Keeping It Relative

Sometimes it’s tough to find a support outlet to help me cope with the emotions raised in me by the tragedies I witness. My single state was never seen as a handicap until now; at least if I had a husband I could discuss things one-on-one with him, in confidence. Though my family and friends offer wonderful support, I find myself stymied by the need to talk to them about what I’ve been through and at the same time being cautious about divulging too much information through the less-than-perfect media of telephone or email. This was a lesson well learned during my first unit of CPE, during which a well-known actor was a patient in the ICU. During a previous stay, he had been visited so often by staff singing his praises and asking for autographs that it tired him. He made it clear to his doctor that this time he wanted to have no visitors beyond family and medical staff who were necessary. I personally can’t imagine anything more horrible than to have people constantly going in and out of my room, like Grand Central Station, even if it IS with well-meaning intentions. When I’m sick, I don’t want anyone around. Aside from that, I’m very private – I don’t want the details of my situation bandied about. So when a situation hits so close to my heart that I find it difficult to move on, as I must, how can I share it while respecting the privacy of those involved? The dilemma simmers inside me until the lid is ready to blow off, and in the meanwhile it affects my caregiving with other patients. It’s at that point I realize that if I don’t somehow find release, then I’ll flounder about for an indefinite period of time. Is that what the family of this patient would want? Given my very brief period of contact with them, I don’t think so. As a family of strong faith, I think they firmly believe she is still with them in some way, watching over them like the cherubim and seraphim we read of in the Bible.


She did look like a tiny angel lying there, so small that I’d have guessed she was no older than five. She was, in fact, several years older, having celebrated a birthday this summer (little things like this come to mind in prayer after I attend a death; I’m sad that she was unable to enjoy another Halloween, but at least she got to celebrate her last birthday). Sometimes you think maybe it would be easier for the family if she’d had a disease, if there’d been some inanimate thing like a cancer to blame for her death. This was mentioned by a nurse who has extensive experience working in pediatric intensive care wards; undoubtedly she’s seen her share of children with leukemia or something similar. On the other hand, death is death, and no matter the circumstances, you can’t change the truth that this little girl will not only never enjoy another Halloween, but also will never graduate school, be given away by her daddy at her wedding or have grandchildren for her parents to spoil. That is tragic enough, but exacerbated by the circumstances surrounding her hospitalization. Sometimes it’s just a freak accident that takes a child from us, and this freak accident was caused by her older brother. It’s been only a handful of times in my function as a pastoral caregiver that I have no words of comfort for a family; this was one of those times. As it was, the parents did not need anything from me; they had somehow reached a place of acceptance within themselves before I arrived in her room. They even packaged up all her toys, which had filled half the room, and graciously asked the nursing staff that the toys be donated to the playroom for patients and siblings of patients. I watched other family members –uncles, grandparents and adult cousins – come in and say their last goodbyes to her; regardless of a patient’s age, it’s heartwrenching to be a part of this ritual. But the worst thing about it was what I did not see: her brother was not present that morning when she was taken off life support, nor during the ritual of goodbye. The staff familiar with the case expressed grave concern for him; my prayers both bedside and in the chapel afterward focused mainly on him. During all the time I attempted to function as a chaplain, offering support to the staff, filling out the death notes and preparing the death certificate, I struggled with my personal feelings. You see, the little girl looked so much like my younger niece that it was hard not to imagine myself in a similar situation, as the aunt going through the ritual of goodbye. I managed to hold it together most of the day, but when I spoke with my parents on the phone late that evening, I broke down and cried when describing how much she looked like my sister’s daughter. My parents relayed this news to my sister, who often doesn’t have the time to talk with me, but made a special effort to do so the following day. It helped immeasurably, and made me realize all over again that very simple truth which I write about extensively in my theology but have a tough time putting into practice: I can’t function well without a community of support surrounding me. I spent so many years trying to be self-sufficient, and all I got for it was a stilted way of expressing myself and difficulty in building and maintaining friendships. Family means everything to me, and without them I wouldn’t be where I am now. I pray that in future years, this boy can say the same thing. And that his sister will somehow communicate this to him, watching over him until the day they see each other again.