The Art of Living Other People's Lives

by Greg Dybec

  A couple weeks after applying I headed into Manhattan to meet Kevin, the organization’s New York program manager, at a busy Starbucks in Union Square. He would be conducting my interview, to both consider my volunteering desires and make sure I was sane enough to be allowed near children. I imagined I’d be sitting down to meet a social-worker type, someone who would ask the same kinds of questions a psychiatrist would on a first visit. Kevin actually turned out to be not much older than I was. He sported a tight denim jacket and bleached blonde hair, and greeted me with the chipper voice of someone who maintains the same energy level at all times, even when you know they must be tired. He seemed friendly and about as West Coast as a person can be, having just moved from Los Angeles a couple months prior to help expand the organization. I was immediately at ease knowing the meeting would be a conversation, not an interrogation.

  After some small talk, I told Kevin my idea about working with kids to help them write.

  “And if they aren’t up for writing themselves, I could maybe take notes on their stories and write them myself. Maybe even print out the pages and make little books for them and their parents. Or what about a collection of their stories in one big book? Maybe we could even get it published.”

  The ideas I rattled off all seemed plausible in my mind, though I could tell they were making Kevin uneasy.

  “You have to keep in mind, most of these kids have been sick their entire lives,” he explained.

  Right then I could see how dreamy and romantic my idea must have sounded. I was afraid Kevin now saw me as an amateur writer looking to exploit sick kids for a big break. I sat there speechless, cappuccino in hand, feeling like I’d been caught stealing from a baby.

  “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a thoughtful idea,” he added, sensing my discomfort. “It’s just that we never want to do anything that will make a child consider their health.”

  I took a sip of my coffee, trying my best to hide the look of embarrassment that was sweeping across my face. Kevin took the opportunity to drive his point home.

  “Imagine that ever since you’re old enough to form memories, all you know is hospital beds and weekly surgeries. Imagine only a small sliver of your time each day, or even week, is dedicated to playing and being around other kids. The rest of the time is spent connected to tubes and feeling sick from countless medications. It’s terrible what some of these children have to endure, and if we as volunteers can’t be sure we’re lifting their spirits, then what’s our purpose?

  “You can of course still volunteer in another capacity,” he added. “We can always use people for the group arts and crafts sessions.”

  There are plenty of moments in life in which you realize you’ve been seeing only what you want to see, looking way past the reality of a situation. Kevin’s words turned the lights on in my head, and just like that it was clear what I hadn’t signed up for. It wasn’t a chance to feed my artistic ego by parading around saying I volunteered at the same charity as James Franco and Johnny Depp. It definitely wasn’t a chance to sharpen my writing skills. What I’d actually signed up for was a chance to put a smile on the faces of sick children. With each new realization the pulsing knot in my stomach grew, and before I knew it, I was excusing myself from the table and heading toward the bathroom.

  Looking at my own face in the mirror I contemplated my next move. If I decided to go through with volunteering, I’d have to face two things I have a hard time dealing with in life: hospitals and sick children. The fact I hadn’t considered this while applying to be a volunteer at children’s hospitals just goes to show how blinded I get by half-thought-out ideas. The truth is I can’t even go to a dentist appointment without first taking a trip to the bathroom to give myself a pep talk. (I spend a lot of time talking to myself in bathrooms.) What starts as a fervent, Al Pacino–style pump-up speech always ends up losing steam and heading in the direction of, “Well, if I die, I’ve done a lot of things and seen a lot of places.” It didn’t help that during my last dentist appointment, Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” started playing on the office radio. I could have sworn the office’s bright light in my eyes as I lay in the dentist’s chair was a direct path to the afterlife.

  Simply walking into a hospital to visit someone makes me queasy with the thought of needles and death and adults eating cafeteria food. Throw a child into the equation and I can barely breathe. I still have to turn away from the scene in E.T. when he’s dying and hooked up to all those tubes.

  I tried my best not to panic and instead laid out my options.

  OPTION #1: Tell Kevin I just got a call from work and would have to reschedule our meeting. Of course, I’d leave and never speak to him again.

  OPTION #2: Tell Kevin I forgot to mention that I’d recently contracted malaria during a trip to Africa, and that even though I’d stopped showing symptoms, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to be around children just yet. Still a lie, but I’d appear slightly less pathetic in his eyes.

  OPTION #3: Go through with it.

  I met Kevin back at the table and apologized. I told him that I understood why he had concerns about introducing a writing exercise to the children, and that I’d be open to learning about other ways I could volunteer. We settled on the group arts and crafts session. There’d be a volunteer with expertise in painting who would lead the activity. I’d be like an elf to Santa.

  For the next hour Kevin explained the strict cautionary procedures that were required when visiting the children. Direct touching of any kind was to be avoided, and hands had to be washed before entering any room. If you had so much as a sore throat the day you were scheduled to volunteer, you’d have to reschedule. Depending on the child’s illness, a mask and gloves could be required. If a child even once said they didn’t feel well, the activity would end abruptly. It was crucial to get the child’s permission before commencing any activity, since the child had every right to say no.

  Running through the professional protocol made me feel even more uneasy knowing that stepping foot inside a hospital was in my near future. Though as Kevin began to discuss the children’s daily lives, my angst was pushed aside. Many of the kids, depending on their specific illness, spent most of the time confined to their beds. Most of them had to be homeschooled by their parents in the hospitals, if that was even possible on a daily basis. In time, some of the children would be cured, others were temporary visitors to begin with, but then there were the children who wouldn’t see adulthood—the children who wouldn’t finish school, find a job, or have a family of their own. I thought of their parents, living each day with no guarantee that tomorrow would ever resemble today, all the while hoping for a yesterday when there was no illness.

  “The job of the volunteer isn’t to make a child better or cure their ailment,” Kevin noted, letting each word leak out slowly and pronounced, as if he’d said the sentence before. “The purpose is to preserve one positive moment in time with them,” he continued. “To create one memory of laughter and joy that may come back to them during a less fun time. That’s what it is for me at least.”

  Kevin wasn’t just reciting words from a work manual. He was clearly passionate about the organization, and I didn’t doubt he’d had countless experiences with children in hospitals that I couldn’t, at that time, possibly understand.

  I decided to be open with Kevin about my concerns. I told him that I wanted to do anything I could to help, but that walking into a children’s hospital would be a new and nerve-racking experience for me.

  “It’s natural to hear the phrase ‘sick kids’ and feel afraid.” He smiled, obviously having heard my concerns before, maybe even having the same worries himself at one point. “Just remember, they’re kids first and sick second. The examples I gave are not the common cases, thankfully. These are just kids with circumstances that are a little different than yours and mine.”

  I eventually told Kevin that I was in. I signed the necessary papers and collected a handful of pamphl
ets that better explained hospital protocol. Kevin told me that the organization worked with a number of hospitals around the city and that he’d get back to me later that week with the next available arts and crafts session. We parted ways.

  Just like Kevin promised, I received an e-mail later that week. Since the organization’s New York expansion was still fairly new, there was only one more general arts and crafts session left in the year. If I backed out I wouldn’t get another shot any time soon. So, a few days after hearing back from Kevin I was off to New York University Langones Hospital for Joint Diseases Center for Children.

  I made it to the hospital about twenty minutes early, feeling sick with nervousness. I paced outside for a few minutes in an attempt to gather myself. Kevin eventually spotted me and motioned for me to join him inside. He greeted me with a handshake and the energetic smile I remembered from our first meeting. Standing next to him was a good-looking blonde woman who couldn’t have been much older than thirty.

  “This is Clara, she’ll be leading the activity today.”

  “I haven’t seen you around before. First time?” she asked.

  “Yes, first time. And I warn you, I’m not much of an artist.”

  Clara laughed, as if to reassure me it was an activity for kids, not a project I’d be graded on.

  “Well, let’s do this,” she said, wasting no time and walking toward the front desk to sign in.

  Kevin leaned in to tell me Clara was a renowned painter who had art shows all over the world.

  “She’s insanely humble, though,” he added. “She never misses a chance to paint with the kids.”

  After signing in and receiving nametags, we made our way into an elevator, accompanied by the nurse who’d be overseeing the hour-long arts and crafts session.

  “The kids are so excited,” the nurse said, as the elevator crept upward slower than any elevator I’d ever been in.

  It left me with plenty of time to recap all the moments I’d been awkward around children. I’ve never been able to quite perfect my excited kid voice. If you heard me asking my six-year-old cousin how school was going, you’d think I was asking a college engineering student about his upcoming exams. Even when I’ve found myself in the situation of being the cool older guy playing video games with kids, I’m incapable of providing high-pitched words of encouragement. The most I’m able to mumble is, “How the hell did you just manage to kill me?” I’ve only ever held a few babies in my lifetime and was more petrified with each one. Worst of all, I don’t even have a puppy voice. People don’t trust anyone who doesn’t go ape shit and hit Mariah Carey–style notes when a puppy prances into the room.

  The elevator opened and we spilled out into a narrow hallway. The nurse led us to the bathrooms and instructed us to wash our hands before entering the room with the children. Inside the bathroom, I took my usual position in front of the mirror. Since arriving at the hospital, I couldn’t help but feel frightened about what I might see. That’s the terrible stigma surrounding illness: that it has to be something profound and visual for it to be real. Even though I wasn’t sure what actually constituted a joint disease, I naturally imagined the worst. My mind, like most people’s, has a tendency to lead me down some dark tunnels of thought when I have no choice but to assume. I suppose preparing for the worst is a natural reaction. Though I still felt guilty about the images I couldn’t stop from running through my head.

  We all met outside the bathroom and made our way to the main activity room together. Inside the room were eight small children ranging in age from about five to ten. Some were already huddled around a long plastic table, while others clung on to their parents who sat in chairs on each side of the room. There was nothing seemingly abnormal about any of the children. One girl was in a cast and another in a wheelchair. I also noticed a boy wearing what appeared to be a leg brace under his jeans, but my images of a quarantined-style room with tubes and beeping machines, not unlike that terrible scene in E.T., were way off. It’s refreshing when your unfounded assumptions are proven wrong, but at the same time you wish you had the sense to never have assumed in the first place.

  As Clara introduced herself, I took my place at the end of the table and began distributing the equipment: tubes of paint, paintbrushes, cups of water, paper towels, and paint palettes. Clara was a natural. She had a remarkably soothing voice that instantly grabbed the attention of the kids.

  I was caught off guard when she said the words, “This is Greg.” Suddenly all eyes were on me.

  “He’ll be helping with the arts and crafts today. Say hi to Greg, everyone.”

  A collective “Hi, Greg” filled the room. I reciprocated with a half smile and stiff wave, unable to muster up the courage to even let them hear my voice. I could feel the awkwardness wash over me in a warm tingle, from my head downward. If I wasn’t beaming red, I definitely felt like I was. I made sure not to lift my eyes to the side of the room where Kevin stood.

  As Clara explained the basic mechanics of painting (small, steady strokes; cleaning the brush in water; mixing colors to make new colors), I turned to the small boy to my right, and using all the strength I had, whispered, “Are you ready to paint something cool?”

  “Yeah,” he whispered back, before throwing his hands up as if he’d just scored a goal.

  I slipped him a high five under the table and felt both invigorated and redeemed, my heart racing from adrenaline.

  Eventually Clara pulled out a stack of papers from her bag. Each piece of paper had an image of a Van Gogh self-portrait on it. It was one of many self-portraits Van Gogh painted in his lifetime, though the particular painting Clara chose pictures Van Gogh staring eagerly into the distance, his light blue suit and piercing eyes nearly identical to the backdrop of the oil canvas, his thick, red beard and slicked-back hair a stark contrast against the soothing blue.

  “So do your best to make your painting look just like the one on the paper,” Clara announced. “Now . . . go!”

  The kids immediately grabbed for the proper colors and smeared paint across the palettes. I grabbed some paint myself and worked on my own attempt at recreating the Van Gogh masterpiece. In between strokes I made sure to comment on the work of the young artists around me. With each newly uttered, “Wow, you’re doing a great job,” my words became more sincere and less forced. Kids would take turns coming up to me to distribute high fives and ask if I was a painter.

  “No way,” I’d tell them. “Look how much better your painting is turning out than mine.”

  Most of them would laugh and say, “Yeah, I know. Mine is really good!”

  I felt more alive with each interaction. I thought about how much it had taken for me to be in the hospital, laughing and smiling with kids I’d been terrified of moments earlier.

  I finished my painting and was surprisingly proud. Granted, my Van Gogh looked more like a sad Ryan Gosling in a dark blue suit, but I at least got the background right. I decided to take a lap around the room to clean up any of the unused brushes and palettes. As I made my way around the table I’d compliment each of the kids’ paintings, which were, not surprisingly, just as good or better than mine. One of the boys tugged at my shirt as I walked by him and asked, “Hey, why are we painting you?”

  The girl next to him chimed in: “Yeah, are you famous or something?”

  Before long the entire table was in an uproar, demanding to know why they were painting pictures of me.

  “You think I look like Van Gogh?” I asked.

  They shouted back in unison, convinced the man on the paper was a painting of me. Clara and Kevin caught wind of the conversation and laughed.

  Knowing I had to say something, I shouted, “Maybe that’s my long lost brother,” in a voice I didn’t quite recognize. It was the most vocal I’d ever been around children, and it even had a high-pitched tinge. It felt different. It felt refreshing.

  At the end of the hour-long session I said good-bye to Clara and Kevin.

  “You did g
reat,” Kevin said.

  “So funny that the kids thought you looked like Van Gogh.” Clara laughed. “You know, I think I kind of see it, too. Something about the eyes.”

  Outside the hospital I was giddy with excitement. I hadn’t done much, but it was more than I thought I was capable of. After all the assumptions and fears and bathroom pep talks, it was a success.

  I reached for my phone and found a folded-up piece of paper in my pocket. It was one of the printed Van Gogh self-portraits I must have forgotten to throw out. I opened it and stared deeply into his blue eyes, looking for similarities and wondering what the kids saw in both him and me. He had red hair and a beard; I had brown hair and was clean-shaven. He was wearing a blazer and vest; I could barely tie my own tie. I decided to google the picture on my walk to the subway. I learned that Van Gogh painted the self-portrait in 1889, exactly one hundred years before I was born. Some art historians believed it might have been the last self-portrait he ever painted. Reading further into the history, I found that when Van Gogh first sent the painting to his brother, an art dealer, he attached a note that read, “You will need to study the picture for a time. I hope you will notice that my facial expressions have become much calmer, although my eyes have the same insecure look as before, or so it appears to me.”

  It made perfect sense. I was Van Gogh in the picture: a ball of insecurity hiding behind a seemingly calm face. It’s funny how the kids could see that immediately. Insecurity, of course, can be so many different things. For me, it usually comes down to the understanding that I may not be doing something for the right reasons, like volunteering because I thought it would somehow protect me from the tragedies of life, and not because I actually wanted to give back in some way.