I am getting to do something I never imagined I would do.
A year ago, I volunteered for my small town's library advisory board. I knew we had passed a bond election to build a new one, and that sounded really fun to be involved with.
I love libraries. No matter how many computer programs they store, videos, when you walk in, you can smell the invigorating odor that lots of printed books living together generate. I love that smell.
I love the reading programs we offer for pre-school, the enrichment programs--I finally got to this week's enrichment on raptors. Didn't know we had kites in Texas. Loved the owls and hawks. No eagles this day. And red-tailed hawks are still numerous across the land.
Last week, we had miniature therapy horses and 70 kids and adults to pet them, hug them, yes, raise their lips to show the teeth. It really was magnificent fun. We have other programs coming up. At libraries, we try to offer the virtual and the real, We have classes. We have programs. We try to deepen community experience. I can now say we, because I am a small part.
The library here is small. The new one will be at least 5,000 sq. ft., still small but bigger. And with room for expansion. We aren't paying for new stacks and furnishings. Fundraisers and grants will pay for those. We want a library with the most technology we can build into it to support the future. The new library will offer the first available community room in town outside the schools and city hall. That matters to the culture of the community,
We are ripe. New subdivisions are going in all around us, if not in city limits, then in our zip code.
Today, we met with the architectural planners to see the bones of it. We made some early decisions on the brick, the metal roofing, the flooring. We. that means I had a vote. Heady stuff.
For me, it is leaving a little bit of legacy to a town I have come to love.
I am so excited about the future. I want to be here when it opens. I want to contribute to further success. I want to see the dream fulfilled. I believe in libraries. I want to see our citizens using ours.
Maybe that's not on your bucket list. Believe me, it is on mine.
I am retired. I volunteer in what I believe in, what is helpful. Oh, and fun for me to do.
Yeah, there is work involved. I'm kind of excited about that, too.
Yet another excuse to put off mopping the bathroom floor.
Showing posts with label volunteering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label volunteering. Show all posts
Friday, June 12, 2015
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Taking care of our own by volunteering
When I worked for the state of Texas, I had goals and deadlines I had to meet. Oh, yes, and impossibly high caseloads, and more paperwork every month. Always more paperwwork, less time with the people.
So when I could retire, I did.
Now I have the chance to help again, in a volunteer situation.
It isn't for everyone. A lot of it is process. You feed and sustain, you encourage. Sometimes someone is ready to move right along and get back on their feet. Last week I heard a man tell a volunteer he is getting an apartment again for the first time in 11 years. He's been homeless all that time. Now he's climbing out. College students at the end of their grant money for the semester come in for a nourishing meal to make their fes remaining dollars for the semester. Some never climb out. The goal is sustaining, and seeing where that can go.
I am starting volunteering at a big area soup kitchen at a local church. They coordinate with other churches, social services, area businesses. I think this kind of benevolence keeps us human. And yes, there are grants available. Some may be federal, some are foundations.
I hope I can continue for a long while. Payment is a wonderful meal. I can't afford to eat out much, so this is good.
The rest of the payment is the people I meet, including other volunteers, and the sense of doing something for the community that really counts.
I care about the pets, too. But abandoned animals find homes more often than abandoned humans. The energy is good here. Friendly, caring. Client for client. clients and staff. There's a sense of well-being, and respect. I really like that.
I am excited about this.
More to come.
So when I could retire, I did.
Now I have the chance to help again, in a volunteer situation.
It isn't for everyone. A lot of it is process. You feed and sustain, you encourage. Sometimes someone is ready to move right along and get back on their feet. Last week I heard a man tell a volunteer he is getting an apartment again for the first time in 11 years. He's been homeless all that time. Now he's climbing out. College students at the end of their grant money for the semester come in for a nourishing meal to make their fes remaining dollars for the semester. Some never climb out. The goal is sustaining, and seeing where that can go.
I am starting volunteering at a big area soup kitchen at a local church. They coordinate with other churches, social services, area businesses. I think this kind of benevolence keeps us human. And yes, there are grants available. Some may be federal, some are foundations.
I hope I can continue for a long while. Payment is a wonderful meal. I can't afford to eat out much, so this is good.
The rest of the payment is the people I meet, including other volunteers, and the sense of doing something for the community that really counts.
I care about the pets, too. But abandoned animals find homes more often than abandoned humans. The energy is good here. Friendly, caring. Client for client. clients and staff. There's a sense of well-being, and respect. I really like that.
I am excited about this.
More to come.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Be an American--Volunteer
The flags along the two main streets in our town look festive flapping and rippling in the breeze. My own flag hangs as it does every day in my front yard.
A sign says "remember the troops." And I thought, that is really a non-sequiter. Yes, we should. No, they aren't related to Sept. 11, 2001. We didn't go into war over that event, not really.
Sometimes I have wondered if part of the motivation for Iraq was the great need to roll out the (gun) barrels and pummel someone, anyone, for what had been done to us. I never wanted that war. But we had it, and I sent books, and hard candies and lip balm, hot sauce and taco seasoning, handi-wipes and kleenex. Christmas cards. So many were and are so young.
We have used these men and women hard, sending them back again and again and again.
We have had a few thousand deaths, but many more coming back without an eye, arms or legs,impaired hearing, with brain injuries and depression.
We have not done nearly enough for these soldiers, these warriors.
Remember the troops. Yes, we should. This is a good day to recommit to one of the best parts of America--reaching out a hand, being good neighbors to soldiers who will come back and look for work. Or will need more help than they are getting to be able to work. They have families and children.
They are not moochers.
This day will reasonate most through the decades of New Yorkers who were there, who lived through it in a way the rest of us could only see on television.
Let us make sure we do enough for those who risked their lives. This is a good day to promise to take care of one another. Better than before. The strength of that is greater each year. Woundedwarrior events. Habitat for Humanity. So many other means to take care of our soldiers, our veterans.
I am willing to look back, for a moment. Then I want to look forward to the future.
That's where the possibilities are.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Oldtime Medicine From the View of an Amateur
The nice thing about having lived a half dozen decades is that one has a wealth of stories to call upon. And some I have actually learned from.
Back in the middle sixties, green as grass and fresh out of college, I decided I wanted to volunteer at the county teaching hospital. At that time, the only air-conditioned parts were the ER, delivery and surgical suites. I chose ER. After all, the writer in me suspected some life stories would come in each week, as they did. No, I didn't write about them, but I experienced. From 3-11 p.m. every Monday for nine months, I volunteered in the emergency room.
That time in history was a little different. Even 10 years later I really enjoyed making the chief hospital administrator blanch as I related some of the things the ER staff had me doing. Ha!
They ran me through my paces, saw what I could do and then started adding on. Consider me like a corpsman in a field hospital who turns out to be steady, reliable and trainable. Such persons are given a lot to do they wouldn't otherwise. And this was a teaching hospital. The nurses were mostly old war horses. The doctors were brand, spanking new. Teaching staff didn't often come through on my shift. I was taught during that period just like everyone else. They started me with patient forms, only I didn't just fill out paper forms. I was doing temps and blood pressures from the first day. For the first two weeks, a nurse would slip in pehind me periodically to double-check my reads. When they turned out to be okay, they nodded in satisfaction and quit checking. After all, it's not exactly rocket science.
They oversaw my learning how to prepare a patient for examination. They taught me how to set up sterile trays for the doctors. I shlepped bedpans, of course. Twice that I remember, we had burn patients and the LVN had me assist her in scrubbing off the burned skin. One woman had fallen asleep holding a cigarette, I remember, and all the nails came off when we scrubbed.Made the bottom of my stomach prickle, but I didn't let on and I didn't slow down. Remember, I had basically just walked in off the street. Medicine had always fascinated me, however. I was learning every week. And mostly, I loved it.
The whole staff just accepted me. Another pair of hands, ignorant but teachable. Can follow directions. Good. Now go do this. And I did. Those of you working in medicine today are probably shuddering. But hey, this was 40 years ago.
One thing--in that nine months I volunteered, Monday nights did not have a single serious car crash, shooting or stabbing between the hours of 3 and 11. Staff took to rubbing my head for luck. When I became a medical writer a few years later and came back to the ER to do a story on the newfangled triage system, the same calm hit the ER. Staff begged me to come back for a few more days.
Oh we were busy enough. The usual broken arms and legs and insect bites and sickness, not to mention the one or two botched abortions that came through each evening, the young women in various stages of risk from sepsis setting in after a back alley butchery or perforated uterus from a badly wielded coat hanger. All of them, always, calling for their mommas. Who usually weren't there. Those, of course, usually went straight through to Ob-gyn.
The worst, the absolute worst thing I ever did in the ER was about halfway through. We had a patient that needed some sort of procedure they seldom did. I was instructed to get the tray, covered in a sterile sheet under an exam table, and set it up. I didn't miss a lick. Set it up perfectly. Whatever it was, I remember it involved a large mixing-bowl size stainless steel bowl. I was overseen as I set it up, but I did it right. And then--- At that time, sterile gloves came in sizes, each pair enclosed in papery-plastic sleeves. Not sterile. I glanced at the waiting resident and grabbed the right size gloves. And I dropped the non-sterile package right on the tray. I still remember the resident's visceral "NOOOOOO" as the gloves fluttered down. And decontaminated the whole setup. He didn't yell at me. Why, I still don't know. Turns out, there was a second setup in the ER. And he had me set that up, too. And I never ever made an error about sterile procedures again. I still wince when I think of it.
I learned most moms with a sick or injured kid had to be given the instructions at least four times, because fear or their pain over their kid's pain made them a little deaf. This was before the easy, designer drugs of today. Didn't get much drug addiction crap. Isn't that WONDERFUL?
Two memorable experiences--the night the big, dirty fat lady came in with a wound on her leg. She apparently had a small bladder. I know I carried a number of bed pans for her. I couldn't help but notice how the dirt marked the creases in her neck like little mud lines. I had to shift her on and off the pan. In other words, I had to handle her quite a bit. Meanwhile, she had this deep, round wound in her leg bigger than a silver dollar. It was red around the edges, but the reason she probably didn't have blood poisoning (no streaks) was that the wound was filled full to the brim with whitish maggots. Fly larva, eating the proud flesh and keeping her healthier than she would have been otherwise. They still hadn't dealt with her and her menagerie by the time I left that night. I drove home, opened my apartment, took one step inside and closed the door. I stripped to the skin right there and went straight to the shower.
I kept wanting to see a delivery, and finally, after nine months, a resident who had been in the ER and just shifted to Ob-Gyn, came down and told me to come upstairs. He had a delivery for me to watch. I went upstairs, "suited out", put on sterile gloves and a mask. The woman was near the end of delivery and very tired. The doctor actually had me pour the disinfectant over the vaginal area--hair, no time for shaving. She didn't want to push. Staff encouraged her, and finally she did.
The baby was born. Bluish white, like a carving. The doctor picked her up and flicked one of her feet. She drew in a breath to cry in outrage, and I watched life bloom over her, rosy red from the head to the feet. No longer a statue. A living, breathing, life-filled baby girl. Miraculous. Beautiful. Awesome. I learned later this woman had had five previous stillborns.
About two weeks later, my boyfriend shattered his legbone and had a 10-inch plate installed. He was in the hospital a week, and somehow, I never did get back to the ER.
I had told them I wanted to see a live birth before I left, and I guess I really, truly meant it.
As I say, about five years later, I became a medical writer for nine years. I was invited in on many procedures and some operations, and worked with doctors both in my county and Southwestern Medical School. I loved it, and I always checked back with my docs to make sure I was accurate. Bonus for that was that when my second son was born by C-section, the anesthesiologist was the current county president of the medical society, and he left my arm free so I could scratch my nose during the surgery. A very big plus, I thought.
Back in the middle sixties, green as grass and fresh out of college, I decided I wanted to volunteer at the county teaching hospital. At that time, the only air-conditioned parts were the ER, delivery and surgical suites. I chose ER. After all, the writer in me suspected some life stories would come in each week, as they did. No, I didn't write about them, but I experienced. From 3-11 p.m. every Monday for nine months, I volunteered in the emergency room.
That time in history was a little different. Even 10 years later I really enjoyed making the chief hospital administrator blanch as I related some of the things the ER staff had me doing. Ha!
They ran me through my paces, saw what I could do and then started adding on. Consider me like a corpsman in a field hospital who turns out to be steady, reliable and trainable. Such persons are given a lot to do they wouldn't otherwise. And this was a teaching hospital. The nurses were mostly old war horses. The doctors were brand, spanking new. Teaching staff didn't often come through on my shift. I was taught during that period just like everyone else. They started me with patient forms, only I didn't just fill out paper forms. I was doing temps and blood pressures from the first day. For the first two weeks, a nurse would slip in pehind me periodically to double-check my reads. When they turned out to be okay, they nodded in satisfaction and quit checking. After all, it's not exactly rocket science.
They oversaw my learning how to prepare a patient for examination. They taught me how to set up sterile trays for the doctors. I shlepped bedpans, of course. Twice that I remember, we had burn patients and the LVN had me assist her in scrubbing off the burned skin. One woman had fallen asleep holding a cigarette, I remember, and all the nails came off when we scrubbed.Made the bottom of my stomach prickle, but I didn't let on and I didn't slow down. Remember, I had basically just walked in off the street. Medicine had always fascinated me, however. I was learning every week. And mostly, I loved it.
The whole staff just accepted me. Another pair of hands, ignorant but teachable. Can follow directions. Good. Now go do this. And I did. Those of you working in medicine today are probably shuddering. But hey, this was 40 years ago.
One thing--in that nine months I volunteered, Monday nights did not have a single serious car crash, shooting or stabbing between the hours of 3 and 11. Staff took to rubbing my head for luck. When I became a medical writer a few years later and came back to the ER to do a story on the newfangled triage system, the same calm hit the ER. Staff begged me to come back for a few more days.
Oh we were busy enough. The usual broken arms and legs and insect bites and sickness, not to mention the one or two botched abortions that came through each evening, the young women in various stages of risk from sepsis setting in after a back alley butchery or perforated uterus from a badly wielded coat hanger. All of them, always, calling for their mommas. Who usually weren't there. Those, of course, usually went straight through to Ob-gyn.
The worst, the absolute worst thing I ever did in the ER was about halfway through. We had a patient that needed some sort of procedure they seldom did. I was instructed to get the tray, covered in a sterile sheet under an exam table, and set it up. I didn't miss a lick. Set it up perfectly. Whatever it was, I remember it involved a large mixing-bowl size stainless steel bowl. I was overseen as I set it up, but I did it right. And then--- At that time, sterile gloves came in sizes, each pair enclosed in papery-plastic sleeves. Not sterile. I glanced at the waiting resident and grabbed the right size gloves. And I dropped the non-sterile package right on the tray. I still remember the resident's visceral "NOOOOOO" as the gloves fluttered down. And decontaminated the whole setup. He didn't yell at me. Why, I still don't know. Turns out, there was a second setup in the ER. And he had me set that up, too. And I never ever made an error about sterile procedures again. I still wince when I think of it.
I learned most moms with a sick or injured kid had to be given the instructions at least four times, because fear or their pain over their kid's pain made them a little deaf. This was before the easy, designer drugs of today. Didn't get much drug addiction crap. Isn't that WONDERFUL?
Two memorable experiences--the night the big, dirty fat lady came in with a wound on her leg. She apparently had a small bladder. I know I carried a number of bed pans for her. I couldn't help but notice how the dirt marked the creases in her neck like little mud lines. I had to shift her on and off the pan. In other words, I had to handle her quite a bit. Meanwhile, she had this deep, round wound in her leg bigger than a silver dollar. It was red around the edges, but the reason she probably didn't have blood poisoning (no streaks) was that the wound was filled full to the brim with whitish maggots. Fly larva, eating the proud flesh and keeping her healthier than she would have been otherwise. They still hadn't dealt with her and her menagerie by the time I left that night. I drove home, opened my apartment, took one step inside and closed the door. I stripped to the skin right there and went straight to the shower.
I kept wanting to see a delivery, and finally, after nine months, a resident who had been in the ER and just shifted to Ob-Gyn, came down and told me to come upstairs. He had a delivery for me to watch. I went upstairs, "suited out", put on sterile gloves and a mask. The woman was near the end of delivery and very tired. The doctor actually had me pour the disinfectant over the vaginal area--hair, no time for shaving. She didn't want to push. Staff encouraged her, and finally she did.
The baby was born. Bluish white, like a carving. The doctor picked her up and flicked one of her feet. She drew in a breath to cry in outrage, and I watched life bloom over her, rosy red from the head to the feet. No longer a statue. A living, breathing, life-filled baby girl. Miraculous. Beautiful. Awesome. I learned later this woman had had five previous stillborns.
About two weeks later, my boyfriend shattered his legbone and had a 10-inch plate installed. He was in the hospital a week, and somehow, I never did get back to the ER.
I had told them I wanted to see a live birth before I left, and I guess I really, truly meant it.
As I say, about five years later, I became a medical writer for nine years. I was invited in on many procedures and some operations, and worked with doctors both in my county and Southwestern Medical School. I loved it, and I always checked back with my docs to make sure I was accurate. Bonus for that was that when my second son was born by C-section, the anesthesiologist was the current county president of the medical society, and he left my arm free so I could scratch my nose during the surgery. A very big plus, I thought.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Giving and endings
Last night, I celebrated the birthdays of two good friends at a local restaurant. In 10 days, they are moving to Oregon, and I didn't want to give them anything more to pack. We visited and laughed as we always do, and at the end, they took turns taking pictures of me with each of them and sent me copies today. Somehow, no matter how I try, they always give back more than I gave. I will miss them so much. I have e-mail addresses, a home address, and cell phones. And they promise they have a bedroom waiting for me to visit. And I am so happy for them.
I am developing new friendships, but how do you replace 35 years? I think about the wagon trains of years past, when families said goodbye to everyone they knew, every THING they knew, and went on. How did they do it? They did. They did. Wow.
Last week, I had my last mentoring session with my two girls. I worked with families--i.e. kids-- for 13 years, without the wrench very often I felt Thursday.. My fourth grader becomes a fifth grader, so I can continue to work with her. My fifth grader goes on to middle school, so fifth grade is a kind of graduation. I worked weekly with these girls, one hour with one, two hours with the other, and yes, son, they are MY GIRLS. I am invested in them. Funny so little time can make such a difference. The principal says their academic scores in the school overwide are coming up. Some of it is our schoolwork with them, but I am convinced some of it is the fact they know more people are cheering them on to succeed. I gave my fourth grader a silver charm of a turtle to remind her that next year we won't hurry to catch up but work steadily to keep up, because, I said, "I want you to win." She lookd at me and said, "That makes me want to cry, but I won't." And she did love the charm.
One of the dangers of any volunteer work is the guilt we feel at what we get back for volunteering. No matter how much you give, to friends or the community, you always get more back than you gave. I understand that now. But it still is not always comfortable.
I am developing new friendships, but how do you replace 35 years? I think about the wagon trains of years past, when families said goodbye to everyone they knew, every THING they knew, and went on. How did they do it? They did. They did. Wow.
Last week, I had my last mentoring session with my two girls. I worked with families--i.e. kids-- for 13 years, without the wrench very often I felt Thursday.. My fourth grader becomes a fifth grader, so I can continue to work with her. My fifth grader goes on to middle school, so fifth grade is a kind of graduation. I worked weekly with these girls, one hour with one, two hours with the other, and yes, son, they are MY GIRLS. I am invested in them. Funny so little time can make such a difference. The principal says their academic scores in the school overwide are coming up. Some of it is our schoolwork with them, but I am convinced some of it is the fact they know more people are cheering them on to succeed. I gave my fourth grader a silver charm of a turtle to remind her that next year we won't hurry to catch up but work steadily to keep up, because, I said, "I want you to win." She lookd at me and said, "That makes me want to cry, but I won't." And she did love the charm.
One of the dangers of any volunteer work is the guilt we feel at what we get back for volunteering. No matter how much you give, to friends or the community, you always get more back than you gave. I understand that now. But it still is not always comfortable.
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