| ROSIE AND ME |
| School took on a new dimension for my friend Rosie, when we entered Grade 8. Our English teacher was a mile high and his hair was a riot of undisciplined brown curls. He filled our classroom with excitement and all the girls thought he had a smile to die for. His name was Mr. Blake. The others called him The Dude, but to Rosie he was her gift from God. Mr. Blake believed in the power of the individual. He was always quoting the politician who had said "Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country."It did not take Rosie long to realize that, in order to impress her beloved, she must engage in good deeds. She decided to become a volunteer. "We'll be candy-stripers," she said. "We! What do you mean? I'm not going to be a candy striper," I told her. "I don't like sick people." But, although Rosie never ran with the pack she refused to travel alone, so we became candy stripers. The duties we were allowed to perform were limited and Rosie was disappointed that we were not allowed to administer needles. Instead we hovered around the ward relentlessly. We plumped up the pillows that the patients had carefully flattened to their satisfaction. We spilled fresh ice water on their get-well cards. We flaunted our healthy bodies and engaged in a barrage of false chatter. It was a thankless job. The patients were either asleep or in too much pain to appreciate our efforts to brighten their day. Even the nurses accused us of getting in their way. Eventually I told Rosie "I don't want to do this any more. The lady in the corner bed just threatened to throw her false teeth at me, if I don't leave her alone. "Rosie was surprised. "You're doing something wrong," she said. "Everyone likes me." "You stay then," I said. "I'm calling my mother to drive me home." My mother was disappointed. She suggested a solution. "Why don't you and Rosie transfer to a different ward." We thought about it. I would have preferred the maternity ward but Rosie did not agree. She watched old westerns on the TV and so she knew all about childbirth. "All that blood and screaming," she shuddered. "Rosie," I said. "This is 1969 you know." "Well," my mother explained trying to be helpful. "It's still painful but . . . " Rosie had heard enough. "The maternity ward is out," she said. "We will work with the Gerry Attics." When we told the head nurse of Rosie's decision she seemed strangely pleased and waved us a cheerful goodbye! We visited the elderly once a week. Rosie created her own duties. She breezed into the ward and plunked herself down beside the patients in turn listening to their personal histories. I bustled around attending to more mundane matters, finding things, arranging flowers, reading letters and making 'a nice cuppa tea.' "What do they talk about?" I asked her. "I have no idea." "You always look so interested." "It's a gift I have," she said and kept right on volunteering even though Mr. Blake didn't seem to be impressed. copyright 2001 Brenda Ross |
| The Candy-Stripers |
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