A few Saturdays ago, I was all set to go to an annual Christmas party I’ve been attending, when I could, for going on two decades. It’s always the first Saturday of December, it generally features more or less the same guests, and menu, and a comfortable familiarity that feels grounding, like roots. I’d been looking forward to it, especially because these days, there are people I am likely only to see at that party. Not because I don’t like them, or value our acquaintanceship, but because life: family, friends, exercise, dating, hobbies, kid, job. Who has time to keep track of all the people one collects over a lifetime unless they’re set right in your path?
But I had worked that day—once or twice a month, each chaplain resident works a weekend shift, covering the entire hospital on our own. Typically, weekend shifts are a constant cadence of Epic consults, staff referrals, and raging pagers.
That day, my first call was for a patient I happened to vaguely recognize from adolescence. She was in a coma, and her family had just learned she was brain dead. The next call was for a patient on life support, whose family had been giving hospital staff hassles. The family hadn’t arrived yet, though, so I roamed to another unit to chart and was quickly paged to a room where a man refused to take his medicine until it was blessed by God.
He had agreed a chaplain would suffice in lieu of God itself, however, which was good. I’m not sure we had any bearded, middle-aged men with long hair, a white robe, and Birkenstocks available to fill in. (Isn’t that what you were taught God looked like, or was that just how they taught it at the First Presbyterian Church Vacation Bible School?)
I worked with that guy and his nurse for quite a while—enough time I could have seen at least a few people—because he could not connect the dots of holding the medicine, taking a sip of water, and swallowing the pills. He crushed the medicine cup, punched himself in the mouth, and almost bit me, but he never succeeded in taking the meds. And the entire time, the patient narrated in a monotone every single thing he noticed happening, partially repeating or rephrasing everything I or the nurse said. It was weird, wild, and exhausting.
There were several other calls…a man who used to be a minister who wanted to quiz me about Bible stories (I tried to tell him during the first one that the extent of my Bible knowledge was from Vacation Bible School and the like more than 30 years ago, but he wouldn’t listen).
I met a woman dying of pancreatic cancer, who knew without a doubt that the cancer would end her life, and soon, but still wanted every treatment available, no matter how sick she was and how bad she felt.
After that, I did a prayer service and anointing with oil, which splashed all over my forehead when I was trying to open the bottle with a (very holy) Bic pen.
I talked to a family waiting for their first granddaughter to be born and a mom-to-be admitted for high blood pressure who was alone, scared, and almost catatonically bored.
The last call of the day was for a man who had attempted to end his own life after a fight with a girlfriend. There was a mutual restraining order between them, and yet they mutually decided to break it. No one knows what happened between when she left the house and returned ten minutes later, but he died at the hospital with his shocked, devastated family at his bedside.
These stories were all still rolling around in my head as I flopped on the couch, shoes still on, and began to contemplate changing into a sequin cocktail dress and nylon stockings.
It took me about 20 seconds to realize that wasn’t going to happen. Once my shoes came off, nothing but weathered soft cotton was going to be added to my body. I might have felt bad about it if the idea of staying home didn’t sound, by that point, so completely decadent.
I’m learning to be aware about what’s top of mind when I socialize, because it’s likely to come out. And I haven’t learned yet how not to tell the truth when someone asks how work is going.
A couple months ago I was at a dinner party talking with a woman who had started a company selling bougie garnishes for cocktails and cheese plates. I was very interested hearing how she was building her business, and balancing family, and sustaining a long marriage with a guy she still seems to like quite a lot. But when she learned what I did and started asking questions, it was over—I couldn’t shut up. After fifteen minutes of horror stories, I realized what I was doing and apologized. She wasn’t bothered, but that’s not how I want to be. I can process difficult patient encounters at work, or with my therapist…not unsuspecting friends and party guests.
Last weekend I was sick, in search of new show to binge. Someone had recently mentioned Six Feet Under, which I missed the first time around because I was 23 and too poor to afford HBO. I decided it made good sense, given the subject matter + my vocation. I made my way through two seasons. When I mentioned to a friend that I’d been watching it compulsively, he agreed he liked it, too.
“But it got so heavy sometimes.”
“Heavy?”
“Uh, yeah. You don’t think so?”
I thought about it.
“Like when the girl takes the foot to high school?” he asked. “Or the kid shoots himself? Or that porn star’s cat accidentally electrocutes her in the bath?”
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
I’m a little worried. My reaction now when I hear someone died is, “And?” Without a story—without context—I don’t know how to respond. It used to be automatic that I would apologize on hearing someone died. Now I just feel curious, not for details (please no more details), but to know what the feelings are. Shock? Sadness? Grief? Despair? Anger? Numbing? Denial? Hysteria? Avoidance?
I’m learning to tend the feelings, because that is the job of the chaplain. Not proselytizing. Not baptisms or funerals or therapy. My job is to listen for feelings, and address them. To offer care to the feelings and the person they belong to.
It feels a little uncomfortable to observe the ways I am changing. I don’t know who I’ll be once I learn to integrate these experiences, and this vocation. What will psychological stasis feel like for me then?
Will I ever stand at the edge of a cliff, gazing at a stunning sunset, and not think, “I wonder how many people have jumped from here to their death?”
Probably not, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the beauty of the sunset. On the contrary, beauty has never been more potent.
*Identifying details are always changed to protect individuals’ confidentiality.
That is a lot of holding stories and humanness in one day, hats off to you. I would be the person at the party who would love to talk to you about your day and work and also appreciate the balance you're seeking in processing vs sharing. The world's lucky to have you in it, doing your big-hearted work. XO
I suspect my dear that the beauty in the sunset and the rivers, oceans, stars and trees will remind you that nature is.....