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Noah’s Ark was patched together by volunteers. The Titanic was built by professionals (Anonymous)

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jericho

It is a busy life. I am an immigrant. Canada has taken a while longer getting to know me, than I had expected. Born in a family with very little means, my parents pointed me toward a professional vocation that would give me a career the moment I graduated – engineering.

I have taken even longer to get to know me. I could have turned my back on engineering and lead the far more precarious life of a writer, but I was always a scaredycat, unsure of whether I’d ever succeed as an author. So I chose to plod on in the field of engineering, where I remain, an unfulfilled husk of a man, his senses soaked in the smells of surface cleaning spray, machine coolant and cutting oil.

The years have gone by and our lives have finally attained a little stability. Financial freedom, a mortgage-free home, kid graduating engineering school, vacations……. and neighbors who no longer look quizzically at the way I am dressed on weekends, in my kurta-pyjamas.

Of late, there has been this emptiness. Soon I’ll be 69 and the feeling, that I have amounted to very little and that I have made no impact whatsoever on the community at large, that feeling has acquired a studio apartment at the back of my mind.

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One day I open the letter box and there is nothing in there except for this little bland pamphlet, from an organization called Volunteer West Island. Emblazoned over it are the words, ‘The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself, in the service of others’ – Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.

Usually I gather up all the pamphlets with an annoyed sweep and grumble,’I wish those m—er f—ers would stop dumpin’ this shit in my letterbox’ and I proceed to chuck them in the blue recycle bin in my driveway. North America is pamphlet country.

Not this time. This time I pause and I take the pamphlet home, flipping it over and over between my fingers. I fling it on the desk in the den downstairs and there it stays for a month give or take, during which time it gets pushed around the desk by the mouse and the keyboard.

Soon the pamphlet begins to age, acquiring a coffee stain here and a beer stain there (lots of beer stains actually), a few quick scribbles, a couple of phone numbers and some hasty interest calculations. North America isn’t just pamphlet country, it is also credit line, credit card debt, balance transfer and compound interest country.

I peer at Gandhi’s words from time to time. I am an agnostic, steadily tilting toward atheism. One day, my elder bro sends me a short piece that the Indian journalist, Mukul Sharma, had posted in his column, The Spiritual Atheist, in the Economic Times. The title of the post is ‘A caring universe’. Here is an excerpt from it…..

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“Does the universe care about what we do or what happens to us or whether we live or die?

If we were to believe hard-core amoral nihilists who say that the universe is just a physical phenomenon with no spiritual component, that events are random and have no deeper meaning or purpose and that there are no consequences to our actions, then the answer is obviously no.

Yet, even if that were true, it certainly doesn’t mean that we can’t care about the universe because, unlike it, we have evolved into sapient creatures that are capable of wonder and love. Meaning, we can infuse it with the same whether it cares or not. In fact, with that kind of involvement on our part, who cares whether it cares or not?

If we were to do that, we could begin living in a basically spiritual universe, ordered by recognition of good and evil; a cosmic order that would in turn, underpin and motivate all our actions. It would be like a moral force where our actions have definite effects that we carry with us. In this respect, its meaning would then be close to the Hindu concept of Karma.

The notion of a moral universe would also buttress spirituality and form the basis for kindness, compassion, altruism and caring for others. This is because it places a value on human life and living things that goes beyond what seems suitable if we regard people and living things merely as a collection of atoms, and essentially no different from any other unfeeling, non-sentient structures such as rocks, soil, mountains or planets”.

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Like Mukul Sharma, I have chosen to believe in a moral, caring universe, though somehow I do not believe that there is a connection between religion and morality. One can be good and caring without having to lean on the crutch of religious fervor. Why, it is now well on its way to be scientifically proven that goodness and caring are actually the work of certain identified neurons in the brain and can actually be tweaked and fiddled with, through a fast emerging science known as neuroscience. It is a matter of time before a psychopath can actually be converted into a deeply caring individual (and vice versa of course), through treatment.

Back to me now and one day, pre-Christmas, on my way to work, there is this radio program calling for volunteers at St Anne’s, the Military Veterans’ hospital, a long-term end-of-life care facility, to help the 90+ year old war veterans through the especially crushing loneliness of the Christmas holidays. Numerous activities are planned for the seniors in order to keep them occupied and not dwell upon why even their own don’t find the time to visit them.

‘I have nothing special planned this Christmas’, I say to myself. I get to the den and look around for that pamphlet. It has gotten so badly crumpled that I can barely read it. I call the number and a Ms Grenville, head of Volunteer Services at St. Anne’s, answers.

The 50% discount at the cafeteria makes up my mind.

I fill out a form and the RCMP checks me out. It takes another week for me to become a volunteer, with my own volunteer’s badge and ID. I am now one of the 12.5 million registered Canadians (that is 1 in 3 Canadians), the second largest volunteer population density after the Dutch.

The words of a 69 year old Albanian-Indian nun, standing in front of the world and accepting it’s highest honor, the Nobel Peace Price, Oslo 1979, are at the back of my mind – ‘everyday, each of us goes for a walk on the Jericho road.’

I am a registered traveler on the Jericho road now and I am scheduled to travel that road for four hours every Wednesday and Thursday.

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“If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your redemption is tied up with mine, then let us work together.”

— Lill Watson, American aboriginal activist  – to all wannabe volunteers

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Six months have slipped by at St. Anne’s and that anguish that I constantly felt before, at a meaningless wasted life, has vanished. In these six months, I have been around a good deal of illness and even death. Witnessing the challenges residents face on a daily basis has helped me appreciate my own life all the more.

Besides that, volunteering in a hospital has connected me with many like-minded people, volunteers like me, men and women trying to find fulfillment. I have formed personal bonds with nurses, doctors and of course, the residents and it has been gratifying. I have been treated with a different kind of respect, one that is reserved for those who offer a helping hand.

Here’s what I do at St.Anne’s. I come in straight from work around 6pm. It is a sprawling complex which is easy to get lost in. I did get lost trying to find the employees’ entrance the first time, but only that one time.

I swipe my card through and get straight to Volunteer Services, which is this tiny room with a closet where volunteers hang their coats and store their backpacks and stuff. I stoop and fill in my attendance in the file that is always lying open on this table.

After I sign in, I straighten and on the wall right in front are these two white boards, both having names written on them with a clear legible hand. One is always full of names with numbers scribbled next to them. Like ‘Bernard Bonneville (805) – Bingo’ or ‘Martin Beauregard (904) – Cribbage’ and so on.

If the name is crossed out it means another volunteer has come in ahead of me and taken charge of that resident. The number beside the name is the room number, 805 – Room 5 in the 8th floor. If it is Mr. Bonneville, it is his Bingo evening and the volunteer has to proceed to his room, take charge of him, wheel him down in his wheelchair to the Bingo hall. It is supper plus Bingo night. Afterward, the volunteer will take him Mr Bonneville back to his room and keep him company till he falls asleep. That’s the way it works.

My conduct with the resident in my charge is governed by a few very strict ground rules and taboos that Ms Grenville warned me about, right at the start. Here are some of them…..

‘Almost all the residents are veterans of WW2 or the Korean War. Never talk about the war unless the resident opens the subject. ‘Latent’ PTSD is a real issue and many of these 90+ year olds are actually afflicted with it and have never known it. So, please, don’t be a shmuck and rekindle painful memories. If you plan to blog on war stories, it shall have to wait till the resident opens up on his own.’

– ‘Do not ask about a resident’s personal life unless he starts talking about it first. Most times he has no family. I mean family that cares. Wife long gone, siblings probably long dead too, children grown, with no time to visit, the desire to catch just a glimpse of them and the grand kids, all that yearning and the abandonment – it can be crippling.’

– ‘Smile and be positive, sunny and cheerful when talking to them. They crave that. Most have been enlisted men and then, after the war, blue collar workers. They love to listen to raunchy humor, no matter how old they get. Bring along a stock of dirty jokes if you want to brighten up their evenings.’

– ‘Do not get emotionally attached to a resident. Most likely he will not live long and the separation can be very painful. Do not take a resident home or out on a drive with you, even if he begs you to. If anything happens, you will be held responsible. The hospital does not cover the costs and neither does your own insurance.’

– ‘Some of the residents, especially the lonelier ones, will try to show their gratitude because you chose to spend time with them. It’s understandable. Aren’t we all overwhelmed when perfect strangers step forward to help us? But in your case, they might offer money as a tip or reward. Do not accept it. Remember that you are a volunteer and you are here because you want to find meaning in your own life.’

– ‘If you promised a resident you will visit him on a particular day, make damned sure that you keep that date. You have no idea how much they look forward to your visit and how despondent a resident can get if you don’t turn up. Besides it may be the last you see of him or her.’

– ‘Do not try to contact the resident’s family under any circumstances, even if the resident implores you to. His family may not welcome the contact. Call the nurse in charge of the floor and let her deal with it.’

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“When we feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean and won’t make any difference at all, we must remember that the ocean would be less if that drop was missing.”

– Mother Theresa

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I told you about 2 white boards and I explained about one, if you have been paying attention.

Now let’s get to the other white board.

The other board has a shorter list, with two, maybe three names on it. It has reddish orange poppies and lilies all around it. Sometimes there are real flowers, roses and cards stuck behind it.

This board has a heading and it says, “Décédé la semaine dernière”.

Once in a while, I recognize a name on the second board. Like, today. Today there is one name on the second board that I immediately recognize and stare at in disbelief – Ron Nimitz, Corporal, RCN (Retd).

Once in a while, the no-emotional-attachment rule is fated to be broken, as in the case of Ron, a 96-year old ex-sapper. He was a dear dear little man whom I loved spending time with. He had no qualms about talking about the war. I looked forward to seeing him more than he did, seeing me.

Full of mischief, Ron Nimitz raised hell at Bingo. “Sonuva bitch! I’ll never get the numbers! What the f—k am I doon here?” “Hey, get lost, chump, that’s my seat.” “Oh baby, come n light mah fayah.” The last one to Rosy, a 94-year old WW2 radio operator who screams back,” You shut your foul mouth, you dirty old man! Sally (**Rosy’s volunteer minder**), come here! Move me to another table, will you?”

I haven’t finished reading Ron’s name on the second board and I am racing through the corridor toward the elevator banks. I dive into an elevator that is about to go up, I get off at the 6th floor and hurry down the short distance past the nurses’ station, to Ron Nimitz’s door.

It is open. The wall above his bed is bare. His beloved war photos, of his regiment and his buddies, grinning, legs dangling over the mud skirt of an M4 Sherman tank and all those family photo collages – they are all gone.

The room is empty, completely sanitized, ready to take in the next vet. It is almost as if Ron Nimitz had been just a figment of my imagination.

There had been a short memorial service the previous evening, the nurse on the floor tells me. There had been no visitors, except for a younger sister who had flown down from Halifax. Seeing my eyes brimming with tears, the nurse, a plump matronly woman, holds me in her arms for a while.

I stumble down to Volunteer Services. I am empty. Devoid. I just want to skip and go home.

At Volunteer Services, I pick up my stuff from my locker and I am on the way out the door when my glance falls on the first white board. No one has picked up David Boucherville yet and I know how much he loves his Bingo. My eyes light up and I chuckle. Dave Boucherville and his Alzheimers makes friends with me all over again, every time. Every ten minutes or so, Dave asks the same question as he sizes me up suspiciously,” You’re not Cheryl? Where’s Cheryl? Has she come home yet?” I have been taught by the nurses to answer with a cheerful tone, as if I heard him ask that question for the very first time,” Oh she’ll be here in a half hour’.

I stash my stuff back into my locker and I head for the elevators to fetch Dave.

There is a spring in my step.