How can I help you?

Chatting with a friend's daughter tonight, we realized we share a connection. She's been volunteering at the same hospital I did in high school, and our chatter sent me spinning back to a time I hadn't thought of in a long time.

I was a Candy Striper. It wasn't enough that I pulled on a plaid, pleated skirt every morning. On Saturday mornings, I sported a red and white striped pinafore--as awkward as it sounds--plus a blouse with a mickey mouse collar and tube socks. I was by no means a confident teen, but I answered calls to the volunteer office and marched my uniformed self up and down the halls with great contentment.  

I've visited hospitals since then, but those were journeys through thick fog, and I remember less of the scenery. Tonight, I recalled strolling through halls with the book cart. Lego deliveries to the children's wing. I knew the main routes and short cuts. The nursing stations, where people lingered and fingers tapped keyboards. There were waiting rooms with people passing time, where the TV was too low to hear and too high to ignore. I feel sorry, now, as I realize how much pain I walked briskly by. I didn't know how long they'd already waited or what questions swirled round in their heads. I was too busy feeling self-assured as a member of a special club.

On the bright side, I'll always remember the calls from the maternity wing: requests for discharge. It was joyous indeed to navigate a wheelchair for mothers and their newborns. I took care not to catch them in the elevator door, to provide a smooth ride, as if that was their greatest worry. "Good-bye and good luck," I might have said as they drove away. Then I'd head back to the office and wait for the phone to ring again.