I've always wanted to volunteer, something I used to do regularly when I was in high school and undergrad studies. Ever since I arrived in Canada, I've done odd jobs here and there, all of it at the community kitchen at university, but I'm more interested in working with people, especially the elderly and immigrants. A week or so ago, a friend's mum referred me to a service centre for the Chinese-speaking community in Montreal, and I went to put my name down on the same day. It was so much easier than expected and than what I've encountered before, because a lot of volunteering opportunities require me to give references and to have a background check, which is very off-putting. I just want to do something to help someone, I just want to give my time and energy back to society.
So I met this elderly man at the hospital early in the morning, and he was accompanied by a female friend of his. Both are (mainland) Chinese in their seventies, and though they've lived in Canada for a long time, neither speak good enough (or any...) English (or French). This is where volunteers like me come in! Basically, my role is to accompany the person to the hospital and translate during the consultation or examination by the doctor.
It was my first experience at a Canadian hospital (though I've been before recently), and so everything seemed foreign and new. I walked around and had to find my way in what felt like a maze of corridors, corners and hidden rooms. As always, hospitals are never cheerful places to visit, and I walked around with a slight smile on my face to greet the many patients who passed me by. To each and every, I quietly nodded and wished them well and they may soon recover from whatever is bothering them, or at least not ...
Eventually we managed to get the necessary blood test done, and also see the doctor at the designated time of appointment.The man had an accident a year and a half ago, in which his left foot was run over by a car. Ever since, his foot and lower leg clots easily and can become inflamed, which causes him much discomfort and pain. For some time, he has had to rely on shots daily to thin his blood to reduce the clotting, but still he is almost constantly in pain.
We sat in the corridor and waited for a few hours. I quietly listened to his story, and to the female friend tell her story. Everyone has a story, of where they came from, why they are here, and what they have done with their lives. Perhaps that is why I've always enjoyed listening to and spending time with the elderly, for they have such a wealth of experience, and somehow are so "cute" and endearing in their little own ways. Being with the two reminded me much of how I used to spend days with my grandma (my dad's mother) and how I used to take her to the hospital daily for her shots. I think back to those days with sweet nostalgia...
The man lives alone, in a little room above a restaurant in the noise and bustle of Chinatown, sharing with three others. I was told that he has a daughter somewhere, but he said no more about that, and I didn't ask more. At one point, he showed me his wounds, and told me details of how he has to deal with the pain, soreness and numb sensation, and I could not but feel such warmth and compassion well up inside me. For lunch, he took out a small bun, and munched on it. Before doing so, he even offered it to me, and apologised that he could not give me anything in return for my help. Seeing how little he ate, and how little nutrition the bun contained, I wanted to buy him something at the cafeteria, but he politely declined.
"You should eat well and have a healthy diet," I said, out of genuine care, even though afterwards I felt perhaps I was a out of line for saying that. Maybe I sounded condescending or even rude, especially telling an almost complete stranger I have just met, especially saying that to someone who is old enough to be my dad... But strange as it seems, in the brief moments we spent together, I began to care. It really is not difficult to care about a fellow human being.
Was it because he reminded me of my own dad...? The way he looked, the way he smiled, the way he smelled... It all was very touching, and I enjoyed every moment of our few hours together. Momentarily while I sat next to this elderly man I had just met, I was brought back to those few opportunities I had of accompanying dad to the hospital so many years ago... And somehow, long after that memory was made and buried, I was reminded of a letter I once wrote to dad's main physician. Was I so touched today because I was doing something that I never had an opportunity to do after my dad passed away? Accompany a lonely old man to the hospital, helping him feel less lonely, helping him feel like he still matters, feel like someone cares... That is a special something, something that did not cost anything, something that actually made me feel so good and beautiful inside.
Throughout our time together, he thanked me again and again for taking the time out to assist him. And again, as we parted, he thanked me for taking the time out to accompany him for those few hours at the hospital. I smiled, and said anytime he needs help, he can ask for me. As I patted the elderly man, and the lady, on the shoulder, I quietly thanked them for giving me the opportunity to feel good and kind.
Quietly, I also thanked him for giving me the opportunity to again accompany a man to the hospital, and for allowing me to relive memories of my precious few moments with dad...
