It was a warm day, and I was weeding the beds in the yard along the curb. We live on a corner lot, so there’s lots of bed area along the street on two sides of the property. I’d had clown doctor rounds that morning.
A car pulled up and stopped at the corner to my left, but I didn’t hear anyone get out of the car . . . until I heard a voice from the other side of the bushes, “Mike, I need my clown therapist!” No, I wasn’t working in the yard in character; I’d cleaned up when I got home, so obviously this person knew me as Dr. Fun E. Bone.
I knew who it was right away. It was R, a lovely, jocular older lady from down the street who had just met Dr. Fun E. Bone for the first time the previous week. It was a chance encounter in the main lobby of the hospital as I was heading home after clown doctor rounds that day.
I saw R and her husband at a table up ahead, and I recognized right away who she was. She’d never seen me in character before so, as I approached, I walked closer and closer to their table, shuffled sideways as I sauntered by, and gave them a silly little grin and wave.
I try to make eye contact, smile, make a face, and engage everyone I pass in the halls while in character at the hospital. The red nose is my magnet; my eyes and face are the non-verbal communicators.
“Hey wait a second! Who are you, and what do you do around here?” she inquired.
I introduced myself, and said I was the Chief of Stupidity here. She laughed, but made no connection to me as her neighbor down the street.
She said that they’d been sitting there, watching everyone go by, trying to guess what each person did at the hospital and where they might be going. “But when I saw you,” she said, “I had no idea.”
I squatted down at their table and we chatted for a while. Then I revealed I was also her neighbor down the street, the one with the talkative mini schnauzers. My wife and I and the dogs walk the full neighborhood once or twice a day, but her house is not along our usual route. Her eyes lit up when she realized who I was behind that red nose. She wanted to hear all about my work as a clown doctor, so we chatted some more while I made her a paper napkin rose.
“They need you at the Cancer Institute.” When she said that, I knew that was why she was in the hospital that day. We talked about that a bit, the work I’ve done with cancer patients, my own battle and 16-years-and-counting survival, and what she was dealing with. During that time, her husband’s face changed from quietly amused to pensive and troubled. She was way braver and more upbeat than he was able to muster. I gave him a big “you can do this” clown doctor hug. He smiled weakly, some tears in his eyes, but grateful.
We agreed she’d let me know next time she was in for treatment, and we’d share stories and laughs. I’d be her personal clown therapist.
And that’s why she stopped at the street corner the other day – to say hello, get me caught up, and have a little impromptu session with her clown therapist.
I love this work I do, and I’m thankful for the gifts that enable me to do this clowning.
A car pulled up and stopped at the corner to my left, but I didn’t hear anyone get out of the car . . . until I heard a voice from the other side of the bushes, “Mike, I need my clown therapist!” No, I wasn’t working in the yard in character; I’d cleaned up when I got home, so obviously this person knew me as Dr. Fun E. Bone.
I knew who it was right away. It was R, a lovely, jocular older lady from down the street who had just met Dr. Fun E. Bone for the first time the previous week. It was a chance encounter in the main lobby of the hospital as I was heading home after clown doctor rounds that day.
I saw R and her husband at a table up ahead, and I recognized right away who she was. She’d never seen me in character before so, as I approached, I walked closer and closer to their table, shuffled sideways as I sauntered by, and gave them a silly little grin and wave.
I try to make eye contact, smile, make a face, and engage everyone I pass in the halls while in character at the hospital. The red nose is my magnet; my eyes and face are the non-verbal communicators.
“Hey wait a second! Who are you, and what do you do around here?” she inquired.
I introduced myself, and said I was the Chief of Stupidity here. She laughed, but made no connection to me as her neighbor down the street.
She said that they’d been sitting there, watching everyone go by, trying to guess what each person did at the hospital and where they might be going. “But when I saw you,” she said, “I had no idea.”
I squatted down at their table and we chatted for a while. Then I revealed I was also her neighbor down the street, the one with the talkative mini schnauzers. My wife and I and the dogs walk the full neighborhood once or twice a day, but her house is not along our usual route. Her eyes lit up when she realized who I was behind that red nose. She wanted to hear all about my work as a clown doctor, so we chatted some more while I made her a paper napkin rose.
“They need you at the Cancer Institute.” When she said that, I knew that was why she was in the hospital that day. We talked about that a bit, the work I’ve done with cancer patients, my own battle and 16-years-and-counting survival, and what she was dealing with. During that time, her husband’s face changed from quietly amused to pensive and troubled. She was way braver and more upbeat than he was able to muster. I gave him a big “you can do this” clown doctor hug. He smiled weakly, some tears in his eyes, but grateful.
We agreed she’d let me know next time she was in for treatment, and we’d share stories and laughs. I’d be her personal clown therapist.
And that’s why she stopped at the street corner the other day – to say hello, get me caught up, and have a little impromptu session with her clown therapist.
I love this work I do, and I’m thankful for the gifts that enable me to do this clowning.