shed your parkas + titles at the door

tray
The Stollery Family Centred Care Council had its first meeting in October eight years ago. Soon after the holidays were approaching, so we decided to have a Christmas party. Hosting a party with this newly formed group of people seemed like a natural thing to do.

It was wholly unofficial, but in cahoots with Heather, the Family Centred Care Manager, we went ahead and did it. In the early days, we embraced a just do it and apologize later philosophy. We were pioneers in a new land.

We had no budget and we couldn’t serve alcohol in a hospital setting (of course), so my husband and I decided to host at our house.

We sent out invitations to the entire Council – senior leadership, family reps, physicians, clinicians – stressing that this was a family party – partners and kids were welcomed. We made it potluck to cut down on expenses and I think I had a jar at the door for folks to donate to our booze fund. Heather and I wrote out personalized Christmas cards for everyone. I bought sequinned Santa hats from the dollar store for all the kids. I don’t know how much all this cost. There was no funding and it didn’t matter.

As is typical for a December evening in Edmonton, it had snowed and the roads were icy and awful. But our doorbell kept ringing and boots and parkas piled up in our entrance as more and more guests arrived.

Here’s what I remember: Serving cocktails on a silver platter at the front door. Children running wild through our house: kids jumping on beds, kids running up and down the stairs, kids pulling out all my son’s toys (Note: this was all awesome).

The Senior Operating Officer of the hospital was there – her newly-retired husband had cooked an amazing dish for potluck while she was at work and he had braved the roads to meet up with her at our place. Another senior director came with her two children and husband. Her kids were playing with the so-called ‘Stollery kids’ – our kids, the patients – who were a diverse lot, a collection of children with disabilities and medical conditions. Seeing them all zooming around our house – at varying speeds, with various mobility issues – was as it should be.

My husband standing in our kitchen, deep in conversation with a dad whose child had died at the hospital the year before. Me, checking on kids downstairs, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, talking to a PICU intensivist while his young daughters ran amuck around us. A neonatologist popped by on his way from his martial arts class, leaning against the wall in the hallway chatting with a mom. It was a houseful of people connecting with people as human beings.

My husband and I hosted this party like every other party we had ever had at our house. Our formula was a bounty of food, fancy cocktails, blaring music and an open door. For whatever reason, people showed up. I understand now how important the simply showing up is. The people who came to that party were providing evidence of their early commitment to the family centred care cause. For the staff, this was an unpaid, after-hours affair. For the families, this was the end of a long day. But they still showed up. I believe this evening was a tipping point. It was the beginning of culture change at the hospital.

There were Christmas parties like this for about three years. The amount of people involved in family centred care at the hospital expanded and outgrew a house party. The celebrations switched to summer barbecues at community halls instead, which was a natural progression of growth.

But those early holiday parties were special. They were intimate and inclusive affairs.   There was a complete shedding of roles those evenings. Titles were taken off along with the parkas and boots at the front door. There was a relaxing of tightly held positions with a cocktail or two. Meeting everybody’s partners and kids felt really important. By the end of that first dark December evening, we were no longer ‘professionals’ and ‘families.’ We were colleagues and blossoming friends.

If you are reading this and thinking that there’s no way a house party with your hospital staff and patients/families would ever happen, here’s my challenge to you.

If you really want to partner with the people you serve, you need to see them – and your staff – as people first. It is your job to remove all the barriers to create an environment where you would be able to host a party at your house. (YES AT YOUR HOUSE).

If this seems impossible, you have to take away the preconceived rigid notion of what it means to be a professional, ignore the policies and procedures forbidding socializing and fund the damn party out of your own pocket if you have to.

This is not a movement created around a boardroom table. Providing opportunities to lose your title and connect as human beings is the only way you actually seal this deal. Celebrating together – breaking bread, getting to know each other, toasting to the season – is a good way to start.

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