Blessing the Hands of Hospital Staff

Large hands, small hands, rough hands, smooth hands. Hands with long slender fingers. Hands with tough, hairy knuckles. Hands of nurses, unit clerks, techs, housekeeping staff, child life specialists, social workers, teachers, even doctors and administrators. During national Nurses Week (May 6-12) the Spiritual Care Team at my hospital was out on the units day and night offering Hand Blessings to the staff.

“This is my favorite part of Nurses Week,” one nurse said. “I’ve never done this before,” said another. “Thanks but no thanks,” some said with a smile. “Can you wait a minute until I finish typing this?” one person asked. “Don’t forget to stop by the administration office before you leave the unit,” someone else pleaded.

At this beautiful annual event, we wash the hands of staff with a little warm water, dry them with a soft white towel, then anoint them with a drop of oil. As we pour the water, we remind them that this is a symbol of washing away their cares and preparing their hands for service. And as we rub the oil into their hands, we pray that theirs will be hands of healing, blessed to be a blessing for all the patients and families they care for in the hospital.

This moving ceremony is enacted in hospitals everywhere during Nurses Week each year, which ends on May 12, the birthday of Florence Nightingale, the founder of modern nursing. So thank you, caregivers for allowing chaplains like me the opportunity to care for you for once. Whatever your faith, may you be continually blessed for the healing touch you bring to work with you every day. – David

Nobody’s Gonna Care

“When I’m gone, nobody’s gonna care about me.” The words hung in the air not as an accusation or a bitter reproach but as a simple statement of fact. The hospice nurse, social worker and I exchanged glances, not sure what to say that wouldn’t sound trite to the emaciated man sitting on the bed. Finally, out of the silence, one of our group quietly replied: “When the time comes, people will be there to remember you.”

We had gone to a run-down motel on the west side of town on a hot summer afternoon to meet Joseph, a 49-year-old homeless veteran.

“Yeah, I’ve got a few friends who come by. They might care about me.” He winced with pain. “But what I really need right now is something for this pain in my neck and shoulder. It gets so I bad I can’t hardly sleep at night no more.” The cancer that had started in his esophagus was now spreading into his lungs and other vital organs. Joseph had only a few months left to live.

As the nurse examined him, I looked around the room at his few belongings: some books and DVDs, clothes folded neatly on a shelf, a backpack, a baseball cap, three pairs of sunglasses. In answer to the nurse’s questions about his medications and doctor visits, Joseph thumbed through a note book until he came to a page with columns and rows he had ruled by hand and meticulously filled with dates, times, and medication names.

“Looks like you keep excellent records,” I said, fishing for a way into his life.

“Oh, yeah. I got it all here.” His voice, dry and rasping from the swelling in his throat took on a note of pride. “I lost all my teeth two years ago when they gave me the radiation, but I’m finally getting my dentures in a couple of months.” He pointed to a date in his notebook. “I can’t wait to eat me a big ol’ cheese burger,” he smiled. Then he winced with pain. “But man, I hurt so much I can hardly swallow,” he groaned through clenched jaws.

Joseph had been referred to our hospice by a downtown clinic that serves the homeless. For a while, after he had suffered through several painful surgeries and radiation treatments, his cancer seemed to be in remission. Talk was of helping him find housing and a job. His case worker at the clinic managed to get him a bicycle so he could get around town and visit the public library, his favorite place to spend an afternoon. Then the cancer came back, more aggressively this time, invading his lungs and liver as well as his throat. The doctors at the clinic were sorry; there was nothing more they could do to cure him. It was time for hospice.

As the weeks went by, I began to hear pieces of Joseph’s story. When I first met him, the respectful tone in his voice when he shook my hand and said “Chaplain” told me that Joe had been in the military. “Marines,” he confided. “I was discharged, what they call ‘Other than Honorable,’ because I was caught smoking dope.” He used to work in a tire factory. Spent some time in prison. I never found out how he became homeless. As for family, he said he grew up with a bunch of stepbrothers and sisters. “My dad and step mom live in Missouri. I have a stepbrother in California and a son in jail in Florida.” No mention of a wife. He refused to name anybody as his next of kin in the hospice paperwork our social worker made him sign.  Most of the lines and boxes on his bereavement assessment form were left blank. “I have a couple of good friends,” he repeated when we asked him about funeral arrangements, “but nobody who’ll want to have a service for me when I’m gone.”

Joseph spent his days faithfully tracking his medications, keeping appointments with Social Security and his dentist, and riding his bike to and from the library, where he exchanged books and DVDs and hung out with other homeless friends. Each time we met, I felt we got a little closer. I asked if I could pray with him, but he didn’t want that. “Just pray for me chaplain, that’ll do. I ask the Good Lord every night to forgive me.”

Joseph talked a lot about his pain, the dope he sometimes smoked to take the edge off, the ordeal of getting pills past the scar tissue in his throat, the water, coffee and beer he would drink to try to dislodge them and wash them down. And his dentures. He talked about getting an appointment for a final fitting in a few weeks. “I’m gonna eat some solid food even if I have to mash it down or cut it into little biddy pieces,” he would say, miming the motions in the air. All the while, his body grew thinner and thinner and his voice became harder and harder to understand.

Eventually, the case worker at the clinic managed to move Joseph out of the motel and into a small apartment in a block of subsidized housing. We all knew this would be his last move. Joseph was proud of this place he called home. He kept the dishes washed, the counters clear and the bathroom meticulously clean. When he smoked, as he often did, he opened the windows, turned on a fan, and sprayed air freshener “just to keep the place smelling good,” he would say with a lop-sided smile.

Around his birthday in September, Joe told us his brother Steve from California was coming to take him camping for a weekend. I met them both at the apartment on the day Steve was set to leave again for home. Joe was the happiest I had ever seen him. Dressed in a maroon sweat suit that hung loose on his skinny frame, white tube socks and a baseball cap, he sat in an oversized armchair and smiled as Steve told stories of camping in the canyons by a lake, drinking beers together, fishing away the golden autumn afternoon, and, of course, boasting about the size of the ones that got away.

When it came time to say goodbye, Steve fought back tears as he, Joseph and I talked about his final wishes. I explained that since Joe was homeless and without income, the county indigent burial fund would pay for his cremation. Joe nodded in a matter of fact way. When Steve choked out, “Will they send me his ashes afterwards?” I assured him they would. “Can we have a moment of prayer, chaplain,” Steve asked. Joseph nodded his agreement, so we all three bowed our heads and prayed. This was the first time Joseph let me pray with him. “I’ll come back again in a few weeks when I get time off,” Steve promised as I left the two brothers to say their goodbyes.

In the days that followed, Joseph and I now fell into the habit of praying every time I stopped by. One day, out of nowhere, he asked “Chaplain, do you think I should get baptized?” Curious, I replied “I don’t know, Joe. What do you think?”

“When we were kids, I remember we used to go to a little Nazarene church most Sundays. But I don’t remember anybody baptizing me.”

“You tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll be honored to baptize you.”

Before long, our hospice team noticed a significant decline in Joseph. He was in constant pain now, but no longer able to swallow his regimen of pills. With very little persuading, he agreed to a morphine pump and a hospital bed in the front room of his apartment where he could watch the DVDs he borrowed from the library. As his condition deteriorated, I called his brother Steve. “I have vacation in about 10 days,” he said. “The sooner you can come the better, Steve” I replied. “I wouldn’t wait if I were you.” The next day, Friday, Steve called to say he had managed to get time off work. “Tell Joe I’ll leave Sunday morning, spend the night in Mesquite, then I should be in Salt Lake by mid-morning on Monday.”

When I pulled up in front of his apartment later that day to relay his brother’s plans, Joseph was checking his mail box about 50 feet down the sidewalk from his door, a tall, skinny stick figure in sweat pants, a baseball cap and  sunglasses. When he turned and began walking home, his progress was unsteady and painfully slow. He raised a long thin hand in greeting as he came up to me.

“You doing OK, Joe?” I asked when he came close. “I like this pump,” he replied in a hoarse whisper that was all that remained of his voice. He lifted his T-shirt to show me the needle that disappeared under his skin, taped over with a clear adhesive patch. I could count every one of his ribs.  “When I need a shot of pain medication, I just push this button.” I followed behind as he walked unsteadily into the apartment and sank in exhaustion onto his bed. “I’ve got no energy any more, chaplain,” he whispered. “I won’t be riding my bike again either. I can’t lift it onto the bus and it’s got a flat tire now, so that’s the end of that.” Then in the only flash of anger I ever saw from him, Joe rasped. “Two f¬—–g years! Two f—–g years waiting for my teeth and now it’s too late. I won’t get to have a single bite!” The realization seemed to deplete whatever reserves of energy Joseph had, and he lay back on the hospital bed and closed his eyes.

“Joseph, Steve called today to say he’ll be on his way to see you soon. He’ll be here Monday afternoon,” I told him. “How about we baptize you then?” He answered with a nod of his head.

Stubborn will power kept Joe alive that weekend. By Monday morning, he was still conscious but barely connecting anymore with the people around him. I arrived about 11 o’clock with a little bowl, some seashells and a tiny bottle of rose oil. Joseph nodded and gestured weakly as I told him his brother would be here soon. “This is the day you’re going to be baptized,” I reminded him. His head moved ever so slightly: “Yes.”

Just after noon, Steve pulled up outside the house. “I got here, brother Joe,” he said as he knelt by the bed and held Joe’s hand, fighting back tears. “Came as fast as I could. It was raining most of the way, and when I looked back there was something I have never seen before. A rainbow stretching back down the road from the bed of my truck. I don’t know how far it went because I couldn’t see the end, but I drove here with a rainbow in the back of my truck. By the way,” Steve added, “I put two dollar bills in the slot machine at the casino where I stayed last night. I lost my dollar, but you won ten bucks.” All of us in the room laughed, relieved by Steve’s sense of humor; but our eyes never left the jaundiced face of the dying man in the bed.

“Are we ready,” I asked as the laughter died away. Heads nodded in reply. I reached down to hold one of Joseph’s hands which were folded across his chest grasping a smooth wooden cross I had given him a few days before. “Joseph, do you renounce the powers of darkness and accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior,” I asked him. His answer was a faint squeeze of my fingers. “Then I baptize you, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Then I reached for my bottle of anointing oil and made the sign of the cross on his forehead and the backs of his hands. The sweet scent of roses filled the air.

Back home that night, I was restless in my bed. I woke at 5 AM with Joseph on my mind and was unable to fall back asleep. While the sky was still dark about an hour later, my work phone buzzed on the bedside table where I had left it turned on all night. “I just got a call from Steve,” the hospice nurse said. “Joseph has passed away. They’ve been checking on him every hour throughout the night, and when they went in this last time, he was already gone.” Joe had slipped away peacefully just before dawn on a beautiful fall morning.

A few days later, a mixed group of well wishers gathered to say farewell to Joseph in a corner of the downtown library’s rooftop garden. His nurse and I were there along with our social worker and two members of our office staff.  Joseph’s case worker and three other staff members from the clinic came. Half a dozen of his closest friends also arrived, some of them drinking buddies, others friends who had stayed with him overnight and had been there when he died. His brother Steve had stayed for this gathering before driving back to California.

Though it had been raining off and on all morning, a patch of blue opened up and the skies began to clear at 11 AM. Soon, the sun broke through in patches all over the Salt Lake valley. From our vantage point high above the streets we could see shafts of light shining down like spotlights on the foothills and mountain peaks in the distance.

“I will lift mine eyes to the hills,” I began. “From whence comes my strength?”

“My strength comes from the Lord who made heaven and earth,” whispered one of the clinic’s employees.

“We’ve gathered here this morning to remember Joseph,” I said looking around at the faces in front of me – young, old, male, female, white, black and brown.

“When we in hospice first met him, he was in a dark and lonely place. He said no one would care when he died and no one would come to a service to remember him.” People shook their heads, some smiling, some looking down at their feet. “We told him then that there would be people who cared for him. And here we all are today. So let’s remember him.”

One by one, people talked about Joseph, with humor, with sorrow, and with love. As the clock in the bell tower of the nearby City and County Building struck noon, I closed with this prayer: “Almighty God, help us know that your care enfolds all people, that you are our refuge and strength, and that underneath are your everlasting arms.”

Blue sky now spread above our heads like a canopy. Joseph was safely home at last.

© 2013, Chaplain David Pascoe

An Act of God

On occasion, I preach at local churches, providing pulpit supply when the pastor is away or needs a break from the week-in week-out task of sermon writing. I was recently asked by a pastor friend if would preach on a topic in a sermon series he was planning called Core Christianity. The idea was to explore the fundamentals of Christian belief at their most basic. Was I interested in taking a Sunday? Sure I was. How about the topic: God?

Never one to balk at a challenge, I agreed. Almost immediately my sermon title came to me: “Have you heard the one about the dyslexic agnostic?” You know the punch line: “He couldn’t sleep, so he stayed up all night wondering if there really is a dog.”

Ka-Ching!

Open with a joke, then explore the common beliefs about God of the Abrahamic faiths – Judaism, Islam and Christianity – before looking at Christianity’s unique contribution to the understanding of God, namely that the One true God is a Trinity of persons, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

“Nice,” I thought as I put the finishing touches to the sermon on Saturday night. “How’s that for getting God all neatly defined and ready to go.”

Imagine my shock when we woke up at 5 the next morning to find the new RAV4 had been damaged by an “act of God.” Strong winds that had rattled the windows all night had broken off a large branch from the tree on the parking strip and hurled it at the roof and windshield of the car! Lots of nasty damage to the roof and hood and total destruction of the windshield. The interior lights were on, dangling out of their ceiling mount casing like a pair of eyeballs on springs you see in Hallowe’en funny glasses.

Feeling like Tevye in “Fiddler on the Roof,” I looked heavenward and asked “What? What have I said in my sermon you don’t like? Is it the joke or the comparison with Judaism and Islam? I have to preach in three hours, so I don’t have time to change much.”

In the end, I decided to take my own advice, which I freely dish out to people in distress at my hospital or in grief support groups. “I don’t believe God is punishing you by making bad things happen to you.”

So I preached my sermon as written. As expected, I got a laugh about the dyslexic agnostic. But I got an even bigger one telling the story of the “act of God” that disabled my car. Oh, and the guest speaker fee almost, but not quite, covered the deductible on my auto insurance.

Ultimate lesson learned? Don’t park on that side of the street when strong winds are expected.

Note to self: Park far away from tree on Pentecost. – David

Justice

As I hurried past the substance abuse clinic on the VA Medical Center campus one day, I noticed a small group of men clustered outside the door taking a smoke break in the afternoon sun. One of them called out “Hey Chaplain,” and waved me over.

“Scott.” I turned aside to meet him and we shook hands. “Are you back here again?”

A 61-year old veteran and a retired army major, Scott was deeply affected by his wartime experiences. Like many Vietnam vets, he had slipped into years of alcoholism that ruined his marriage and destroyed his family’s trust in anything he said or did. I met him during his second stay in a 30-day treatment program. As the chaplain assigned to the clinic, I had several heart to heart conversations with him then, and I felt privileged to be present for his graduation from the program.

Tall and thin, observing the world through half shut eyes much of the time, Scott thought long and spoke little. We stepped aside from the other smokers and stood talking for a few minutes. At first, I thought he must have slipped back into drinking. I felt a twinge of disappointment, because I wanted this vulnerable yet determined man to succeed in his resolve to get his life back.

“No, I’m not in the program this time. I’m here interviewing.”

“For a job?” I asked surprised.

“Yeah. I’m sort of like a mentor to these guys,” Scott replied with a thin smile.

A wave of admiration swept over me as he told me this. During his time in the military, Scott has been a leader of men. I knew how much it had hurt him to lose the respect of his family.

“That’s great,” I affirmed. “Are things going OK?” That was an understated question about his sobriety and his family relationships.

“Pretty good,” he replied. For Scott “pretty good” was positive. “Say, chaplain, can I ask you about something?”

“Sure Scott,” I said, my curiosity aroused.

“We had a visiting pastor the other day who said there are 600 million people in India who are all going to hell when they die because they haven’t heard about Jesus. He said it’s our duty to tell them about Jesus so they don’t go to hell.” Looking me straight in the eyes, he asked, “Do you think he’s right?”

I sensed that Scott was not seeking a “right” answer to his questions, but was wrestling with notions of fairness and justice. I also sensed a fear in his question. Could God be so unforgiving of people who don’t think and act the way religious people say they should?

“Well Scott, what do you think?” I asked him back.

He looked down at his feet as he slowly answered “I guess I’m at a stage in my life where I’m questioning all religions.” My instinct told me there was something more to be explored here. So I changed the conversation slightly. “Tell me, Scott, what is God like to you?”

He thought about this for a moment, then answered in a quiet voice. “He’s all loving, all knowing, all powerful.”

“What do you think that kind of God would do with these 600 million people?”

The answer came without hesitation. “I think that just before the Pearly Gates, he’d have a training program for them so they could hear about Jesus then and decide for themselves.” Another thin smile followed his answer.

I smiled back and laughed a little at his wry humor. “Tell me, Scott, how do you experience that God working in your life?”

Scott became very quiet and thoughtful for some time. “He forgives me, no matter what.” Here was a man hoping to have his experience of a merciful, forgiving God validated in spite of what he had been told by an “expert” on salvation. Having been in need of forgiveness himself, he could not believe God would simply condemn 600 million people just because they had never heard of Jesus.

“I think you know the answer to the question you asked me,” I said. “Do you trust the God you know, or accept someone else’s idea of who that God is and how he acts?”

He looked at me in silence for a moment. “Well that’s what I thought all along,” he said. “Thank you, chaplain.” We shook hands. Scott disappeared inside the clinic door and I continued on my way, thankful for a God who is always ready to give anyone a second chance.

© 2013, Chaplain David Pascoe

Snapdragons & Geraniums

When I first met our new hospice patient Peggy, she stared up at me from her hospital bed and said “Don’t talk to me about quality of life. What kind of life do you call this? I just want to die!” As I took in her emaciated body, her dry cracked lips, and the oxygen running day and night through a tube under her nose, it was hard not to agree.

In her younger days, Peggy had been an active, independent woman. She told me that after her father died in a car accident, she had taken care of her mother and her younger brothers and sisters. She worked as a bookkeeper for several companies and enjoyed traveling and playing golf. Peggy had never married. Nor had she ever joined a church or adopted any traditional beliefs in God or the afterlife. “When I’m dead, I’ll be cremated and my brother and sister-in-law will scatter my ashes in the mountains. Then I’ll be done,” she declared with a finality that brooked no arguing.

I had never met anyone so ready to die. Yet I simply could not accept that there was nothing I could do as her spiritual counselor to improve the quality of her life. So under the guise of “Provide alternative spiritual expression” and “Encourage patient expression of feelings” – two boxes I checked on my hospice Spiritual Care Plan – I began weekly visits.

Somehow, we clicked. Her off-beat sense of humor and dry commentaries on life found an echo in my low key approach to all things spiritual. Though she declared herself antisocial, Peggy admitted, “You can come back any day.” Each time I would leave, I’d say “See you next week,” to which she invariably replied, “I hope I’m dead by then.”

As the months went by, it became apparent that as weak as she was and as poorly as her lungs now functioned, Peggy was not dying as quickly as she wanted. Her oxygen intake increased from two, to five, to ten liters per minute as the seasons came and went. At Thanksgiving, she made a brief overnight excursion to her brother’s house, but ate little, got violently sick, and came back swearing she would not leave her bed again for anything. She stopped eating except for an occasional can of liquid supplement and two glasses of milk at meal times.

“I wonder why you are not dying,” I would ask her in puzzlement. “Do you have some unfinished business? Is there a person you need to say goodbye to? What have you not accomplished in life that you still want to?”

“Nothing. I can’t think of anything. I’ve taken care of it all. I’m just so disgusted with this. I just want to die.”

Gradually, as the year turned I noticed a subtle change in Peggy’s disposition. This self-declared anti-social recluse grew emotionally attached to her roommate, also a hospice patient, who had terminal cancer. Then she asked for a volunteer to come visit. Then a second volunteer. And she accepted a massage. Twice. By Christmas, she asked for and received a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream so she could toast the New Year. Now when I said “See you next week,” at the end of my visits, she would reply “OK. See you then.”

As spring approached, I began talking to her about the change in the weather. “Wouldn’t you like to get outside in a few weeks?” I asked one day. “We could get you a wheelchair?” “Why would I do that?” she shot back. “Because,” I said with conviction, “the fresh air and sunshine will do your body good. And I’m sure it will lift your spirits.” She paused for a moment. “I’ll think about it,” she said.

Two weeks later, her nurse case manager called me to say Peggy had asked for a wheelchair and a walker. “What on earth did you say to her?” she asked in astonishment. “I just said it would be good for her to get out, and she said she’s think about it,” I said, no less amazed than the nurse on the other end of the line. “I guess she must have done just that.”

It took another two weeks of coaxing and planning and an initial excursion around the grounds of the facility with a portable oxygen tank in tow. But finally, Peggy declared “This is easier than I thought.” “Gottcha!” I whispered under my breath. Then out loud, “Let’s do a little flower planting in the courtyard when I come next week.” Over all her objections, I told her I had cleared it with the facility staff. There was a small patch of bare earth just begging for a bit of color. “We’ll plant your favorites. What are they?” She thought for a moment. “I always put in some geraniums and a few snaps,” she replied.

A few days later, Peggy sat in the shade of a Locust tree while I crouched down and planted two bright red geraniums and some colorful snapdragons. “We’ll call this Peggy’s Memorial Garden,” I joked. She laughed at the idea. “I’ll plant them, but it’s your job to keep them alive.” Then we sat side by side and reminisced.

“I didn’t know who I was a year ago when they brought me here,” Peggy confided. “I told my brother to get a gun and shoot me.” “When I first met you,” I reminded her, “you said you just wanted to die. Remember that?” She nodded and we sat in silence until the gauge on her oxygen tank told us it was time to go back to her room.

Until that afternoon, I had not realized the chaplain’s phrase “provide alternative spiritual expression” could encompass planting a few geraniums and snapdragons. Then I thought back to the book of Genesis where God makes human beings and puts them in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it. And in the middle of the garden is the Tree of Life. Peggy and I tended that tree together that day. Who could say what fruit it might produce – in her life and in mine?

© 2013, Chaplain David Pascoe

Breathe

As part of my chaplaincy training, I once spent several weeks working with veterans in a residential substance abuse program. On Sunday mornings, I would hold group meetings with the residents, trying to get them to talk about issues such as forgiveness and trust. One morning, I was explaining a trust-building workshop I’d heard about called “equine therapy.” The idea of the program is to train people to gain a horse’s trust so it will let them lift up one of its front legs and look at its hoof. As it turned out, one of the veterans at the substance abuse clinic that day knew a lot about horses and how to work with them. Someone in the group gave him away.

“Hey, chaplain, you should ask Chester about that. He’s a horse-whisperer,” laughed a short, stocky Navajo with a bulbous nose.

I was curious. “Is that right Chester?” I asked, turning to the long faced Anglo in a checked shirt and jeans who had been quietly sipping his coffee the whole time.

“Aw, shit!” he offered in response. “That horse-whispering is a bunch of crap. I’ll tell you how to handle a horse.” All eyes were now on Chester.

“The first thing you do is you just stand outside the corral and talk to the horse. I talk about what kind of a day I’m having, whether it’s good or bad, what I read in the newspaper that morning, what I had for breakfast, anything just so long as that horse can get to know my voice. And even if he’s got his rear to you, believe me, that horse knows you’re there. I want him to get used to me, see.

“Now this isn’t going to happen in one day, so I just go back day after day and keep talking to him until I think he’s ready. Then I get in the corral with him, and I keep talking. Pretty soon, he’ll turn around and look at me. And then I start walking slowly towards him. Some horses will back up and some will meet you half way. But when I get close enough, I raise my hand to stroke him.”

Chester raised one hand and gestured. The group was totally silent now. We had all fallen under the spell of this, slow, easy talking man.

“Now most folks want to rub a horse up and down his nose, but that’s not the right way. I just lay my hand on his neck and stroke him gently, talking all the time.” He gestured to show the motion, stroking an invisible horse in the air in front of him. “Then I run my hand along his side, down his forelegs and up between them, and along his flank. I always keep real close especially around his rear,” Chester smiled wryly. “That way, he can’t kick me! And I run my hand down his back legs, under his tail, along his belly and back round to his neck. Then I step away in front of him. Now that horse will look me clear in the eye and he’ll come close to me until his face is right in mine. Then I look down the length of him and watch his breathing. I watch for the moment his flanks stop moving, and I think ‘When is he going to take another breath?’ And I hold my breath too.”

Caught up in the story, we all instinctively held our breath.

“Then, when I see him get ready to breathe, I let my air out just like this….”

“Whooosh!” Chester blew out his breath loud and strong across the table, making the edges of my stack of papers flutter.

“…and that horse will breathe in my air. And then we’ve bonded. You see, you don’t choose a horse. The horse chooses you. And once you’ve bonded, he’ll never forget you. When he breathes your air, he’s bonded with you forever.”

Silence. My mind was racing now as goose bumps prickled my arms and the hairs on the back of my neck began to rise.

“You know, this reminds me of a story in the Bible,” I said. Everyone around the table smiled and laughed at me, but I went on. “Do you remember that after his resurrection, Jesus comes into the room where his disciples are hiding and he breathes on them?” A few nods of recognition around the table. “Well, I never quite understood that story until now.”

A few more heads nod. Then, in the most matter-of-fact way, Chester, that run-down old alcoholic veteran, looked at me and said.

“Sure. He was just making them his own.”

© 2013 Chaplain David Pascoe

 

A Veteran’s Tears

I was a fresh new chaplain resident at the VA Medical Center when I met Mr. Miller, a World War II veteran who had been admitted for back surgery after a fall at home. Confused, dismayed, and catheterized, he was confined to a wheelchair and obliged to wear a plastic brace front and back like a piece of body armor. His daughter, a nurse in another hospital, was full of questions for the medical staff. Would her father ever recover his former lucidity and mobility? If not, how would her mother cope with him at home? In his confused state, the family talk about nursing homes and DNR orders was clearly going right over Mr. Miller’s head.

The following week, I learned Mr. Miller was much improved. His medications had been balanced out, and he was now lucid and attentive to what was happening around him. Talk now was of sending him home to complete his recovery there. His daughter was more positive but still concerned for her mother’s ability to cope. When prompted to speak up, Mrs. Miller confessed in a strained voice, “I’m a person of faith. But I must admit I’m afraid.”

Two days later, I was anxious to see Mr. Miller when I came on his ward. As I entered his room, he smiled and motioned me over. “Come in and sit down for a while, chaplain,” he said. His long white hair and goatee beard made me think of Colonel Sanders and fried chicken. But a sudden change came over him as I drew up a chair and sat by his bed. Mr. Miller screwed up his eyes, lifted his face to the ceiling, and began weeping.

“Oh, Mr. Miller, what’s wrong?” I asked in surprise.

Slowly squeezing out the words, he answered between sobs: “I think I’ve finally come to the reality of my situation. My wife’s gonna have to take care of me and I never, ever wanted that. I never wanted that!” With clenched fists he pounded the plastic brace on his chest over and over again.

I let him cry, then said gently “I’m so sorry, Mr. Miller.”

“I’ve never cried before in my life,” he sobbed. “I’m afraid. I was OK until that meeting the other day. Did you hear what my wife said? She said she was afraid. It didn’t hit me until she said she was afraid. She has glaucoma in one eye and a cataract in the other. And now she’s got to take care of me. I never wanted that!” He banged his brace again in frustration. “I wanted to take care of her,” he cried through tears of frustration. “I’ve been thinking about it all night and now I am afraid.” He looked up at me incredulously: “I went all through World War II, was shot at and all, but I was never afraid. And now I am.”

A long silence followed Mr. Miller’s declaration until I finally broke it with a suggestion. “Well maybe you’re afraid now because you’re afraid for someone else, not yourself. For your wife. Do you think that could be it?”

Slowly, Mr. Miller nodded his head. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m afraid I’ll be a burden to her now.” The tears started rolling down his cheeks.

“Have you had a chance to talk to her about these feelings, Mr. Miller?” I asked.

“No. I haven’t seen her yet today. I haven’t had the chance to talk to anybody. In fact, I think God sent you through that door just now so I could tell you,” he said.

I smiled. “Well yes, I think maybe God did.” Mr. Miller calmed down at that thought, lying quietly for a while with his hands folded across the hated plastic body brace. I turned at a sudden noise from the door behind me. Mr. Miller’s wife and son were arriving. I stood up, making ready to leave. “Well, Mr. Miller I’ll go now and leave you with your family, but I can come back later if you’d like to talk some more.”

The old man reached out and put a hand on my arm. “No, I’d like you to stay.” Turning to his wife, Mr. Miller began “Honey, I’ve got something to say to you” then burst into tears. In unison, wife and son cried out “What’s wrong?” and “What’s the matter Pops?” as they rushed to his bedside.

“I just don’t want to be a burden to you,” he squeezed out between sobs. “I was OK until you said what you did at the meeting the other day,” looking at his wife with tears in his eyes. “What did you say, mom?” asked the son. “She said she was afraid,” Mr. Miller sobbed. As his mom leaned over to hug and kiss Mr. Miller, the son looked at me quizzically.

“I was at that meeting, and yes, I did hear that,” I admitted. “But do you know what else I heard? I heard your wife say she is a person of faith.” I stepped back and watched as Mrs. Miller comforted her husband. “Oh, you old silly. That was my thought then. But now I’ve had time to think some more and get help from the rest of the family to figure things out. It’s going to be OK. We’ll manage,” she said, calming and soothing her husband. “We always have and we always will.”

I stood by the hospital bed quietly feeling their burden being lifted. By simply being present to this man in his time of fear and anxiety–in the valley of the shadow of death–I was granted the incredible gift–the grace–of sharing in this moment of healing as they faced their fears together.

© 2013 Chaplain David Pascoe

Wounded Healer

Nobody escapes being wounded. We all are wounded people, whether physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. The main question is not “How can we hide our wounds?” so we don’t have to be embarrassed, but “How can we put our woundedness in the service of others?” When our wounds cease to be a source of shame, and become a source of healing, we have become wounded healers.

Henri Nouwen, Bread for the Journey

I Love You, I Love You

Ree sat waiting in her wheelchair in the hallway of the senior living facility that had been her home for the past few years. A slight, quiet woman with perfectly coiffed white hair, she sat with hands folded in her lap, her head bowed low until her chin touched her chest. I thought she was sleeping, but when I called her name she replied “Yes” without looking up.

“There’s a music program coming up soon. Would you like to go?”

“Yes” again without looking up at me.

“OK,” I said. “Let’s head over there.” As I pushed Ree through the hallways to the assembly room, I made small talk. “Know any good songs?” I asked.

A high, thin, sing-song voice replied “La, la, lah, la, la!”

“Lah, la, la, la, lah” I echoed to the back of her snow white head as we maneuvered through the hallways.

“I love you,” Ree replied.

“I love you truly…” I sang. Back came the echo from Ree “… truly dear!”

From then on, we were firm friends. Because of her Alzheimer’s disease, I never knew if Ree actually remembered me from visit to visit. But wherever I met her – in the dining room, at a music program, in a community gathering, at the beauty parlor – she would take my hand, kiss it and repeat, “I love you, I love, I love you.” And I would reply, “I love you too.”

Small things could bring Ree close to tears. Once I bent my head to hers until our foreheads touched. “Do you know who else loves you?” I asked.

“No. Who?”

“God loves you,” I told her.

Ree looked up with tears forming in her pale blue eyes. “He does?” she asked incredulously.

“Oh, yes. He told me to tell you.”

“I want you,” Ree replied as he head sank down to her chest. “Good bye!” That was always her signal that the conversation was over.

For months on end, I got so used to seeing Ree without any visible changes that I was shocked when our hospice nurse told me she had suddenly started to decline. She had suffered a major setback over the weekend requiring the hospice nurse to visit late one night and family members to be summoned to her bedside.

Ree was alone in her room when I looked in on her later that day. Covered with a sheet and a light blanket, she was running a fever. Her face was flushed and her skin overly warm to the touch when I reached down to hold her hand.

“Hello Ree. It’s David your chaplain,” I said softly, stroking a few wisps of hair away from her temples. Her breathing, fast and shallow, did not change, but her eyes began to move rapidly back and forth under the closed lids. I crouched by her bed, kneeling on the foam pad that had been placed on the floor in case she should fall.

“I’m sorry to see you like this,” I said. “Just try to relax and stay calm. I’ll stay with you for a while.” I continued to hold her hand and talk softly to her. Then on an impulse I sang, soft and low:

Just a song at twilight

When the lights are low

And the flickering shadows

Softly come and go…

Her breathing slowed slightly, eyes moving less frantically under her lids.

Though the heart be weary

Sad the day and long

Still to us at twilight

Comes love’s old song

Comes love’s old sweet song

After I finished singing, I got ready to leave. “I love you, Ree,” I whispered, my face close to hers as I got up from the floor. For a moment, her rhythmic breathing stopped and the rapid eye movements ceased. Just a fraction, her eyes opened and looked at me, milky white and blue like the distant summer’s sky on a warm, hazy day. I could barely hear her voice as her lips formed the words: “I love you too.”

Ree died a day or two later, passing peacefully alone in her room. As far as I know, her words of love may have been the last words she spoke to anyone. I was honored to be there to receive them. – David

Where is God?

When tragedies occur like the Boston marathon bombing or the Newtown elementary school shootings, people ask “Where was God when this happened?” I was talking with someone recently who wanted to know “Why does God allow children to suffer?” These are hard questions, ones many of us struggle with every day in the work we do in healthcare.

As a chaplain, I’m sorry to say I don’t have any good answers.  But I am quick to affirm that God is here, suffering with those who suffer. In his book Night, Elie Wiesel, a Jewish concentration camp survivor, describes the execution of several inmates, including a young boy. As the other inmates were forced to look on, someone in the crowd asked: “Where is God now?” Wiesel wrote, “And I heard a voice within me answer him: ‘Where is He? Here He is—He is hanging here on this gallows.’”

I do not believe God is far away from those who suffer in Boston, or Newtown, or the children’s hospital where I work, or anywhere else in the world where evil rears its head. And I often catch glimpses of the God who cares in the faces and hands of those who are quick to respond to another human being in need. I was reminded in an email today from a fellow pediatric chaplain of the words of Mr. Rogers: “When I was a boy and would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” Let’s always look for the helpers and stand ready to be one of them ourselves whenever our broken world demands. – David