But the good news is, I've got no bad news. A sigh, followed by a grin and a snicker.
After a few card tricks and a blood draw, we shook hands, hugged, and took some pictures. The mood in the room was decidedly different from when I strolled in. There were tears of appreciation in the woman’s eyes. “Thank you, doctor.” It was indeed my pleasure and honor.
I just celebrated my 5th anniversary of doing clown doctor rounds at Salem Hospital (Salem, Oregon). When I was there Tuesday, I told the PEDS nurses “Happy 5th Anniversary of putting up with me!” and made them a red nose rose.