Saying Goodbye

The other day, I said goodbye to my longest chaplain-patient relationship of the summer. The woman had checked in expecting to be here for a week, two weeks, tops, and ended up staying a full 42 days, only changing her room location once. The conditions of her departure were positive, and she's on the road to recovery. I'm grateful I was able to say goodbye to her and her family, since there are many times when a patient simply isn't there anymore when I arrive in the afternoon.

I won't know whether she recovers, though, because the chaplain-patient relationship is necessarily limited to the hospital. When she left, our relationship essentially ended. I've had a few patients this summer who were discharged and ended up back in St. Luke's, back on my census, but most patients say goodbye for good. Saying goodbye is, of course, a good thing, since you go to the hospital in order to be released from the hospital.

I'm learning that one of the most difficult parts of chaplaincy is the brevity of the relationships. Most patients stay for less than a week, which means I may only visit them once or twice. In those few visits, we may share significant conversations and poignant moments of prayer, but everything is compressed into a short, heavy few minutes spent together. What I ultimately get is little more than snapshots of each patient and each family: a brief glimpse into the life, the relationships, the dynamics, the story, the values, the resilience, and the personality of each individual. It's like only watching one scene of a movie or only hearing three lines of a song; you have an idea of what the complete work is like, and maybe you would even recognize that part if you encountered it again, but you're absolutely missing out on the beauty of the entire work.

There are benefits to the nature of the chaplain-patient relationship: such anonymity allows for a level of disclosure that is often difficult to attain with one's closest friends, and I usually don't know any patients long enough to be completely swallowed by an emotional connection to them. But it's tiring when my relationships change every week; I begin to miss the comfort of familiarity.

If nothing else, I have learned the value of shared boredom. Let me explain: if my very closest relationships, I have a few memories of very important, significant moments that we shared, but I have countless memories of very mundane, ordinary, and repetitive moments that we shared—and I think I value these memories more. So even though I love the memory of being in my older brother's wedding, I value much more my memories of riding in long car trips with my brothers, of eating dinners together, of watching television. Those memories are much less about what we were doing and much more about whom we were with.

The chaplain-patient relationship typically skips over the shallow and goes straight for the deep; and while this allows me to do important ministry and play a vital role in the life of the other person, I will admit that there are days when I feel like all I do is say goodbye.

Elevator Ride

I got to work about half an hour early today and decided to try and grab a power nap before making my visits. As my elevator door was closing, it suddenly reversed direction and opened for a woman who had quickly snagged the "Up" button outside. She came in and pushed the button for one of the floors I recognized as an ICU, and the two of us began to ascend.

The woman began silently examining the hospital badge I wear, trying to figure out my role. Without saying anything, I held it up for her to see. "Chaplain," she read, and then paused just a moment before blurting out, "She's going to die at home, like she wants. It will be okay."

I haven't left any details out of this story for anonymity's sake; you, the reader, know exactly the same amount of information that I knew about this woman when she opened up to me. Somewhat stunned, I asked, "And how are you handling it?" She responded that she was fine, that the patient would "finally be back with [name] in heaven." The elevator arrived on my floor, and, feeling somewhat disoriented by the unexpected conversation, I told the woman where the chaplaincy office was and encouraged her to come for a visit if she needed to talk through anything . With that, I exited the elevator and immediately wished I had followed her up to her floor.

It's a strange feeling when a stranger opens up to me. I've had patients describe feelings that they say they would not discuss with family members; I've seen the pain in their eyes as they silently beg me to ask the questions that our culture would consider inappropriate; I've heard explanations of illnesses that are much more bluntly descriptive than anything you would find on a church prayer list.

And as much as I wish I could chalk this up to my personality and skill as a chaplain, I know that the trust people place in me is based much more on my title than on anything I've said or done—and I know this because of experiences like the elevator, when I had absolutely no time to even try and build rapport. There are some times when I introduce myself as a chaplain and immediately hear guilt-based explanations of the patient's recent church participation (or lack thereof), as if I were the attendance police on patrol. But much more often, patients hear my title and immediately see me as a confidant, a confessor, a teammate.

It's then that I simultaneously love and hate being a Minister by trade. I love it because I want to live in the Kingdom of God, a place where we can trust each other because we're not out to get each other. I like the experience of being trusted, of being let in, of being seen as a safe person who represents a safe God. But I also hate it because I'm not really a chaplain; I'm a person, Brent Bailey, who is doing the work of chaplaincy. There's no such thing as a chaplain, if "chaplain" means "someone entirely trustworthy doing the work of pastoral care." And it's utterly terrifying to receive such confidence without having to prove myself, because I worry that I will somehow violate the trust the person places in me.

That badge is a blessing and a curse.

Scars

This week, the Lifeline interns drove out to Burton, Texas to work as counselors at Camp Star Trails, a summer camp for kids with cancer and their siblings. On paper, it's identical to any other summer camp: canoes, archery, swimming, sunscreen, jokes, nicknames, traditions. And most of the kids act like kids, but they all have difficult stories of spending too much time in hospitals and working around the collateral damage of cancer (i.e. financial troubles, stress, etc.). Many of the staff volunteers are former campers who can relate especially well.

A small percentage of the people at Camp Star Trails carry very noticeable scars from what they've experienced: amputated limbs, deep torso gashes from surgeries, or general listlessness from exhausting chemo treatments. These marks are common enough at camp that they stop shocking you after the first day, but there always remains that morbid curiosity: what happened to that person that resulted in such a scar? I often had to fight the temptation to ask people what they had suffered.

I am very lucky that my scars—those painful experiences in my life that have contributed to the person I am today—are invisible. In fact, if I try hard enough, I can convince people that I don't have any scars at all. Most of us are pretty good at keeping up appearances, so we never have to talk about our scars; we never have to talk frankly about those bad experiences that shaped us. Unfortunately, people with visible scars don't have that luxury, since their scars are on display for the world to see and ponder and theorize about.

It takes a lot of courage and trust for me to talk about my scars, and with that in mind, I need to be as good of a steward of other people's baggage as I can. When I visit patients in the hospital, very often they are at their worst. They aren't wearing makeup, they haven't shaved, or they may not be very clean. Moreover, they may be undergoing something significant and potentially life-altering; it is an experience that leaves scars on them, even if they are invisible scars.

When I draw attention to another person's scars and ask him or her to open up about them, I am treading in very sacred territory.

The Ministry of McDonald's

One of the first things many people notice on their initial visits to SLEH/TCH is the interior McDonald's that sits on the border between the two. One of the first things people ask is the same question I asked on my first day: "Isn't it counterproductive to put a McDonald's in one of the nation's top heart hospitals?"

I occasionally take a late-night trip through the drive-thru of my Abilene McDonald's, but for the most part, I believe there is something extremely important about being a good steward of my body—and that includes avoiding foods that are excessively greasy, salty, fatty, or preservative-y. I was a little disappointed to see that America's best-known fast food restaurant had such a presence—and so much business—in a hospital. But then I asked someone about why it was there, and his answer changed my opinion: first, that McDonald's donates a significant amount of its earnings back into the hospital, in addition to the Ronald McDonald House nearby.

Second—and the part that really grabbed my heart—is its importance: many times, there are children in TCH who are terrified of their circumstances, and that combined with whatever illness put them in the hospital often results in a poor appetite. As it turns out, many kids who won't (or can't) eat anything else will eat a Happy Meal. Even if it's not the best dietary choice, food is food.

It goes even farther: for friends and visitors who are experiencing the chaos of having a loved one in the hospital—an experience that may lead to significant life changes—there is something incredibly reassuring about eating something familiar. For better or for worse, every single McDonald's hamburger tastes exactly the same no matter where you are or what is happening in your life.

I'm reminded of Jesus' disciples breaking Sabbath law by picking and eating grain out of their hunger (Matthew 12:1-8). Jesus could have chosen any number of scriptures to defend the importance of keeping a weekly Sabbath, but instead he quotes Hosea 6:6: "I desire mercy, not sacrifice, [and acknowledgment of God rather than burnt offerings]."

How wonderful it is to know a God who cares about people and knows what we need. Most of the time, what we need is a good diet and other healthy lifestyle choices. But there are also times when what we need is to feel, smell, and—most importantly—taste that our lives have not been completely lost to the storms of this world, whatever shape those storms make take.

So, yes, I'm lovin' it.

For the next twelve weeks, I will be working as a hospital chaplaincy intern in St. Luke's Episcopal Hospital and Texas Children's Hospital, which means I will spend my mornings in class and discussions and my afternoons visiting patients to provide pastoral care.

Rather than writing long, trailing essays about emotions and ministry and theology, I thought this blog would be more interesting to read (and I would be much more likely to update regularly) if I offered brief vignettes—snapshots of what it's like to do ministry in a hospital among hurting people. The pressures of patient confidentiality necessitate me writing cautiously and forgoing details, but I'll do my best to set the scenes sufficiently. And you can bet that some theological reflection will find its way into my posts.

If you've found this blog, thanks for reading, and please keep me in your prayers—it probably won't take long for my inexperience to rear its ugly head in a pastoral situation, so I'm just praying that my mistakes will (a) not do permanent damage and (b) teach me something valuable.

Happy summer!