Holy Places

Life in the Most Difficult Spaces

Feb 9

For more than 15 years I have been a chaplain on-call for a local hospital. It is a volunteer position that basically entails covering for the full-time chaplain when they are away. Volunteer coverage involves spiritual care in emergency situations such as imminent death, and comfort and counselling for those in need. There are days when I am on call that I don’t get called in at all. Then there are days like today. Today I was called 8 times.

I count the work as chaplain to be a privilege. Being present for people who have received a terminal diagnosis, or for people who are dying, or for family of a dying loved one, is something that is meaningful every single time. Being often the only non-medical staff, non-family member in the room carries with it a call to be fully present, to offer a comforting or even hopeful word. It is curious, strange even, that life can feel most palpable in the places nearest to death. Frequently, people who have requested spiritual care greet me with a kind of apology, some kind of note that they themselves are not religious. My response to this is always one of assurance. The longing for spiritual comfort, for peace, for transcendence is arguably more important than “being religious”. I am aware that part of my role as chaplain is to carry faith on behalf of those who have such longing. My faith happens to be Christian, but the longing transcends any particular religious affiliation.

It is not something I share often with families in such circumstances, but on hospital visits I regularly have in my mind a quote from Frederick Buechner’s “Godric”, who says near the end of his life, that the one thing he has learned is that; “All the death that ever was, set next to life, could scarcely fill a cup.”

Today I had that those hopeful words in my mind as I made multiple hospital visits for spiritual care.

One of the calls was to the ICU. I was called there to meet via Zoom with a family who could not be present as the life support for their father was about to be turned off. I was to speak with the family, and then to offer a prayer. This would occasion an immediate end to the life support. I am not sure what the official cause of death would be listed as, but it was clear from the masks, face-shields, gloves and gown needed to be in the room, that COVID was part of what was happening. Putting the gear on and taking it off (donning and doffing, as I’ve learned) is tiring in itself. The fatigue is heightened by a sense of how crucial such protections are and how consequential even one mistake can be. There are a lot of things that made me want to cry in the visit. Certainly the way of gathering was remarkable, a family on a tablet screen, reading sentiments and expressing love for their Dad so many miles away from them. There was the solemnity of the occasion itself, offering prayer and words of comfort just before life support was turned off. There was the fact that some family members had dressed up clearly for this occasion. It’s amazing when, in the midst of unwanted change or loss, we maintain some of our humanity through translation of ritual.

I pray for the man who died, for his family. I am grateful for them. What made me want to cry the most, however, was the dignity and professionalism of the nurses. I feel like telling you about it might even diminish what I witnessed. As I note how tired the whole process made me feel, how acute attention to detail had to be, I think about how the two nurses that worked with me are doing such things multiple times everyday. What was most astounding was their gentle presence. They were so kind to the patient and to the family. They were kind to me. At the end of the visit, one of the nurses told me that her own father had died in May of last year and that she was unable to be with him at the time of his death.

I know that you have heard many many stories about how exhausted health care workers are in this time, but I am telling you, the type of exhaustion is next level. It is an emotional, physical, mental, spiritual exhaustion that hits not in the moment of need, like that of being present for patients, but in the hours later at home. I know that is how it is for me.

Today, in a relatively brief window of time, I also visited with a family whose Mom had died just minutes before. Next was the ICU visit, and then a call to speak with a woman diagnosed with COVID, hospitalized for weeks. After that I visited a gentleman who was terribly upset that he had been waiting and waiting in hospital. He had been there for many days and and had been unable to receive the attention that he felt he needed. We talked about how everyone, particularly hospital staff, is maxed out right now. We mentioned that it can be difficult to show grace when we ourselves feel so tired. He was at least smiling at the end of the visit. I told him that I would pray that he would feel stronger and that maybe the strength might allow him to be more gracious to staff. He liked that idea, or said that he did.

It’s so very easy to get wrapped up in our own problems. I know that, for sure, in my own life. When I am on-call at the hospital it actually is less easy to be. I am reminded that each day, nurses like those I met with today, are caring for dying people.

Blessings as you seek to be aware of the sorrow and exhaustion that other people carry. Such awareness can actually help you to better see that all the death that ever was, set next to life can scarcely fill a cup.

A podcast which I co-host, Rector’s Cupboard, recently posted an episode in which a friend of mine, a doctor at the ICU reflected on what the ICU has been like during COVID. His words were honest and even hopeful. The episode is linked in below. The remarks are right near the end of the recording, 1 hour 11minutes in. I offer pre-amble and then his brief remarks follow.

Here is the episode on Apple.
Here is the episode on Podbean.