A quick warning, the following reflection contains traumatic references and focuses on death and dying. I was a hospice chaplain for a few years cumulatively, and it was a great honor to be in the rooms I entered. Here’s something I wrote a while ago, called: Today.
Today:
Today I visited a woman who startled at my touch and asked
“Please don’t touch me”
Her rape-filled childhood creeped to the surface of her skin
She didn’t want prayer
She didn’t want scripture
She didn’t need anything at all, thank you.
I will pray for you in my car, I said.
Think of me in five minutes, praying for you, I said.
She smiled.
A real smile.
My visit was over.
I talked to a woman in a wheelchair.
She had no legs
She had few teeth
She had a lot of questions
She found out I was a chaplain.
Is God punishing her – is that why she had to amputate her legs?
I don’t believe that, I said.
She is relieved.
Will I get to go to heaven?
I believe you will.
I was adopted, will I see my real parents in heaven?
Would you like that?
Yes, Oh I want to see all the people like me.
Wouldn’t that be great?
Yes! Oh all of the people, my aunt and uncle.
I think you will see them, I said.
Is it true that we can eat whatever we want in heaven?
Wouldn’t that be great?
I don’t see why not, I said.
I think heaven will be great, she said.
Thanks for talking to me, she said.
I enjoyed talking to you- do you have any change? she asked.
I’m sorry- I don’t, I just have my papers for my chaplain visit.
Oh ok then, have a good visit, she said.
Then I visited a man who was lying in bed, unable to hold the milkshake I brought.
He can barely speak clearly.
We had to move him from the group home
They left him on the floor
They yelled at him
But they also understood what he was saying.
They knew him.
Here in this facility, they don’t know him.
I prop his bed up,
he slurps the milkshake after taking his meds
He can’t hold it so I hold it.
His left nostril runs with milkshake leftovers
He can’t help it.
I wipe his nose
again and again
until the milkshake is gone and his nose is dry.
He tries to move his hands to grasp animal crackers
he tries to put them in his hands and move his hands to his mouth
He is rarely successful.
I put the cracker in his hand
I close his fingers around it
he shovels his cracker into his mouth
The effort from his snack
and the effects of his medicine
he starts to fall asleep.
I read
I pray
He thanks me
I make sure his pillow is supporting his head.
I make sure his nose is dry.
I feel bad leaving him with his animal crackers.
But I leave.
I call a patient,
her sister answers.
the patient has had a shower and a nurses visit
It is all she can handle today
The sister had a shot in her hip
for pain
from lifting,
moving,
caring for her sister
who was left behind by her husband
abandoned by her daughter
forgotten by her friends
The band of sisters connect
they help each other
downstairs is another sister
who lost her husband to a gunshot
too much tragedy under one roof
but tragedy does not spread itself out.
I go to another facility
I wait with a prayer of invocation
and a blessing of benediction
I’m the parentheses for a service
we honor the veterans
most of them do not understand
many of them cannot stand
One of them is younger than my dad
his children are not much older than mine
his wife sits beside him
her eyes are hollow
her body is exhausted
he offers her no comfort
no understanding
no familiarity
he smiles and points to her rainboots
Her husband is gone.
She cries
I cry, but few see me
I cry for the men
not for the country
I cry for the soul and mind
I cry because I do not want to live like this
I imagine my own living will
I wonder what possibilities there might be for me
if I get sick
if I become a burden
if my family has hollow eyes
Will I have the freedom to die?
Tonight I am exhausted
I sleep an hour to forget
I sleep an hour to start over
I was a droplet of blessing
in an ocean of confusion
and pain
it’s never enough
