I grew up carefully tended by my family. I had friends in the neighborhood and at Our Lady of Grace Church and school. In this community, I always felt valuable and wanted.

It wasn’t so easy as I grew older.

The left side of my face bulges with purple veins from a birth difference. The radiation I received as an infant made the lower part of my face stop growing.

You don’t need to be disfigured to feel you do not belong. Anyone who looks different knows what it is like. When I walk down the street or into a store, I can get stares, averted glances and startled looks that at times can make my heart sink.

I know I will always look different. But I don’t want to feel that way. I want to feel valued and useful and needed. Especially because of the way I look, I need community to have a good life.

I had to learn how to get that.

When I volunteered to do massage at Pacific Presbyterian Hospital, I was afraid. First of all, I didn’t know if I could do it right. I worried I might hurt a patient. Worse than that, I was afraid people would judge me because of my face.

I imagined myself walking into the room of a patient lying there propped up in his bed. He’d see me, a strange little disfigured guy who reminded him of Quasimodo, walking in and saying, “Want a foot massage?” What would he do? Call the nurse? Press the little button to get more morphine?

It took courage to walk in there. But you know what? Everyone was courteous and welcoming. I was not different; I was in a community—there were ten of us—who joined in common purpose to bring comfort and relaxation to people who were ill and vulnerable.

Patients loved to see us and said we were the most healing thing about the hospital.