This is my first post in a long while.  I like my essay, written for an online class I'm taking in Creative Nonfiction.

(A couple of caveats:  I have changed some names and locations to protect privacy and to make the essay work better.

Also, I know the part about "old black ladies" may seem politically incorrect, but it is true that I often sought and found solace from older African-American women and I tell this story with the intention of deepest respect.)

I MOVE ON: Life as a Hospital Chaplain

Rag socks and Birkenstocks

I wear to work each day

I come in and I smile

I sit down for a while

And before I exit, I pray.

This way of poking fun at myself developed as I entered

hospital chaplaincy in 1991 at age 48. I introduced myself to each unit, new to everyone and everything.  I was a lay person, not officially trained, bringing a new discipline to a mid-sized hospital which had never had a pastoral care program.  The staff had no clue what a chaplain should do.  Neither did I.  In time, we all learned.

* * * * *

Surgical ICU

I sit quietly in a small, darkened room, hearing beeps and gurgles from machines, tubes, and monitors.  There’s the stale, familiar odor of illness. This patient has been here for weeks, the chances of her recovery growing slimmer by the day.  Suddenly, not knowing why, I get up and move toward one corner of the bed.  I lay my hands on the blanket-encased foot for a few moments.  I move on to the other foot, then each hand.  As I caress her extremities, I imagine healing energy flowing into her body.  Will it make any difference?  I’ll never know.  

I move on.

*****

Cardiac ICU

Jessie is only slightly responsive this morning.  His heart is worn out.  I hold his hand and gently caress his bare chest.  “Jessie, it’s Carol. Can you hear me?”  He nods.  “It’s going to be OK, Jessie.”  He nods and smiles weakly.  “I will stay with you.”  Again he nods and smiles.

I stay all morning. I have a headache. I don’t feel like making “cold calls”.  And Jessie has no one else.  He is dying alone. 

A beautiful African-American man of 40, he is an inmate at the nearby state prison.  What crime did he commit?  No matter today. Usually the prisoner patients have a guard 24/7.  Not today.  I wonder why. A colleague stops by.  She says I’m “wasting my time” sitting there.  I don’t know how to explain.  

Jessie becomes unconscious.  

I think about his life. 

I wonder why the officials won’t let his family come. 

I sing a little, my hand on his chest.

I’m silent. 

I move on. 

Jessie dies, alone, several hours later. 

*****

Medical-Respiratory ICU

I check in with the staff.  One of my favorite nurses, speaking of her patient, quotes Emily Dickinson: “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the song without the words and never stops at all.” In each of the eight rooms resides a seriously ill patient.  Where should I begin?  Maybe Lou.  He’s been here so long, he’s like an old friend.  Because his lungs are giving out, we can’t talk much.  He has said he doesn’t believe in God.  That’s OK with me.  

He has decided to stop treatment. This is the day he will die.  He asks for blueberry pie with ice cream.  As we wait for the pie, he breathlessly asks, “Do you think it will be cold there?”  After a moment I say “I don’t know, Lou, but if it is I think you’ll be given a robe of the finest Ermine to keep you warm.”  Where did that come from?  Anyway, he seems satisfied.  When his daughter and the pie arrive, 

I move on.

*****

Peds

Four year old Tillie, with her mass of brown curls, sits beside the unit secretary.  She’s the “assistant” today and loves bossing everyone around.  Tillie has cystic fibrosis and is what we call a “frequent flier.”   We are all in love with her.  

A few months later, she dies.  I invite the devastated staff into their break room.  We stand in a circle, holding hands.  I pray, I guess. I have no idea what I said.  

I move on.

*****

Six South

Everyone on this unit is really old, really sick, or both.  If I can find

an “old black lady”, I visit her when I’m most sad or discouraged.  Almost invariably, these women tell me their stories of unimaginable burdens and pain.  Then they tell me about their faith.  This happens over and over.  Today my “lady” has two women friends visiting.  They ask me to pray.  I tell them they are so much better at that than I am.  They laugh and one of them says, “That’s OK, honey, we’ll help you. “

And they do. 

I move on.

*****

Emergency

While in my office for a little respite, my pager goes off.  It’s ER.  This is never good.  As I walk the considerable distance to that hard place,

I silently repeat “In You I live and move and have my being,” over and over, dreading whatever awaits me.  A young man has been shot.  He is dead.  No family has come yet.  I enter the chilly room where an almost naked, 25 year old man, lies on the table.  I think of covering him with a blanket, but why?  He looks perfect except for two small holes in his chest.  I pray silently.  I wait for family.  No one ever comes.  

I move on.

Later, staff tell me a “cousin” came in briefly.  In a few days they recognize his picture in the paper.  He is the main suspect.

*****

The Chapel

Every Friday my colleague and I spend 15 or 20 minutes in the Chapel praying.  We include requests people have anonymously left in a bowl we keep on the altar.  Sometimes other staff members join us.  It is precious and sacred time.

This day, however, we’re having a wedding. Jennie and Sam have asked us to marry them as soon as Jennie finishes her umpteenth heart catheterization this morning. They are in their late 40’s.  Jennie’s time is running out. 

My colleague, John, and I quickly pull something together.  When Jennie arrives in her wheelchair, she’s adorned with a lovely bed jacket, makeup and a corsage. After the brief ceremony, we return to her room where the staff has managed a reception, complete with cake from the cafeteria, confetti, balloons and champagne. Shhh!  Don’t tell anyone. Jennie invites her elderly, pleasantly confused, roommate to join in and the room overflows with laughter and joy.  

I move on.

In a few months, she receives the heart of an 18 year old girl.  In spite of many ups and downs, she is still living a good life with Sam, these many years later.

*****

Four North

Every time I see her, Jean the RN, gives me a hard time, as in what use are chaplains, anyway etc..  I think she actually likes me, but she’s a crusty young widow, mother of three, an excellent nurse, but may have some deep wounds.  

Today I chat with her, leaning on the counter above the recessed nurses’ station.  She gives me her usual good humored guff.  After a bit, I very slowly and deliberately, trying to look as solemn and “holy” as I can, raise my right hand and flip her the bird.  She looks aghast and then laughs hysterically.  She never gives me any trouble again, but delights in telling others what I did.  Somehow today I lost my “halo” and became “one of the gang.”

 I move on.

*****

Later, I sink into bed, weary to the bone.  What grace has allowed me the honor of intimately sharing in the lives of these wonderful people?  I sleep peacefully.