A couple of nice moments while on clown doctor rounds last week . . .
Dr. Fowlbreath, my lovely assistant/rubber chicken, peeked her head in the PEDS room, slowly checking things out . . . whiteboard, ceiling, behind the door, trash, then a laser chicken focus on the patient. The giggles started, but they sounded like adults. Eventually, there was a “What?” in a younger voice. When Dr. FB was fully in the room, dragging me behnd her, I saw the teenage male patient in the bed, watching me, his hand frozen in place above his iPad. It was wrapped in gauze.
After making sure he hadn’t ordered chicken for breakfast, I introduced myself, and said “And you must be . . .” while I snuck a look at the whiteboard. Offered a fist bump, and he surprised me by using his bandaged hand. After a little chatting, and finding out it was mom and dad in the room with him, I did a simple card trick for them, then taught it to him. Swore him to magician’s secrecy and deputized him as an honorary clown doctor. With his suggestions, we gave awards to Mom and Dad – Lovely Assistant #2 and Captain Big Heart – and I thanked him for playing.
Dad came out in the hall later and came over to talk while I was between rooms. He was still chuckling. “That was so good for him!. He’s got an engineer and an accountant for parents and he takes things so seriously. This was really good for him. He might actually try to do that card trick. Thank you so much.” And then Dad told me about a card game I should try called Nuts, a competitive solitaire game. OK, I will!
Later that morning, the ICU waiting room was full of Islanders. It felt like one big extended family. When they all turned their gaze toward me, little smiles forming on their faces, I hid – in plain sight – behind a pillar, and started interacting playfully with boy, maybe 6, across the room. He was wearing a number 8 Oregon football t-shirt (Marcus Mariota), so I tiptoed over to admire it.
“Do you do magic?” OK, game on. I disappeared one of my legs. He was not impressed, and said, “That’s not magic.” I morphed into various funny faces behind my bandana. Same response, “That’s not magic.” I levitated both feet off the ground. Ta da! “That’s not magic.” I caught a solid bubble from a stream of bubbles from Dr. Bear . . . “That’s not a real bubble. That’s not magic.”
Told him, you’re right, that’s all just silly stuff.
Asked his dad who he and the rest of the family were there to visit. His uncle. So I made him a special flower, a paper napkin rose in a wild blue pattern, and told him and his son that “it was the only kind of flower allowed in the ICU.” The boy’s eyes got really wide, and he said, “Wow, now that’s magic!”
Said my good-byes, and on the way to the elevators I passed a little girl, probably about two and probably the boy’s cousin, who was watching me very closely with eyes wide. The boy was following close behind me. I stopped, smiled at her, squatted down to her eye level, got Dr. Bear out of my bag, and blew a steady stream of big bubbles her way. The boy went over to help her catch them.
Like magic.
Dr. Fowlbreath, my lovely assistant/rubber chicken, peeked her head in the PEDS room, slowly checking things out . . . whiteboard, ceiling, behind the door, trash, then a laser chicken focus on the patient. The giggles started, but they sounded like adults. Eventually, there was a “What?” in a younger voice. When Dr. FB was fully in the room, dragging me behnd her, I saw the teenage male patient in the bed, watching me, his hand frozen in place above his iPad. It was wrapped in gauze.
After making sure he hadn’t ordered chicken for breakfast, I introduced myself, and said “And you must be . . .” while I snuck a look at the whiteboard. Offered a fist bump, and he surprised me by using his bandaged hand. After a little chatting, and finding out it was mom and dad in the room with him, I did a simple card trick for them, then taught it to him. Swore him to magician’s secrecy and deputized him as an honorary clown doctor. With his suggestions, we gave awards to Mom and Dad – Lovely Assistant #2 and Captain Big Heart – and I thanked him for playing.
Dad came out in the hall later and came over to talk while I was between rooms. He was still chuckling. “That was so good for him!. He’s got an engineer and an accountant for parents and he takes things so seriously. This was really good for him. He might actually try to do that card trick. Thank you so much.” And then Dad told me about a card game I should try called Nuts, a competitive solitaire game. OK, I will!
Later that morning, the ICU waiting room was full of Islanders. It felt like one big extended family. When they all turned their gaze toward me, little smiles forming on their faces, I hid – in plain sight – behind a pillar, and started interacting playfully with boy, maybe 6, across the room. He was wearing a number 8 Oregon football t-shirt (Marcus Mariota), so I tiptoed over to admire it.
“Do you do magic?” OK, game on. I disappeared one of my legs. He was not impressed, and said, “That’s not magic.” I morphed into various funny faces behind my bandana. Same response, “That’s not magic.” I levitated both feet off the ground. Ta da! “That’s not magic.” I caught a solid bubble from a stream of bubbles from Dr. Bear . . . “That’s not a real bubble. That’s not magic.”
Told him, you’re right, that’s all just silly stuff.
Asked his dad who he and the rest of the family were there to visit. His uncle. So I made him a special flower, a paper napkin rose in a wild blue pattern, and told him and his son that “it was the only kind of flower allowed in the ICU.” The boy’s eyes got really wide, and he said, “Wow, now that’s magic!”
Said my good-byes, and on the way to the elevators I passed a little girl, probably about two and probably the boy’s cousin, who was watching me very closely with eyes wide. The boy was following close behind me. I stopped, smiled at her, squatted down to her eye level, got Dr. Bear out of my bag, and blew a steady stream of big bubbles her way. The boy went over to help her catch them.
Like magic.
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