Your Job is to Pray

Anything happens in the hospital.  Anything can and eventually does.

I was paged overhead.  Unusual because the pager was on my hip, active and waiting for a command.  When I called the operator, I got a vague description of a family in need of support.  I walked the Longest Hallway Ever from my office to the ED.  I searched and found the charge nurse who hurriedly pointed to the family room as she was dealing with multiple tasks.  As I moved towards the room, I whispered to another nurse, "patient's name?"

I arrived in the family room to find the charge nurse from the previous shift in his street clothes, comforting a woman obviously distraught by her loved one's status.  How very like the staff here.  Compassion winning out over the time clock.  The needs of others taking precedence over their own.

The story I got in fits and jerks from the crying woman and the charge nurse was that the patient, her cousin, a young guy in his thirties, collapsed at work.  Something very bad was happening to his heart.  He was currently in the cath(catheterization) lab but would be transferred to a major hospital in the area if/when he stabilized.  When the nurse left, transferring caring responsibility to me, the woman quickly informed me that she was "not religious."  I reassured her that I was there for moral support, not to push an agenda.  I wandered in and out of the room trying to give her both space and support. 

About 20 minutes later, her son arrived, who seemed just the person she needed.  Besides being frightened for her cousin's life, the woman was overwhelmed trying to contact his parents and significant other were on opposite sides of the country in different states.  Intense discussion ensued about who would contact them and how much to share.  "I don't want to freak them out."

When the team from the receiving hospital arrived, the specialist didn't stop to talk but went right to work.  It was nearly an hour before I was asked to escort the family to the hall outside of the lab for an update.  The doctor came out and told them in no uncertain terms what was happening and what she was doing.  She did not sugar coat that the young man may not survive.  "Anything significant I should know." The woman quickly replied that her sister had died recently of heart disease, not to mention her father and other family members. Her fear was based on past experience.  Her grief was palatable. "I need to get back to your cousin. Your job is to pray.  Pray for him and pray for me that I can help."  She disappeared back into the lab.

"Your job is to pray."  The non-religious woman made no response to that directive.  She sobbed into her son's chest as he tried to reassure her.  I wondered what she made of the doctor's instruction.

"Your job is to pray."  As the family grappled with the reality of this horrific situation, I complied with the doctor's orders.  I prayed for the patient, the doctor, the team, and the family.  Not that I don't often do that, but this seemed more urgent as no one else seemed capable.  My job was to pray.  I thought of Job who prayed and sacrificed for his adult children, "in case they forgot."  

Eventually they rolled past with the critically ill patient.  His cousin was given a few seconds to kiss him on the forehead before they swooped out the door to the ambulance.   The woman nearly collapsed with soft wailing.  Her son held her, murmured reassurances, kissed her head and led her out of the hospital.  

I was left alone in the hall, praying.

Grief and the Chaplain

Marie Elizabeth Sebastian Meyer
1967-2015

Damnit.  I really wanted to pretend this never happened.  I was doing fine until I saw a post by my niece, Sharon.  A silly meme with words of love and loss. And then the tears started and my gut lurched as reality danced in front of me.  Since the beginning of the month, I have successfully pushed my grief to the side, kidding myself that I was somehow immune to it.  Maybe I tried to treat this as I would the loss of one of my patients.  “Interested not invested” as a former teacher would chant.

Idjit.  I am completely invested because this is family.

My lovely, saucy, funny niece Marie died in late September.  A vibrant wife, mother of two, daughter, sister, aunt, friend, coworker, niece - she died at the age of 48 from leukemia.  She fought so hard to live, to see her children hit their milestones, to be at her nephew’s wedding, to laugh with her sisters and brother, to do household projects with her husband, but the disease had a timeline of it’s own.

I flew to Chicago to officiate at her memorial service - one of her last requests.  I would have flown there regardless to be with family in such an awful moment.  To mourn together. I hadn’t been to Chicago in forever it seemed.  Brothers were older.  Great nieces and nephews were grown.  Childhood friends reflected my own aging. And yet they were the same people who I remembered and loved and got impatient with and needed.  When I boarded the plane to return to Oregon, perhaps I thought I could leave all this nastiness in Illinois.

Grief spares no one, not even board certified chaplains.  The waves will continue as I well know.  Shoot, this is the same speech I give families everyday.  But in the midst of the hurt, it appears I need to be reminded.

Damnit.  I really want to pretend this never happened.  Love you, Marie.

The Call

His blue jeans hung on him as they often do on elderly men - slung under his not-too-big belly while drooping over his behind.  Even so, the way he was built and the way he held himself, you could tell that this man, near his ninetieth year, had worked hard his whole life.  His primary job these days, however, was to care for his ailing wife and himself.

At first he seemed worried and disoriented as I coaxed him to a seating area.  My phone call undoubtedly woke him.  Luckily a visiting son drove him to the hospital.  His wife had “an event” and it looked dicey.  The doctor explained what happened as best he could determine.  The prognosis was grim.  They were having trouble keeping her pulse.  His patient needing him, the doctor left.

Prompted by this news, father and son had that agonizing conversation of what to do next.  Other adult children arrived and conferred.  Let her go.  No more chest compressions.  No more tubes or injections or respirator or the other violent stuff of life saving.  

In hushed tones, with words of condolence, staff quickly exited with their bulky equipment.  She was now tucked under the covers, looking tiny and not quite like the woman with whom I talked earlier.  The scene seemed suspended - time moving more slowly in the room than the rest of the world.

His aged-spotted fingers traced her jaw. “I don’t know why you decided to do this.  I need you.” I struggled to maintain my professional composure.  After this long life together, was he going to remember how in inhale without her? 

All partnerships come to an end at some point, leaving one of the two parties alone.  Inexplicably, terrifyingly alone.  For the twenty minutes that it took her body to realize that breath was unnecessary without a beating heart, he stroked the face of his partner, ran his hand through her hair, rubbed her chest.  He stopped periodically to stare at her body as her brain stem triggered one more ragged, desperate breath.

The doctor reviewed for the family the biology of this woman who had been his patient for decades.  He reassured her husband of the absence of suffering as he wrapped his arm around the old man’s waist.  We forget that doctors grieve as well.  Adult children and grandchildren circled, wet-cheeked and forever changed.  

Another stroke of her face.  The blankets stilled.  A parting kiss.  After sixty-some odd years, he somehow walked away.

The Cabinet

Four across
with somber bearing
eyes trained forward
lest a glance betray
their stoic facades
covering grieving hearts
Women

Four across
hip to hip
shoulder to shoulder
drawing strength
emanating care
one for another
all for the assembled
Women

Four across
listening
Word
Song
Heart
Spirit
remembering the one
Woman

Four across
rising with dignity
standing in service
tears quickly brushed
task humbly embraced
Table healing
Women


written after the funeral of Rev. Marge Greene, Parkersburg, WV 2008

Beckett

Nestled in loving arms
He looked into her eyes.
Deeply
Urgently
Passionately.


Here was a face, a voice
He knew better than his own.
More
More
For the journey.


Another face comes into view
In this face love and sorrow combine.
Both searching
Memorizing
Blessing.


He understood the play between them
And himself - each actor’s role.
Promise
Unending
Love.


And so the parents nuzzled their infant
Telling him good-bye
Breath
Slow
Shallow.


He tried to drink them into his soul
To know their who and their why
Time
Fleeting
Gathering


They traced his face with trembling fingers
Washing him with their tears
Attached
Detached
Eternal.


In eight days
A whole life lived
Hello and good-bye
Overwhelming
Mystical


And when he was filled
He closed his eyes
Silent
Fulfilled
Immortal.


This poem was published in DisciplesWorld, Vol. 5, No. 5, June 2006