On The Other Hand

By Connie A. Anast

I’ve forgotten a lot of things in my life, and I am certain that you, dear readers, have too. Keys, birthdays, important paperwork, even my purse, just to name a few. But I’ve been thinking about something since I started working at a local hospital.

I think we, as Americans, have forgotten how to deal with each other.

Think about it: what are the most popular shows right now being broadcast on television? Survivor, MTV’s Real World, and Road Rules, Who Wants to be a Millionaire, Big Brother, Greed - we are watching people going about their daily lives, or in some circumstances one particular opportunity to change their lives profoundly. We watch, and detach ourselves from our own lives, to step into these strangers’ existence, and live with them, or through them, for an hour or two each week.

What ever happened to talking to one another? When did we begin to distance ourselves so fruitlessly from our neighbors, even friendly strangers, shopkeepers, bus drivers, and all the "real" people in our "real" worlds? We email our friends rather than pick up a phone, or even a pad and paper. It’s amazing how relatives who live 15 minutes apart don’t see each other for months on end.

It all came to a climax when I received a copy of the letter I have included at the end of this months’ column. This was not sent to the hospital I work in, but was being circulated to all our staff as a reminder. I started realizing that people are getting forgotten behind the paperwork and that the people in our communities are not numbers.

The only solution is to take pride in our own existence enough to stop indulging the norm. I don’t need another TV, I need more note cards and stamps. I’ve made a concerted effort to visit my mother twice a week, at least, since I drive by her house on the way home from work. Why shouldn’t I, she gave birth to me after all - hours and hours of hard labor - you can guess where it goes from there.

Please read the letter below and apply it’s meaning to whatever job you are working in now. I think you will find it very enlightening.

Love to you all.

He’s My Dad

To Each Staff Member of this Facility:

As you pick up that chart today and scan that green Medicaid card, I hope you will remember what I am about to say.

I spent yesterday with you. I was there with my mother and father. We didn’t know where we were supposed to go or what we were supposed to do, for we had never needed your services before. We have never before been labeled charity. I watched yesterday as my dad became a diagnosis, a chart, a case number, a charity case labeled "no sponsor" because he had no health insurance.

I saw a weak man stand in line, waiting for five hours to be shuffled through a system of impatient office workers, a burned-out nursing staff and a budget-scarce facility, being robbed of any dignity and pride he may have had left. I was amazed how impersonal your staff was, huffing and blowing when the patient did not present the correct form, speaking carelessly of other patients’ cases in front of passerby, of lunch breaks that would be spent away from this "poor man’s hell".

My dad is only a green card, a file number to clutter our desk on appointment day, a patient who will ask for directions twice after they’ve been mechanically given the first time. But, no, that’s not really my dad. That’s only what you see.

What you don’t see is a cabinetmaker since the age of 14, a self-employed man who has a wonderful wife, four grown kids (who visit too much) and five grandchildren (with two more on the way) - all of whom think their "pop" is the greatest. This man is everything a daddy should be - strong and firm, yet tender, rough around the edges, a country boy, yet respected by prominent business owners.

He’s my Dad, the man who raised me through thick and thin, gave me away as a bride, held my children at their births, stuffed a $20 bill into my hand when times were tough and comforted me when I cried. Now we are told that before long, cancer will take this man away from us.

You may say these are the words of a grieving daughter lashing out in helplessness at the prospect of losing a loved one. I would not disagree. Yet I would urge you not to discount what I say. Never lose sight of the people behind your charts. Each chart represents a person - with feelings, a history, a life - whom you have the power to touch for one day, by your words and actions. Tomorrow it may be your loved one - your relative or neighbor - who turns into a case number, a green card, a name to be marked off with a yellow marker as done for the day.

I pray you will reward the next person you greet at your station with a kind word or smile because that person is someone’s dad, husband, wife, mother, son, or daughter - or simply because he or she is human being, created and loved by God, just as you are.