Recession Blues? Try Volunteering.

Over the last two months, I’ve had some difficulties with people who have a stake in my apartment. To say the least. It’s complicated, but suffice to say I’ve seen people sink to unbelievably low levels of respect, honesty and integrity. And here, in Chicago, it’s reached a very unfortunate level, and I might have to move out of my apartment before I even get back. I can’t even relax when gas stations don’t have bathrooms, so my stress level right now? Don’t get me started.

With groceries that seemed heavier than normal, we arrived on the U Chicago campus to cook at the Ronald McDonald House. Excuse me, Ronald McDonald Mansion. Two sets of cherry doors with glass in-lays led into the foyer, anchored with a wide, circular table and cascading flower arrangement. The kitchen is bigger than many restaurant facilities. I’m talking 7 cutting boards. A woman named Karen was the first to pop up in the kitchen to see what we’re doing and help us navigate the 4,562 drawers.

Karen knew the layout because she has spent the last 2 years at this house. Both of her children, now in their late teens, have chiari malformation, a brain disorder that causes apnea, dizziness, headaches, nausea, ringing, an endless list of symptoms for which the only treatment is surgery; they came to the University of Chicago for Dr. David Frim, a neurologist who could fix their previously botched surgeries. In the last two years, they’ve been home for 13 weeks. Due to the economy and their absence, the family lost their business. Karen has blacked out in the hospital due to exhaustion. And her kids talk of suicide.

Tearing up, she said that the house has been instrumental. Not just for her, but everyone here. When a child is sick, you can’t worry with renting a car, going grocery shopping, maintaining the family business so that you can pay for a place to stay. Food donations have dropped this year, Karen said, so the people who come to cook provide an invaluable service. ”The beeping, the fear, the worry…this place is an escape,” she said. “People come here to eat for an hour and we talk and help each other out. It’s like a little family.” True to her word, everyone ate at one long table that night, celebrating the successful open heart surgery for a 6-day old baby that had come to the house earlier that week. 

When people are living like this, how can I possibly stress out about an apartment? It’s just a place to stay. It’s just stuff. Worst case scenario, I’ll put my stuff in storage and deal with it when I get back. I cannot possibly worry, and I cannot possibly indulge the people who have sunk so low and become so petty over a few rooms in an old building in New York.

Repeatedly, we have arrive at the houses stressed out, or unhappy for one reason or another, and they have put things into perspective. The ants in our car? Not important. The air vent exploding on the Interstate? Not important. Running out of gas with the closest station 5 miles out? Really doesn’t matter. What matters is home and family. People who care. And yes, I know I’m delving into reflective mumbo jumbo. But with a trip like this, something really does change. All we can hope is to hold on and carry it home.