I looked down to find three snowmen drawn in thick-lined black ink. The picture appeared to be a copy and as a final artistic touch, the snowmen were given color with crayons. I looked on the back, read the few signatures and thought, “How nice, a little holiday cheer.” Then it hit me, “Oh no, I am one of those people. I am the sick person that someone thought about when they decided what to do for a community service project." Now that I was on the receiving end of such a project, the intent of the card was lost in its simplicity. These people didn’t know me; I didn’t know them. The card did not feel warm and fuzzy. It felt superficial and fake.
Cancer patients are indeed in need. My former treatment center had a basket filled with items made especially for people like me. From that basket, I grabbed a few cute hand-knitted hats to keep my head warm when I was bald and the weather was cold. I appreciated the work behind the hats. When my children were small, we participated in sending cards and supplies to American soldiers overseas. (Why our government is not supplying our soldiers with these basic needs baffles my mind, but that is for another post.) The new razors, shaving cream, toothbrushes, and soap that we packed in shoe boxes I hope made those young men and women happy upon receiving them. Now that I have received a card from a stranger, I believe the cards we sent with our packages probably were not as well received as the goodies.
|6 of these are mine, the two beside the small poodle mix on |
the left were adopted by other families.
It would have been nicer, at least for me, if these young people had spent time making a gift instead of a card. A knitted hat or scarf, an origami animal, or even giving out a few dollars in cash that the group had raised through a car-washing event would have brightened my day more than a few names on a post card. Am I wrong in feeling this way? What do you think?