04 June 2010

Voluntearing

Service is the rent you pay for having room on Earth.
(okay, that was cheesy, but whatever.)


Shortly after being laid off, while reading the local paper, I came across a call for volunteers to deliver Meals on Wheels in my hometown. Knowing I'd be free most (okay, all) days around lunchtime, coupled with a newfound affection for our older citizens as well as an itchy sense of abject uselessness, I called and signed up. 


I must say, my volunteering is not entirely selfless. After all, I'm satisfying a very personal need to be needed. Ultimately, I think that's what most people want in terms of employment or volunteering, or some may say even parenthood. Sure, I help my parents around the house (I spent what seemed like an eternity painting the interior doors recently, for example), and I like to cook for my family and friends, but it's not the same as feeling like a truly contributory member of society. I volunteered for Meals on Wheels because I needed to feel useful. I needed to feel needed. And, truth be told, I needed to feel appreciated. There's little so disheartening as collecting unemployment checks while at the same time living with your parents and not exactly struggling to get by. Strange as it sounds, sometimes I think that if I were struggling, I'd be better off mentally, but I won't get into that now. 


I had to go to the town hall and fill out an absurd amount of paperwork. They asked for references, contact information, emergency information, my SSN, and a urine sample. (I made that last one up. They wanted a blood test.) It was quite the lengthy process, considering I'd be simply dropping food off at senior citizens' homes and scampering off. All the same, I can understand it. After all, these seniors are essentially opening their doors to complete strangers - who knows what shady folk would take advantage if they could, ya know? It's a pretty sick world we live in to think that such people exist, but so it goes...


I was supposed to start deliveries in April, but as it turned out, one of the regular volunteers was sick twice in March and I was called to fill in. There are two routes in my town for deliveries. I tend to choose the one closest to my home, as I'm more familiar with the little neighborhoods and all that, but I've delivered to both routes. One of them is considerably harder than the other to deliver to, and not just because it has more recipients on the list. 


The second route is much longer, with homes farther apart. That is all well and good. What really gets to me is the difference in MOW recipients from one route to the next. The ones on Route 1 are house-bound, sure, but generally speaking, they don't seem to be suffering. They chat a little, and one guy showed me all the wood carving he'd done in his front room (I went in to say hello despite knowing it was against the rules. These people need visitors!) 


The recipients on Route 2, well, they're a different story. Many are in wheelchairs. One woman is so house-bound that she leaves her door unlocked so that the delivery person can walk right in. One woman had a stroke so severe, she can no longer talk. And then there's Mr. L.


This man reminded me so much of my grandfather that I could barely stand it. He came to the door of his condo, shuffling slowly. He wore a flannel over-shirt and dockers, clearly cold from the March rain. His Parkinson's was so severe that the people who pack his MOW have to open a corner of his hot meal so he can get into it. I wanted to hug him and bring him cake, because, let's be honest, MOW food isn't exactly gourmet.


I delivered to Mr. L about halfway through my route. And I cried for the rest of my deliveries. I'd sort myself out before going to the rest of the deliveries from then on, but my heart was breaking. Maybe I was especially soft-hearted that day. Maybe it was the cold, persistent rain that soaked through my sweatshirt. Maybe it was the overwhelming smell of the food that turned my stomach and made me prone to upset. Or maybe because delivering Meals on Wheels is one of the hardest things I've ever done.


I haven't selected to deliver to Route 2 since. I just can't bring myself to do it. I discovered recently that Route 1 has its own set of difficulties. I delivered to Route 1 about once a week since April. One of my favorite people to see was Gerald, an adorable, awesome dude who, the first time I met him, informed me it was going to be is 92nd birthday in a week. He lived on his own, as so many of these people do, but seemed to have a really good handle on things. His house was clean, he was always neatly dressed, and always always in a good mood. Whenever I asked how he was that day, his response was always positive and sweet.


Two weeks ago, he was no longer on the list of deliveries and hasn't been added back since. I have almost successfully convinced myself he has gone to live in an assisted care facility, or that his family has built him an in-law apartment and sees him every day. 


They warn you not to get attached to the people you deliver to. And honestly, I didn't think the 5 or 10 minutes I spend chatting with these folks would indicate attachment. I guess I was wrong.


I won't stop going, though. I really do enjoy it. My face usually hurts after my hour or so of deliveries from smiling so much. There is never any question that these people are happy to see me. Really, it's not about the food at all. Of course, it is about the food, due to their finances and mobility, many of these people wouldn't eat three square meals a day if it weren't for MOW. However, there is no doubt that it's the brief visit that really makes it worthwhile for them.


Recently, Ms. T has been added to my list. Or rather, I've recently met her. Before, a nurse or family member would answer the door, but I suspect she's on the mend, and has been recovering nicely in her in-law apartment. She is always so excited to see me I feel like a rock star. Every time I come to the door, she mentions how adorable and sweet I am, highlighting how young I am (most volunteers with MOW are a bit older). The other day, she invited me in for a chat, conspiratorially.


"How are you today, Ms. T?" I asked. 


"Oh, pretty good!" says she. "Aren't you the sweetest thing? You're just lovely!"


"Oh, thank you," I responded. "Can I help you bring them in?"


"No, no," she said, then paused and looked at me sideways, smiling crookedly. "Unless you'd like to come in for a chat..." she almost whispered with a giggle, knowing what I'd say.


Of course, I couldn't. I had more deliveries to make, and I am not supposed to go in to their homes as per MOW rules. I politely declined and wished her a lovely day. I realized I had a goofy grin on my face when I got to my car. Ms. T just cracks me up. I have a sneaking suspicion she wants to set me up with her grandson, too, but that's another issue altogether. I'm guessing in a few more deliveries, I'll get that invitation, too. 


And I know I shouldn't get attached to Ms. T, just like I shouldn't have gotten attached to Gerald, but I really can't help it. These people are really cool, just a little less fast-moving as the rest of the world. As such, I feel like we have all passed them by, and unfairly so. I will keep delivering MOW until I get a job, since deliveries take place in the middle of the day. 


When I was younger, elderly people kind of freaked me out. I think a lot of younger people feel this way, though I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's the slower pace, or the need to shout and then listen soooo intently at the same time that makes us uncomfortable. But really, I think it's the underlying understanding that we, too, will end up old one day. The bullshit "live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse" adage makes us think that old can never equal beautiful. 


I have lost all of my grandparents, and I have made friends with the people on my delivery route, I can tell you, I can think of no people more beautiful.

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