Off the charts

As the official "greeter" for patients entering MGH's Cancer Center, McCallum "Mac" Moore always brings three things to work: his "At Your Service" cap; his big, warm, Caribbean smile; and his little gray psalm book.

Moore, who welcomes 200 to 300 patients a day to the center -- helping them out of their vehicles, giving them directions, getting them wheelchairs, or sometimes just offering much-needed hugs -- doesn't take a morning coffee break. Instead, he takes his prayer book into the hospital chapel and prays for the people he affectionately calls "his patients."

"This is the most fragile spot in the hospital. It is as thin as glass. You can see through it," he said of the cancer center. "I ask the Lord to give me strength to help these patients who come and go."

Down a stairway, Gidget Manning, a veteran radiation therapist at the center, guides dozens of women a week through breast cancer treatments. Oftentimes she'll give the women reassuring pats on the shoulder or hand as she distracts them with small talk about their children or families.

Because patients can't see her due to equipment blocking their view, Manning always makes sure to announce when she's leaving the room, "so that they don't feel foolish talking to no one."

"So many patients compliment me on that," she said. "It's something so mild, I didn't realize how important it is."

Patients expect world-class hospitals to be stocked with world-class physicians, but doctors and nurses aren't the only employees at Boston's top hospitals who can make patients feel better, or even help along the healing process. At the Cancer Center and institutions across the city, dozens of support staffers such as Moore ease patients' lives a bit by treating their largely ordinary jobs as anything but ordinary.

For the most part, these staffers -- secretaries, porters, hospitality workers, technicians -- perform their jobs with little fanfare, and sometimes little pay. They work long hours, sometimes handling situations as stressful as those that a nurse or even a doctor might encounter. But the patients they help know who they are.

A few years ago, the clinical director of Massachusetts General Hospital's Cancer Center asked a focus group of patients what they remembered best about their hospital experience. McCallum Moore's smile was one of the first responses.

"If you're doing a good job, you get to know your patients well," said Dr. Bruce Chabner, head of the Cancer Center, who encourages his staff to be more involved. "It's not a casual encounter. Or let's put it this way: it shouldn't be."

Chabner said there's no way to tell whether such positive personalities actually help patients heal. At the least, studies show that humor is a great coping mechanism.

That fact is not lost on 89-year-old hospitality volunteer Bill Terranova, who serves up ginger ales and one-liners to Cancer Center patients waiting for their daily radiation treatments.

When people are cold, he gets them blankets. He's been known to search the hospital for Popsicles or other special requests. But mostly, Terranova brightens patients' days by bringing a hot cup of tea -- and by coaxing a smile.

"When they come in here, they're very confused or stressed," Terranova said. "This is very corny, but I'll say, 'I've got beer and wine. What will you have?' Right away, they smile. They laugh. They're disarmed."

Asking for GidgetFor Maureen Manning, a Cambridge mother and breast cancer survivor, trips to the Cancer Center weren't so bad so long as phlebotomist Gloria Niles drew her blood.

"She'd act like she was your aunt -- 'Come on, dear. Your turn,' " Manning said. "She'd act like she remembered you from the last time, but she probably saw 100 patients a day. [Then] she'd just chat about whatever, and before you knew it, you'd be done with the blood draw."

As far as lymphoma patient Abby Freedman is concerned, few experiences at the hospital have been more uplifting than Luba Zagachin's yoga classes, in which the instructor, herself a cancer survivor, leads patients in a peaceful prayer to be "happy -- healthy -- and free of suffering."

"With chemotherapy, your body doesn't feel like your own," said Freedman, 55, of Somerville. "I come out of her class, and I feel like Luba has given me my body back. My muscles are my own."

Gidget Manning, a 14-year radiation therapist, spends about 10 minutes with each patient during treatments. But since treatments go on for weeks or even months, she gets to know her patients well. A bulletin board near her desk is covered with autographed photos of patients who've "graduated" from treatment, as well as thank-you cards and letters.

"Thank you for all your special care throughout my radiation. I couldn't have gotten through it without your support," reads one card. "I can't thank you enough for all your kindness," says another.

When Dr. Jay Loeffler, chief of radiation oncology, was thinking of who would best represent the department in a newspaper advertisement, Manning was the clear choice.

"Patients will come back for follow-up visits and they'll ask about Gidget. They won't ask about me or Dr. [Paul] Busse," he said.

Mother knew bestMcCallum Moore, a 63-year-old Tobago native, grew up in a family of 13 children. Though his single mother had little money, she taught her children to appreciate life's simple pleasures, such as watching turtles crawl from the sea to lay eggs, or gathering dinner from the garden.

She was kind to everyone she met, he added. "I [saw] the way my mother carried herself, and I want to carry myself the same way," he said. "Life is very short, you know. . . . If someone asks you for 50 cents, give them 75."

Moore, who started as a valet before becoming the Cancer Center's "patient ambassador" eight years ago, now sets the example for his own children.

His son Curt, 20, helps transport patients in wheelchairs on weekends at the hospital. His 14-year-old daughter, McKeisha, recently baked a cake for her dad to bring to patients, who have come to greatly appreciate Moore's soulful look on life.

"I love him because he always gives me hugs and tells me I'm beautiful," joked Marie Doherty, a breast cancer survivor from Marshfield. "He's just a hot ticket. He knows your name, he helps you out of the car, and gives you the pep talk."

"He'll always ask my mother how she feels," said Deb Scott, of Newbury, whose mother, Rachel, is undergoing chemotherapy treatments. "It's the little things he does that are just nice. You think they don't mean anything, but they mean everything."

A few weeks ago, Don and Edith Anderson made their first trip to MGH's Cancer Center. They hadn't a clue where to park, how to find their doctor, or whether Edith would have enough strength to climb the stairs.

"I'll get you a wheelchair," Moore called from the sidewalk as they exited their car.

"You need a [parking] slip," he explained to Don Anderson a minute later. "Your doctor is on the first floor. I'll go with you."

"Don't worry," Moore added, taking the Andersons by the hand. "I'm going to do everything for you."

And he did.