Bowled Over by The Donald

 Apparently, it’s World Storytelling Day, and heaven knows there’s no shortage of stories about my mom. One day, I’ll write those down, but today, it’s a story about a guy my family calls The Donald -- no, no THAT one -- and a little Corelle bowl. My mom’s part of the story too, so that’s a bonus.

In her later years, my mom used a little Corelle bowl for her morning fruit or evening ice cream. It was small and lightweight and easy for her to handle. She was a person who did not embrace change easily, so we had to be careful to use the same spoon, the same bowl, the same plate.

At one point, my mom ended up with a broken hip and landed in Memorial Southeast Hospital for an extended period of time while she recovered and rehabbed. I was with her most of that time, coming up early for breakfast and staying through until lights out. In order to make her comfortable, I brought her special bowl and spoon (and her favorite dish towel). I guarded them all carefully, making sure to remove the bowl and spoon before the Food Service people came to take the tray away.

The Food Service guy who came in every day to take her order was a young guy named Donald. He was a short guy, kind of quiet, with longish hair, who seemed to know everyone and who all the staff knew. We joked because he was so super-mellow, we were certain he was out in the parking lot smoking weed before work. He struck us as the guy least likely to work in a hospital.

He was chatty and helpful and began to anticipate my mom’s likes and dislikes. He would ask her if there was something special she’d rather have, and when he showed up with a sweet potato for dinner one night, I knew I’d been moved to the #2 spot. He would add Diet Cokes to my mom’s order because he knew I’d like them. The Donald was a good guy. He knew about The Bowl and accepted it with good humor. I would text my family with the day’s Donald report. 

After we left the hospital, we talked about Donald and wondered if he was thinking about us. I realized
when we got home that I’d left The Bowl behind. I must have forgotten to remove it from the tray on the last day. It wasn’t the end of the world, because we had two of them, so every night I had to be sure to wash the remaining one. Still, I thought about that bowl and wondered if someone just threw it out and wondered if they knew about my mom’s affinity for it. 

Then, as happens, there was another fall and another hospital stay a year or so later. Mom, The Bowl and I went back to the hospital. We didn’t stay as long, and we didn’t see The Donald. The girl who took our order said he’d been promoted and spent his days in the Food Service Department rather than on the floor with patients. I was glad for Donald, but I really missed having his mellow vibe around. 

My mom went to a rehab center across the street from the hospital for several weeks, and one day, I walked over to the hospital for lunch. (I know that sounds weird, but the salad bar at Memorial Southeast is really good. And cheap.) I took my tray and sat down at a table. I looked up and a couple of tables over, I spied him. The Donald was having lunch with a group of people. I was so startled to see him, I guess I said, “Donald!” out loud and much louder than I realized. He looked up, saw me, got up from his lunch and said to me, “Don’t leave!” He ran out of the cafeteria. His lunchmates and I just stared at each other. 

He was back in a minute or so. With my mom’s bowl.  

And that is the story of the time I burst into hysterical tears in the Memorial Southeast Hospital cafeteria. Donald said, “I didn’t know how to get in touch with you, but I saved it just in case.” I threw my arms around him and thanked and thanked him through my tears. I tried to tell him how much his kindness meant. Being a caregiver is a hard job, and what he thought was “no big deal” was a moment that I will remember forever. For someone to remember my mom and be worried enough to save her bowl was so meaningful to me.

I was gushing and gushing about how wonderful he was, and his lunchmates just looked on, sort of confused and sort of figuring this was just part of the essence of Donald. I said, “I want to write to your boss and tell them how wonderful you are! Can you tell me who I should write to?”

A lady at his table said, “I’m his boss. I’m glad I was here to see this.” I wrote her a letter anyway so it could go in his file and tweeted it out to the Memorial Hospital account because I wanted the whole world to know how one person changed two lives that day.

The next time we ended up at the hospital, I asked about Donald, but he’d moved on by then. I think about him from time to time and remember how he made a hospital stay a little more entertaining. I think about how it felt to be the recipient of kindness and how it affected me then and how it affects me even now.

I hope The Donald knows he’s part of Horrigan family folklore. If Houdini were a person, he'd be Donald.