The Days of Wine and Rosie’s

In the summer of 1982 my sister Sheila and I worked as waitresses at Rosie O’Grady’s in midtown Manhattan.

Rosie’s was a haven for all those Irish and all those who wished to be. Co-owners Mike Carty and Austin Delaney both Irish-born, could always be counted on to find work for a new arrival, fresh off the plane from their homeland, sometimes holding nothing more than a few dollars in their pocket and hope in their heart.

Everyone, sooner or later found their way to Rosie’s. It was that sort of place.

My father Bill Dickinson, was General Manager and suggested that a stint learning the restaurant business would be a summer well spent for my sister and me. So on a hot afternoon clad in white blouse, black skirt and comfortable shoes we left our Long Island home headed to W. 52nd Street, NYC.

That summer almost forty years ago, remains one of my fondest and most cherished. I remember those days. When the lights of Broadway still shone brightly and the theme of each and every night at Rosie’s, was laughter and merriment.

And the band played on…

Glancing at the clock above the waitress station whose hands that night seemed to be moving counter clock-wise, I pondered which song the band would play to wrap up the evening. It was without fail one of two ballads; “Good Night Irene” or “Show me the way to go home.” I made a silent bet with myself on the latter and smiled as the bandleader struck up the tune to prove me right. “Show me the way to go home. I’m tired and I want to go to bed. I had a little drink about an hour ago and it’s gone right to my head…” I knew every word by heart to those Irish songs and on certain days when life seems to be going at a speed I cannot control, return to sweet Rosie O’Grady’s and a time and place, where my father is alive once again. Young and handsome he stands tall at the front door welcoming patrons.

We can’t go back again, but we can remember.

Dabbing my finger to my lips to reapply my gloss, I tapped my foot merrily to one of my favorite tunes, “Lovey Leitrim,” the county of my mother’s birth and a song especially dear to my heart. Smoothing my apron as I hummed along, I glanced at the kitchen door which at that very moment swung open with a bang. I spotted my sister Sheila with whom I partnered as a waitress.  As her eyes met mine I could have sworn for a moment, they narrowed. It had always been a source of friction between us, our roles in the waitress hierarchy.  Waiters and waitresses were comprised of a team of two -one working outside on the floor and the other inside the kitchen. Sheila felt her job, (the inside) which consisted of standing in the kitchen under the hot lamps of the steam table and then bringing the food to the awaiting customer was the more laborious and unglamorous. I, (the outside partner,) took cocktail and dinner orders. How these roles were initially decided upon remains a mystery though I believe it was reasoned that she was the more physically stronger and better suited to toting the often back breaking trays.  I watched her approach a corner table as she balanced two plates of prime rib like a seasoned juggler, a glint of perspiration on her brow.  Maneuvering the steaming platters her arm shaking under the weight, she appeared to lose her grip allowing a stream of gravy to spill evenly onto the stunned diner’s lap. Casting the unpleasant scene from my mind I made my way to the bar. I would no doubt hear all about it on our car ride back to LI that night. After all, she had the harder job.

It was the people I met while working at Rosie’s who remain with me. The charming, charismatic bartender, John Carroll whose twinkling blue eyes could transfer a teetotaler into a seasoned drinker and whose life ended in a tragic auto accident far too soon. In contrast was his fellow bartender Miles, who had a smile and wink for every customer but with his quick wit and razor tongue an insult for the rest of us, all in good fun but scathing none the less. There was Mary “O” the vivacious, carefree, fun loving blonde waitress who was rumored to later become a NYC policewoman and her partner Kathleen, who enchanted customers with her Irish accent and sweet smile. Who could forget the middle aged team of Anne and Paula who bickered good-naturedly yet worked together like a finely oiled machine and on more than one occasion, held their own during late nights at the Blarney Stone throwing back shots with the younger crew no worse for the wear the next morning. I remember the beautiful, ethereal Laura who waited tables to earn money for acting school like so many other young dreamers and the gregarious and big hearted chef Mohammad whose brilliant smile radiated over the heat of the steam table and whose quick temper terrified those who had not yet discovered his kindly nature. I recall the retired detective Brendan who as host during the day charmed the ladies with his lilting Irish brogue and at dusk, magically transformed into intimidating bouncer ready to escort the occasional unruly patron to the door. “We can do this the easy way or…”

The night would officially end around 2AM. With tables cleared and tips counted we headed to our home away from home, the Blarney Stone for an after work drink or two. And in those late night hours we spoke of life and the occasional difficult customer while Bob Seeger sang soulfully on the jukebox.

But summer days are short. In what seemed the blink of an eye we bid farewell to Rosie’s, retired our aprons and headed back to Long Island to return to school.

With us we took fistfuls of cash, a new trade learned, friends we vowed to meet again and memories to last a lifetime.

I am older now with a family of my own. My parents have dearly departed. Sheila and I remain as close as ever. Each Christmas we gather at her house in gratitude. During our last celebration while sipping a glass of wine in her family room, I glanced into the kitchen. Sheila, clad in a tidy white apron was removing with some difficulty, the steaming turkey from the oven. Her arm was shaking under the weight of the tray as she balanced the bird. Looking up suddenly as if sensing my stare, her eyes met mine and in that moment I could have sworn, narrowed.

The history they say, has a way of repeating itself. I promised myself I would clear the table for her that very night as both a penance and memento to our days at Rosie O’ Grady’s.

Sheila (left) and me outside Rosie’s almost 40 years later – minus the aprons…

The Resume

“I just need you to look it over for typos. I want to get it out as soon as possible.”

Lounging on my sister’s living room sofa, contentedly eating Hershey chocolate kisses from a small bowl, I leisurely leafed through a copy of Glamour magazine. It was a lazy Saturday morning with the most pressing matter in our young lives being which club we would visit that night – Heartbreak or, The Limelight?

I glanced over at my sister Anne, who sat pensively at her kitchen table, ballpoint pen in hand. A frequent visitor to her NYC apartment during summer and college breaks, I loved visiting my sister and was well aware of the coming and goings on in her life which at this moment, was updating her resume.

After working for several years caring for patients in a New York hospital’s Day Surgery unit, she was entertaining a foray into the corporate side of nursing. The job to which she was applying, involved working aside a prominent older scientist, a one Dr. Jonathan Mackey, assisting with medical research. Though she would miss bedside nursing, this new job would allow better hours and be less physically demanding.

Nestling into the depths of the cozy cushions, red marker in hand, I carefully proof-read the resume before me. Priding myself in both writing capability and creativity I was pleased to help my older sister who for my entire life, had looked after me. Several minutes later, I handed her back the sheet of paper containing just one simple addition I had scrawled under the category of “Interests.”

Studying the resume with a puzzled expression she looked up and remarked, “But I don’t play chess! Why would you add that?” “Trust me,” I replied. “It will set you apart from the average applicant. It shows you are a strategic thinker. Most chess players are highly intelligent!” My sister studied the resume once again, carefully entertaining the idea. She was of honest character and did not like to tell even a small white lie. “I don’t know Kathy…”

She called me the following week, her voice brimming with excitement “I have an interview for that job with the professor on Friday, 2PM! Wish me luck…”

My sister over the years, still tells the story, of the resume, generally at family gatherings or when someone is seeking a new job. And most often, after a glass of wine or two, when her resentment is at its lowest. It goes something like this.

Sitting in a small, nondescript office on that fateful Friday afternoon, my sister for the umpteenth, proofread her resume. She relaxed, feeling capable in her abilities. She smiled several times into the mirror of her makeup compact, having once read smiling to yourself, boosts confidence.

A distant whir of something that sounded like a motorized vehicle suddenly broke her concentration as Professor Jonathan Mackey glided into the room. A distinguished looking man, with a salt and pepper tinged head of hair, he wore an expression which conveyed a no-nonsense efficiency.

Holding my sister’s resume before him, he glanced up and down his eyes darting rapidly. Then suddenly, his facial expression changed, and appeared to soften, quite markedly. “Why Anne Marie!” he bellowed with a grin, “You and I seem to share a common vice…”

My sister’s heart beat rose ever so slightly. No, he couldn’t, he could not possibly mean…

“Chess!” Dr. Mackey added emphatically.

As my sister’s soul left her body, her mind raced for some sort of reasonable response. He continued, “To be honest, since I broke this damn ankle, I have been spending more time than I like to admit watching televised matches. I’ve been playing the magnificent game of Chess since my grand father first taught me, when I was only seven years old.”

The words “to be honest” hung thickly in the air…

She had two options, she told me and I knew at that moment, before she even uttered the words, that she had chosen the first.

“Well, I actually don’t play chess, Dr. Mackey,” she stammered. “My sister put it on my resume because….she thought it sounded good.” Silence followed for what seemed an eternity. Digesting my sister’s declaration of deceit, her potential future boss cleared this throat and re-positioned himself in the wheelchair. He then uttered just one phrase.

“You tell your sister, she would never get a job with me…”

Though she did not get the job, I am still welcome at my sister’s apartment. She has traded in New York’s East River, for the Hudson, and now resides in Tarrytown, New York. A rescue dog named Shorty, devoted to my sister, is the newest family member. The chocolate kisses still flow in abundance and Anne, has long forgiven me for the resume mishap.

Just last week, while visiting my sister for the weekend, we took Shorty for his evening walk. The sunset was particularly impressive and a cruise boat, chock full of New York tourists, could be seen in the distance slowly making its way up the Hudson. As we followed the path that wound along the river, I glanced at a small garden off to the right, directly ahead of us. Two older gentleman, seated at a small wooden table, sat opposite each other, deep in concentration. Playing chess.

And in that very moment through the grace of god or some other divine intervention, Shorty, spotting another dog approaching, jumped up abruptly. My sister, desperate to avoid a confrontation, yanked on the leash and quickly pivoted in the opposite direction.

I was saved.

A Mid-Summer’s Daydream

Arc de Triumphe, Paris France

Standing amid a sea of tourists on the teeming Boulevard Saint Germain, I watch as the sidewalk artist works his magic on my sister, who sits posed before him. We are in Paris for the weekend, the result of an incredible airfare originating from Dublin, where we are spending two weeks of the summer with our family. With only forty-eight hours to explore the city of lights, we make a solid vow to take in every sight and sound.

“The likeness is very good,” comes a voice from directly over my shoulder. Glancing behind me, I spot a wiry, young man, his hands jammed deep into his faded jean pockets. He stands aside the artist, studying the portrait with a fierce intensity. His accent appears to be French, and a wave of blonde hair falls over his forehead as he nods enthusiastically. “Yes, he captures her beauty quite well.”

A short while later, portrait in hand, which did bear an incredible likeness to my sister Anne, we stroll together with our new companion. Fabrice who speaks English fluently, is a twenty-something ice cream vendor who lives in a nearby suburb of Paris. He is in the city to meet his best friend and co-worker Danielle, for a work event that evening.

Perhaps we might like to join them for a cafe au lait?

I glance at my sister who steadily returns my gaze, her large, blue eyes reflecting a hint of disbelief. Fabrice, was gorgeous. And French. As we walk or rather float onward to meet Danielle at a neighborhood bistro which comes highly recommended by Fabrice, my mind tries to focus on the scenario before me. Pinching my arm sharply, it is confirmed. I am not dreaming.

Danielle, if possible, is even more handsome than Fabrice with one caveat; he does not speak English. Not a word. But we find it matters little. He smiles and nods amiably, with Fabrice as our translator. Our new french friends are fascinated to learn we live in NYC. Keen to visit having never been, they beg us for tales of the city. We sit at that sidewalk cafe for what seems hours. It is situated directly adjacent to the Eiffel Tower which at dusk becomes illuminated, in golden light.

As we ponder the best Parisian sites to visit the next day, Fabrice shakes his head. “Forget the tourist traps. Danielle and I will show you a different side of France.” He then proceeds to tell of a place, little known to tourists. A unique retreat, just an hour outside of Paris. They will take us if we are willing. And can pick us up at our hotel the next morning. 9 AM sharp.

Later that night, sipping a Keir Royal at our hotel bar, my sister and I ponder if our handsome French tour guides will in fact show up. We flip a coin allowing destiny to be the decider.

The weather the next morning is ideal for a day trip. Mild and brilliantly sunny. I sit in the passenger seat next to Fabrice who is driving. Anne and Danielle sit in the back. They are holding hands, proving the language barrier, non existent. Roaring down the autobahn that day, I can still feel the warm wind billowing through the open windows, and how it tasseled our hair in every direction.

Another memory. A soulful song that comes on the radio. Lenny Kravitz’s, 1980’s hit, “It ain’t over till it’s over.” Followed by Fabrice’s enthusiastic declaration of, “I love this song!” He sings along in abandon, a little off key, but his lilting French accent charms. To this day, every time I hear that song, I remember.

‘So many tears I’ve cried
So much pain inside
It ain’t over ’til it’s over’


Chateau de Chantilly is everything Fabrice and Danielle claim it to be, and more. A true sojourn from the bustling city, we walk along ancient stone walls, flowering gardens and a working stable. The serenity and beauty are unquestionable. A perfect destination for our last day in France.

After snapping several photos, my favorite of Fabrice at my prompting, sitting astride a large stone lion, I notice both he and Danielle, staring up the path at a nearby ice cream truck. Excusing themselves, they approach the truck, but instead of buying ice cream, circle it three times, staring at the vendor in a somewhat menacing manner. Upon their return they explain that the truck has infringed upon their territory and is not supposed to be there. I glance at my sister, worriedly anticipating a possible ice cream war but the scene dissolves with little fanfare as the ice cream truck drives hastily away.

As evening draws near, the four of us sit wordlessly in the grass. We watch as the huge French sun, glowing in muted tones of tangerine, slowly sets on the hillside. It is a fitting close to a perfect day; nature’s farewell to our weekend in Paris.

I take down the worn shoe box from the highest shelf of my bedroom closet. It sits most days undisturbed, often for long periods of time. It holds various letters from special friends throughout the years and a stack of photographs showcasing my life from youth, to present.

I remove one photo from the box.

It is old, faded. I study the image of a youthful Fabrice, who in present time would be around sixty years of age. He is sitting atop that stone lion at Chateau Chantilly, waving his arms and grinning wildly as he stares into my camera. I received a few postcards from him over the years, the last postmarked from the South of France where I imagine the ice cream trade lucrative and the vendors ubiquitous. I wonder where Danielle is now.

We wrote of reuniting some day. But it would never be.

For to meet once again would take away the sweetness of that mid-summer’s day in Paris so long, long ago…

In Search of Picasso

You didn’t say anything about a nude model!” my sister whispered to me, her hushed voice a mixture of both shock and delight. It was the very first night of Sculpting. , a Continuing Education course offered at the local high school, a stone’s throw from our Stuyvesant Town, NYC apartment.  I always loved the idea of learning something new and was certain a sculpting class would allow my long-time artistic aspirations, to at last become reality. And in only six weeks!

As the male sitting model, introduced by our teacher as “Roberto,” entered the classroom, a deafening silence filled the air. Clad in a beige, unassuming robe, he circled the packed room three times, then stopped abruptly front and center, his eyes flashing boldly. As if waiting a lifetime for this one moment of fame, he slowly untied the bathrobe and, in one flagrant and grandiose display, tossed it to the floor. Audible gasps filled the air, followed by scattered applause. My sister, clearly, was not the only one unprepared for a live show.

We soon became accustomed to the unclothed Roberto who greeted us each Wednesday night at 6PM with nothing more than a stony expression, a far cry from the theatrics of his first evening’s performance. During those two hours of class, which at times seemed endless, I kneaded and molded, kneaded and molded, my brow furrowed deep in concentration, in a futile attempt to give some semblance to the shape of a human torso.  But alas, after my third class I realized downtrodden, that sculpting rather than allowing joy and artistic expression, instead left me with a throbbing headache.

At the close of each class, we would gingerly place paper towels, soaked in warm water around our sculpture to keep it pliable for the following week, then retire it to the security of the classroom closet.  As I surveyed the work of the other student’s sculptures neatly lined up on the shelf, I felt a pang of envy. Every single one of them, even in their elementary stages of creation, exceeded mine in both talent and appearance. Arms that looked like arms and a head anatomically correct, resembling man, rather than beast.

On more than one occasion, entering that taunting closet before the start of class, I shamefully entertained the idea of “accidentally” taking one of the more attractive sculptures off the shelf and claiming it as my own.

To add fuel to the fire, my sister who always claimed she disliked art and had only joined the class “as a favor to me,” excelled in Sculpting and profusely thanked me for helping her discover this new found passion. “Why you are a natural!” lauded our teacher as she stood beside my sister’s desk one evening, admiring her work. Then glancing at mine with a grim expression, she nodded her head wordlessly and proceeded up the aisle.

At the end of our final class, I dejectedly stared at the object before me, six weeks in the making, its distorted arms reaching out to me, as if in solace. The teacher announced we could reclaim our piece the following afternoon, though I knew in my heart,  I would not return, opting rather to leave my sad sculpture and the memories of Sculpting class, tucked away in that closet forever.  

My sister, on the other hand, proudly positioned her prized sculpture in the foyer of her apartment. She awoke one morning, three months later, to find the arm broken off.  She swears her husband Kevin, who to this day vehemently denies the childish deed, the villain. A cruel payback after she was unable to accompany him to a cocktail party on the very same evening as her Sculpting Class, Section 2 was to begin.

As for me, I have just signed up for my next Continuing Ed Class, a course on Handwriting Analysis. Taking Pen to hand, rather than clay.

Picasso would no doubt, be pleased.

Nuns, Fists and Arithmetic

I can still hear the chant, more than fifty years later. The voices, which echoed from the concrete schoolyard three floors below my fourth grade classroom, began as a low murmur. A flat, monotone sound, lacking any emotion whatsoever.  Three simple letters were repeated by the bystanders as they stood crowded around the two entrants of this midday melee, their origin or meaning to this day unknown. Though their affect for some odd reason, a perfect accompaniment to the event taking place.  And it sounded something like this, if a thing like that, could even be described:  “A- A- A.”  A two second pause between each shout of “A” was followed by a rhythmic clap.

These school yard fist fights, generally occurring no more than a few times a year, never excelled to more than a few punches being thrown, in the short time allowed before being broken up by a teacher. Egos bruised, more than body. Nonetheless they were a diversion and a welcome highlight on a non eventful day at St. Mary’s elementary school.

As my classmates and I scrambled out of our desks and raced to the window in the attempt to better identify the fighters, (generally boys from the fifth or sixth grade) our teacher, Sister Mary Alice, a tall, lanky bespectacled nun with a baritone voice, screamed for order. As she raced from the classroom, desperate to break up the cacophony below and bring the culprits to justice, her black habit flew boldly behind her, resembling some strange super-hero or large prehistoric bird.

With each passing moment, the chant increased in both speed and tone, finally reaching its crescendo; now, a frenzied roar, “AAAAAAAAA!!!!” Cheers and applause followed, signifying a winner was at hand, neither boy, no worse for the wear.

We remained at the window, my classmates and I, as the crowd dispersed. Below, Sister Mary Alice authoritatively attended to the boys, tucking in shirts and collecting a lone pair of eyeglasses that lay dejectedly on the school yard, having flown off during the match.  Making our way back to our desks, we opened our text books to the long division that lay before us, anxiously awaiting our nun’s return. She would no doubt be in a fury and we all secretly knew, to be on our best behavior or we would surely live to regret it. Though some bold prankster, fueled by the excitement, had drawn a sketch of Sister Mary Alice, in a pair of boxing gloves, on the classroom chalk board.

We returned to our long division, the school yard now silent below. Peter Foley, his shoulders hunched, painstakingly wrote, 100 times on the chalkboard, “Use words not fists.” Sister Mary Alice sat silently, in the corner of the classroom deep in concentration, her brow furrowed, sewing up a small tear in her habit.

All was well again at St. Mary’s.

Frogs, in Life and Death

I have always loved frogs.

It started the day my father, he too a frog lover, brought my three sisters and me, to the downstairs pet department of Woolworth’s five and dime. Standing before a random aquarium, I spotted a brilliant flash of jade green, gleefully darting around the tank. And then, as if sensing my fascination, the teeny frog swam directly up to the glass, and pressed his face against it, to get a closer look at the little girl standing mesmerized, before him. The affection was clearly mutual. Yes I believe in that formative moment I was sold, as was that amiable African frog and his three tank mates. My father had the attendant scoop up all four, that wonderful and memorable day, one for each of his daughters. And we jumped up and down with a jubilance that only a new pet could bring.

The African frogs were a fragile lot and sadly, not with us for the long haul. A few years later, they were replaced by hundreds of tadpoles that materialized every Spring in our backyard pond. As they grew into froghood, we would fish them out of the pond in abandon, eagerly but delicately, with big, green nets purchased at the local sporting goods store and which still hang in our garage, a little worse for the wear; a testament to frogging days of lore.

On a trip to Puerto Rico in my early twenties, I returned home with a pocketful of souvenirs for friends and family all the same in theme: a key chain with a tiny frog attached. Known locally as the “Coqui,” a tree frog that only comes out at night and whose chirp-like chant mimics the word “Co-kee Co-kee” as if singing. Legend has it that if you spot one of these elusive frogs during daylight hours, good luck is yours for the remainder of time.

While recently organizing my closet, I found the Coqui keychain from so many years ago, its paint faded and chipping, tucked away in a shoebox. I contentedly held it in my palm and vowed to start using it again.

As I grew older, it was not necessary to see the physical frogs themselves, the simple sound of them was all I needed. Walking our dog through the dark woods behind our home, the distant sound of a high pitched peep would fill the air. The peepers serenade, and a sign of Springtime and frogs, reborn.

So, when we recently moved into a rental home that just happened to have a salt water swimming pool, I was not prepared for the traumatizing daily event awaiting me, involving the creatures I held so dear.

Each morning, generally after a heavy rain, I would discover several small frogs, who had perished overnight, floating on the top of the water, their tiny legs splayed outward, as if in silent defeat. More painful, for me were the ones that had sunk to the bottom, a clear symbol of all hope, gone. Devastated I do the only thing I can think of .. scoop them out and place them behind a large, shaded rock I discovered adjacent to the pool, upon which sits a small statue of a praying figure. Next to the rock, is a small strand of wind chimes, its rhythmic music masking a prior tragedy. I take comfort in this peaceful resting place for the little frogs, who in life, brought me so much joy.

But on some mornings, I approach the pool to spot one or two little outliers. Tiny sole survivors, treading water, floating hope. Scooping each up, I gingerly place them down on the concrete and pour a bit of plain water, ever so gently over them, in the hopes of ridding the salt from their body.

And as I watch them slowly leap away, we are both, for the moment, saved.

I Will Remember You

In my role as a Psychiatric Technician, the goal is to care for patients with professionalism and warmth while maintaining boundaries, within that working relationship.

But sometimes, there are certain people who touch your heart in a way you do not expect.

The reason may not be clear; they remind you of someone dear from your past, or present; a grandfather, aunt, cousin, friend. Sometimes, the answer is as simple as watching a transformation; from lost, to hopeful, to whole again, and the epic gratitude expressed by that patient as they reach their destination of wellness. 

Once a patient is discharged, you know not of their future and can only hope for the best. Other times, you have the good fortune to witness it. The following are three patients, I have cared for (names changed), all of different circumstances, and personalities, who left an impression I will remember.

Glen

It is always difficult entering a hospital for the first time. Emotions run the gamut. Fear, anger, anxiety, shame. But one middle-aged gentleman arrived so dejected, he could hardly speak. As the days went by, I searched for any positive change in behavior, without success. Glen would walk around the unit, head down, the only hint of optimism that peeked through was when he spoke to his wife and family on the telephone. One afternoon I sat with him, attempting to pry even a few words out of him. Nothing. We sat in silence as he blinked back tears. About a week into his stay, the day room began to fill up for one of the hospital’s more popular groups, Yoga. It was a beautiful summer evening and the doors to the patio were, as is the rule when not in use, locked. One patient asked if we could open them to allow more air into the room and because we had extra staff, were able to accommodate.  I noticed Glen standing in the hallway, peering in through the window as patients positioned their mats on the floor. I motioned to him to come in and join the group. He hesitantly entered, was given a yoga mat, and lay down with the others. Fifteen minutes later, I glanced around the room. The class was in full swing. A faint scent of lavender filled the room and a warm breeze billowed through the open patio doors. I glanced at the patients before me, and spotted Glen. Eyes closed with an expression that conveyed complete calmness, he lay among the other patients performing a set of deep breathing exercises and for the first time since his arrival, seemed to at last be enjoying a moment of peace.

Three weeks later, I sat in the Silver Hill library, filling in for our librarian, who was out that day. As I pressed the buzzer to allow a visiting patient inside, a gentleman entered whose face, I could not at first, place. He was clad in a vibrant, tie-dyed tee shirt. Glen!  He had left the ACU inpatient unit to begin our Transitional Living Program a couple of weeks before. “Great shirt!” I greeted him. He responded brightly: “You are the third person today that asked me about this shirt. I made it yesterday in group.” I smiled back at him, amazed that this was the same patient I had cared for last month. Whether due to medication, therapy, or just sheer will and strength, before me stood a new man, transformed and whose journey to recovery, was well on its way.

Vanessa

Upon arrival on the inpatient unit, she was angry and frustrated, which is not uncommon for new patients. “I don’t need to be here!” she bellowed as she swept down the hallway to her room. But her frustration disappeared shortly, and her enthusiasm and brightness became a magnet to other patients and staff alike. She came from a line of artists who had clearly passed down an obvious talent.  Her solace was sitting quietly, drawing or painting, with whatever materials were available to her. She often sketched other patients or staff members then presented the recipients with her work of art.  Vanessa also loved poetry and carried a small book in her pocket which she would pull out and quote whenever the occasion presented itself.

Beautifully dressed in flowing vibrant colors, her personality was infectious. Entering her room, an aroma of an exotic spice filled the air, from where it had originated was a mystery. She told stories of her world travels that held everyone on the edge of their seat. She was a fountain of knowledge in describing the different cities she had seen and the special magic they held for her. I often wondered if these travels were fact or fiction, but it mattered little, her descriptions and tales made you feel like you too were in Paris on the banks of the Seine, right alongside her. When I first met Vanessa, we discovered a mutual love of Irish Music. During the Art Therapy group, the instructor would often allow a patient to pick a song, dear to their heart and play it for the group. Vanessa never failed to choose an Irish ballad and would sing along in abandon sometimes accentuated with a little jig as well.  On the day of her departure, she packed her suitcases filled to the brim with stuffed animals, silk scarves, and various lotions and potions from her world travels. We sang one last Irish tune together before she left. I will not soon forget her free spirit and joie de vivre and picture her, at this very moment, in a gondola in Venice, charming her fellow travelers.

Alex

A young man with a gentle soul, Alex stayed on our Acute Care inpatient unit for several weeks. During this time, he delighted all who encountered him, with his kindness and caring nature. He excelled in Math and could perform any complicated equation in a matter of seconds. “I don’t like to tell a lot of people” he confided to me shyly one day, “but my IQ is of genius level.” I had little doubt. Alex’s other talent was the art of Origami.  He delighted in creating figures of animals and birds and then gifting them to other patients on the unit who had been kind to him. I recall one patient, denied an origami creation, due to an argument with Alex the day before over the TV remote.  He would sit for hours in the day room, his brow furrowed in concentration, folding and unfolding, perfecting the colorful, delicate tissue into exquisite works of art. One afternoon, I was the recipient of not one but two, cobalt blue, elegantly crafted origami swans which to this day, sit on my kitchen window. When I thanked Alex, complimenting him on his masterpiece, he replied with a nonchalant “oh that’s nothing, I once made 2,000 origami figures in one afternoon in my kindergarten class…”

On each unit, a locked wooden box with a one-way slat hangs on the wall. Beside the box is a neat stack of blank cards in the shape of “stars” allowing each patient the opportunity to write a note known as a “Silver Star,” to a specific staff member. The messages range from simple words of thanks to a more comprehensive note of gratitude. The morning he was leaving, I noticed Alex carrying a huge stack of cards in his hand, written painstakingly in his neat penmanship for almost every staff member, including housekeeping. A reflection of Alex’s huge heart.

I read a quote recently which said, “Somewhere out there a stranger remembers you, because you were kind to them, when no one else was.”  I like to think this sentiment is true and just maybe, I am remembered too💛

Unsung Heroes

Sometimes, it is those in the background, the ones who are not center stage, that make a difference. The heroes among us who do their work, unceremoniously unnoticed.  I have chosen three colleagues of mine from the Psych hospital where I work, who touch the lives of our patients every day and whose acts of kindness, surely will last a lifetime.

The Music Man, Jeff our Driver

“Music acts like a magic key, to which the most tightly closed heart opens..” Maria von Trapp

On a gray and misty day outside the Acute Care Unit of the hospital, a steady drizzle of rain falls. Ten patients, ranging from 22 to 70- years-of age, await the van which will take them on the short ride across campus, to breakfast. The group is sullen, downcast. Whether it be from their own personal circumstances, or the weather, is uncertain. The van materializes in the distance, then slowly climbs the hill, coming to a stop. As the doors open and the boarding procession begins, the driver, Jeff, greets all with a warm hello. I wait, knowing what comes next. “So, what’ll it be today?” Jeff calls out to a younger patient seated in the first seat. The boy looks up with some uncertainty, then responds, “Sweet Caroline?”  In the moments that follow, a meaningful change takes place. The van comes alive as one, then two, then all on board sing the refrain “Sweet Caroline, good times never seem so good. So good, so good, SO GOOD!”  And Jeff, who always seems to know the exact song needed at any given moment, may sometimes sing along. He may also sense at any given time, that the sound of silence is the best selection because every day, like every patient, is a little different. Such a simple and small gesture, in offering a favorite song and in using the power of music to transform. A brightly colored, hand crafted sign, hangs prominently inside the front of the van, penned by the kids who are staying on our adolescent unit. “To Jeff. Thank you for everything you do!” Another positioned just beside the first reads, “To Jeff, the Magic School bus driver!” The appreciation is clear; the gratitude displayed in their artwork. But playing songs on the radio is hardly Jeff’s only talent. Few know, he is a talented pianist with a penchant for Billy Joel songs, often played so beautifully you would think it was the piano man himself at the keys rather than our resident driver. We thank you Jeff. Your music allows our patients a means of expression when their words sometimes cannot.

The Book Whisperer, Anne, Librarian

“The only thing you absolutely have to know, is the location of the library” Albert Einstein

A young woman sits quietly in her room. Newly admitted she is reluctant to join others in the milieu and has chosen to isolate. I sit down next to her and ask how I can help. “Is there anything that might make you feel more comfortable?”  She is near tears and confides “I forgot my Harry Potter book at home and reading is the only thing that helps me feel better.”  I smiled and told her about our wonderful library right here on campus and even better, our gem of a librarian, Anne Romano who has the unique knack to track down any book a patient might request, even if not presently in our library. If she cannot deliver a specific book, she will find one that is a close second to a patient’s interests. In less than thirty minutes, after a phone call to Anne, not only was the Harry Potter book found, but personally hand delivered by Anne herself. Two hours later, I approached the woman who now sat contentedly in the day room chair, absorbed in her novel. Calm and content, I am not certain who had worked their magic more, Harry, or Anne. The small library hosts an array of choices. Books, both fiction and nonfiction, Young Adult, Poetry, Biography, Magazines, Newspapers, and for those who may not wish to read or lack the concentration to do so, a gigantic crossword puzzle laid out on a table. Anne has filled the library with little touches, all adding to the welcoming atmosphere. A Buddha sits serenely perched in the corner, his half smile welcoming patrons. A wide array of brightly colored bookmarks are free for the taking and a bowl of hard candies in a small dish sit on the ledge for those with a sweet tooth. Extra reading glasses are available for patients in need. A cozy sofa and armchair sit in the corner of the room, awaiting that someone, who may want to do nothing at all. The small and intimate library, offers an oasis of calm and learning to visiting patients, on what can sometimes be a bumpy road to recovery.

A quote by Judy Blume comes to mind when I think about Anne, who is always there to go that extra mile for our patients. “Librarians save lives by handing the right book, at the right time, to a person in need.”  Yes, we most definitely agree.

The Magic Man – Psychiatric Technician – Josh

“Where there is kindness, there is goodness and where there is goodness, there is magic” Cinderella

It is mid- afternoon on our inpatient unit. A therapeutic walk previously scheduled, has just been cancelled due to icy conditions on campus. The patients are disappointed and beginning to get restless. “Hey Josh!” someone calls out, “how about a card trick?”  To describe Josh’s talents as the performer of a simple card trick does not do him justice. Not only is Josh warm and amiable in his role as a Psychiatric Technician, but he is also a master illusionist that can hold patients mesmerized and delighted with his skills. Several moments later, I glance in the living room. Josh stands center as a group of patients gather around him, transfixed, as he shuffles the cards in a blur of agility and speed. “Who wants to go first?” he asks the group, and several hands fly up instantaneously. Next comes instruction on shuffling as several try their hand at new tips learned as a result of Josh’s expertise. The room has been transformed, the patients engaged and focused as they learn coveted tips from the master. Josh’s dad is an avid poker player which is what first sparked his interest at age eight. He presently owns over 1,200 decks of cards. His favorite, called “Cherry Casino” is named for a nonexistent casino, and was designed by his friend. It has been sold by the thousands. We are so grateful to Josh for working his magic through both his card skills and attentive nature, in caring for our patients.

In the words of Lewis Carroll, “One of the deep secrets of life is that all that is really worth doing is what we do for others.” Thank you Jeff, Anne and Josh. I couldn’t have said it better myself.