Good Ol' Mickey Dee

When we checked in to The Ronald McDonald House (RMH), a nice lady gave us the tour. I had heard of Ronald McDonald Houses, but I had no idea what they were really for. I don't even think I realized that it was an actual house. I thought it was just the name of the charity organization. Well, newsflash: there are actual houses...not "houses," more like motels. We could name the amount we were able to pay a week. There was a community laundry room and kitchen. The nice lady said that a few local restaurants and some individuals cook and bring food for anyone who needs it. No housekeeping: DIY. I thought the whole thing was pretty nice.  I never actually stayed there, however. I left all my bags in my room and stayed in the NICU with the babies. When Mom came every day, she would give me a ride to the RMH, and I would take a shower and change clothes. When Rodney came every night, we sometimes dropped by there to get something from my bag. "Sign in, sign out."

During our tour on that first day, we were informed that we must go see our children at least "x" amount of hours per week. I remember not much else from the rules, but this line was enough to cut through my drug induced fog. I looked up from my wheelchair: "Did you just say, 'We must go see our children?'"

"Yes."

"Huh...."

In the front, there was a little gated area with a pretty statue of two small children playing in the fountain with little frogs on lily pads. There was nice landscaping and a few benches here and there. One bench was permanently occupied by The Mr. Ronald McDonald himself. More than once I came out of the building after dark and was startled by that eerie silhouette with the fire-red hair. Creepy man? Killer clown? No. It's just good ol' Mickey Dee.

There was another little court yard in the back with a playground similar to the ones at their restaurants. Once, Mom and I went to the actual McDonald's for some breakfast and brought it back to the RMH to eat out in this courtyard before my shower. There happened to be a lovely lady sitting with her feet up in the chair, smoking a cigarette and talking much louder than necessary on her cell phone.  Her regular F bombs were a nice backdrop for our brunch. We tried to ignore her and have our own conversation. Who am I to judge her? Her child must be in the NICU, I thought. It's the case for most people checked in. She might be going through hell. She might have other children to tend to along with one in the hospital. Still...I couldn't help but wonder if she'd met her quota. It was a decent place, not some ratty roach motel, like some people have indicated. But I still don't see how people could hang out there all day while their child was less than one block away in the hospital.

Now when I go through McDonald's, I try to always drop in some change in that little Ronald McDonald House drop box under the window.

Thanks, Mickey.