One
of our standard events was "Ronald Day." One day each month,we visited
as many of the community hospitals as possible, bringing a little happiness
into a place where no one ever looks forward
to going. I was very proud to be able to make a differencefor children
and adults who were experiencing some "down time."
The
warmth and satisfaction I would receive stayed with me for weeks. I loved
the project, McDonald's loved the project, the kids
and adults loved it and so did the nursing and hospital staffs.
There
were two restrictions placed on me during a visit. First, I could
not go anywhere in the hospital without McDonald's personnel (my handlers)
as well as hospital personnel. That way, if I were to
walk into a room and frighten a child, there was someone there to address
the issue immediately. And second, I could not physicallytouch anyone within
the hospital. They did not want me transferring germs from one patient
to another.
I
understood why they had this "don't touch" rule, but I didn't like it.
I believe that touching is the most honest form of communication
we will ever know. Printed and spoken words can lie; it
is impossible to lie with a warm hug.
Breaking
either of these rules, I was told, meant I could lose my
job. Toward the end of my fourth year of "Ronald Days," asI was heading
down a hallway after a long day in grease paint and
on my way home, I heard a little voice. "Ronald, Ronald."
I
stopped. The soft little voice was coming through a half-opened
door. I pushed the door open and saw a young boy, about fiveyears old,
lying in his dad's arms, hooked up to more medical equipment
than I had ever seen. Mom was on the other side, along with
Grandma, Grandpa and a nurse tending to the equipment.
I
knew by the feeling in the room that the situation was grave.I asked the
little boy his name - he told me it was Billy - andI did a few simple magic
tricks for him. As I stepped back to say
good-bye, I asked Billy if there was anything else I could do for him.
"Ronald,
would you hold me?"
Such a simple request. But what ran through my mind was that if I touched him, I could lose my job. So I told Billy I could not do that right now, but I suggested that he and I color a picture.
Upon
completing a wonderful piece of art that we were both very proud of, Billy
again asked me to hold him. By this time my heart was screaming "yes!"
But my mind was screaming louder. "No! You are
going to lose your job!"
This
second time that Billy asked me, I had to ponder why I could
not grant the simple request of a little boy who probably would not be
going home. I asked myself why was I being logically and
emotionally torn apart by someone I had never seen before and probably
would never see again.
"Hold
me." It was such a simple request, and yet... I searched for any reasonable
response that would allow me to leave. I could not come up with a single
one. It took me a moment to realize that
in this situation, losing my job may not be the disaste I feared. Was losing
my job the worst thing in the world?
Did
I have enough self-belief that if I did lost my job, I would
be able to pick up and start again? The answer was a loud,
bold, affirming "yes!" I could pick up and start again.
So
what was the risk?
Just
that if I lost my job, it probably would not be long before
I would lose first my car, then my home...and to be honest
with you, I really liked those things. But I realized that
at the end of my life, the car would have no value and neither
would the house.
The only things that had steadfast value were experiences.
Once
I reminded myself that the real reason I was there was to
bring a little happiness to an unhappy environment, I realized
that I really faced no risk at all.
I
sent Mom, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa out of the room, and my two McDonald's
escorts out to the van. The nurse tending the medical equipment stayed,
but Billy asked her to stand and face
the corner. Then I picked up this little wonder of a human
being. He was so frail and so scared. We laughed and cried
for 45 minutes, and talked about the things that worried
him.
Billy
was afraid that his little brother might get lost coming home from kindergarten
next year, without Billy to show him the way. He worried that his dog wouldn't
get another bone because Billy
had hidden the bones in the house before going back to the
hospital, and now he couldn't remember where he put them.
These
are problems to a little boy who knows he is not going home.
On my way out of the room, with tear-streaked makeup running
down my neck, I gave Mom and Dad my real name and phone number
(another automatic dismissal for a Ronald McDonald, but I
figured that I was gone and had nothing to lose), and said ifthere was
anything the McDonald's Corporation or I could do, to give
me a call and consider it done.
Less
than 48 hours later, I received a phone call from Billy's mom. She informed
me that Billy had passed away. She and her husband
simply wanted to thank me for making a difference in their
little boy's life.
Billy's
mom told me that shortly after I left the room, Billy looked
at her and said, "Momma, I don't care anymore if I see Santa
this year because I was held by Ronald McDonald."
Sometimes
we must do what is right for the moment, regardless of
the perceived risk. Only experiences have value, and the one biggest reason
people limit their experiences is because of
the risk involved.
For
the record, McDonald's did find out about Billy and me, but
given the circumstances, permitted me to retain my job.
By Jeff McMullen