Kmc Clowns Take The Edge Off Hospital Stay

Obie, Patch and Upsy Daisy are understandably nervous. Their mouths still mangle jokes. Their gags are rough. And their venue taps emotions these amateur clowns have kept in check for months.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this,” Obie says just above a whisper as the threesome steps off the elevator into Kootenai Medical Center’s cancer ward. Nine weeks of clown classes have led to this final exam night, their first alone with patients.

Under Obie’s Raggedy Andy hair is Jim Muse, a 41-year-old computer operator from Post Falls. His wife died from cancer in this very wing a year ago. His voice wavers when he says her name, Carlotta.

The nurses don’t immediately recognize the big guy with the grease-painted smile, stuffed monkey and red high-tops, but they grin because they can’t help it.

“Oh for God’s sake,” one suddenly gasps and throws her arms fondly around Jim’s neck. She laughs at his mismatched clothes and gives him courage. He leads his companions to Room 314 and shyly pokes his head in the door.

Mae sits on the edge of her bed expectantly, her white hair brushed into bouncy curls, a rich velvet robe covering her hospital gown. Sensing their nervousness, she invites the clowns in with a smile.

“What happened to your nose?” she asks Patch, 62-year-old real estate saleswoman Danna Harris.

“I fell down and I skinned it,” Danna says in a childish voice.

“Well, it doesn’t improve your looks,” Mae says with such perfect timing, it’s as if she rehearsed the gag. Everyone seizes the chance to laugh.

The hospital clown corps was Beverly Toelle’s brainchild. Humor eased her grief after three people in her family died within 11 months. She knew it could help others.

Humor has earned the medical world’s seal of approval as a therapy for patients, families and hospital workers.

It’s used in hospitals in varying degrees nationwide, from joke books on library carts to parades of specially trained clowns.

Spokane’s Sacred Heart Medical Center has run a low-key humor care program for three years. A few blocks away, Shriners Hospital for Crippled Children prefers periodic explosions of clowns in its hallways.

Beverly liked clowns. She couldn’t see one without smiling. She studied established hospital clown corps, went to a national humor conference and pitched her idea for clowns at Kootenai Medical Center to its administrator, Joe Morris.

“I was skeptical. I didn’t have knowledge of their training or if they were just dressing up and playing a role,” he says.

But he listened.

He knew about Beverly’s losses and her experience as a coronary-care nurse. When she explained the clowns would train for 10 weeks with a mental health counselor/clown, Joe gave her the thumbs up.

“Health care focuses on the wonderful, technical things we do,” he says.

“We lose touch with the emotional and spiritual sides of patients. We can have better outcomes through the use of humor.”

Beverly advertised for volunteers willing to spend $60 for the class and textbook and to commit 40 hours in the year after graduation to entertaining patients and their families. Forty-two people registered.

Ray Yates and Joe Reed drove down from Bonners Ferry every week, hoping to learn enough to start a clown ministry at home. Sacred Heart covered Mahilani Gutina’s training costs so she could decide if clowns were appropriate for the Spokane hospital.

“I really believe it’s an option,” Mahilani says. She’s writing her Eastern Washington University master’s thesis on humor in health.

“I’m thinking, if this takes off at Sacred Heart, maybe I could help train.”

A dozen volunteers are men. About 10 are health care workers. The rest represent a jumbled collection of careers and reasons for joining the corps. There’s a prosecuting attorney and a former nun with a doctorate in education, a chaplain and a few former patients.

Their ages span seven decades. They learned everything from make-up and pratfalls to listening and working with difficult people to prepare for this final exam night.

“This has been therapeutic for me,” Jim admits as he follows the colorful crowd to a vacant room in the surgery recovery unit. Beverly, aka Greta von Frettin’ Vine, stands at the foot of the bed issuing last-minute reminders that a hospital is not the Big Top.

Don’t wear gloves because gloves catch and spread germs. Wash hands often. Leave when workers enter to change dressings. Don’t ask patients how they are or talk about the beautiful weather.

“You need an old model bell-shaped stethoscope to blow bubbles or you’ll get soap in your mouth,” she says.

The group disperses to pediatrics, rehab, the emergency room, the cancer unit. Their glitter and rainbow colors brighten the muted hallways. Visitors and workers smile.

Only Obie, Patch and Upsy Daisy, a k a Jan Johnson, head to oncology. Jan has survived two bouts with cancer, her husband one.

“I can’t wait to go across the street to the cancer center and see all my doctors and say thank you,” Jan says. The center is included in the clown rounds.

Mae, their first patient, calms them, and they head to their second room determined to do better. Grace awaits in a chair, an intravenous tube stuck in her arm. Except for a stray patch or two of hair, she’s bald.

She invites them to guess her age, but they diplomatically decline, so she tells them with a giggle that she’s 75. She’s happy when Patch asks about the pictures of children on her wall and laughs when Obie squeaks his stuffed monkey.

The clowns learned to keep their visits short, but Grace weeps as they leave.

Patch pats her, then wraps her arms around Grace’s bony shoulders as if she’s a heartbroken child.

Even the makeup can’t hide Patch’s distress.

“I wish I’d picked pediatrics, I tell you,” she mumbles as she leaves. “Nothing you do in class ever prepares you for the actual experience.”

By the third room, a fourth clown appears and all are more confident. Patch sings. Upsy Daisy whips out cards on a string that form a message and everyone laughs when the gag tangles.

These clowns are going to be fine.

“You put on makeup, and the pains go away for a while,” Jim says as the group leaves the unit.

He aches for his wife and for more light-hearted days. That’s why he joined the Smile Squad.

“When you have a big smile on, people don’t look at you the same. They don’t feel sorry for you,” Jim says.

“A lot of it’s selfish on my part, but I do want to make patients and their families happy.”

, DataTimes ILLUSTRATION: Color Photo

MEMO: This sidebar appeared with the story: GRADUATION The Clown Corps will graduate at 7 p.m., Friday, in KMC’s Fox Auditorium. The public is invited.