The room sits dead center of the high end area of the ICU. Though it’s the same as all the others – a room designed for patients needing critical care – it’s only this one that leaves me with an uncomfortable feeling. The phrase “dead center” always seemed accurate to me, because it feels as if I have attended to an inordinately high amount of deaths in that room. It brings to mind my first-ever shift as the on call chaplain overnight, at a smaller hospital in the Phoenix area. Late in the day the nurses in the ICU paged me. When I responded, they explained the problem: the room across from the nurses’ station. For the two weeks preceding this day, every patient assigned to the room had deteriorated or died. ICU nurses can expect that many times, but aside from this, light bulbs were burning out at an absurdly fast rate, or sometimes found on when they’d been turned off….the nurses had the strong sense of some negative ‘spirit’ hanging around the space, and sheepishly asked if I , as a spiritual leader, would perform some sort of exorcism in the room. They were embarrassed even to talk about it, but it had reached the point where some of the staff were hesitant even to enter the room. I did what I felt was necessary (which I won’t explain here; I feel that sometimes the spiritual process is between the Lord’s servant and the Lord), and though I heard no feedback afterward, the problems in the room ceased. It never occurred to me that I was patronizing anyone; I take my vocation quite seriously, and many times I have a strong sense of the spirit’s presence within a place. All this came back to me when I started feeling that way about the room in the ICU where I now work; just a general feeling of foreboding when I even look at the number. I eventually reached a point where I said to my mom that if, God forbid, anything happen while she and my father visit me, I’d make certain they weren’t assigned this room.
I guess I first noticed it when Leo died in October; I was visiting a patient next door when he coded very late in the day. As is more common than people realize, Leo was not expected to die, so it came as a shock. Though the staff worked to revive him, they were unsuccessful and he died shortly before 5pm, which is when my day ends. I met with his truly lovely wife and 3 of his 4 children, and a son-in-law who was a Lutheran minister, to talk about what happened next. The chaplain who started at 5pm took over for me when I left. It’s happened before, and usually I just deal with it and then move on, but for some reason Leo stayed with me – I felt a sense of unfinished business. One day a few weeks later, Karen died in the same room. Unlike Leo, her death was expected; though only 53, she had stage IV lung cancer. She stuck out to me because her love was also a patient in the hospital on a different floor, and therefore unable to be with her when she drew her last breath. In my less-than-5-minute meeting with Karen’s spouse, I learned more about grace and serenity than I have in some years.
And then, on the eve of the New Year, I wrote about a woman whose son serves as pastor of a non-denominational church in suburban New Orleans. She’d been readmitted to the hospital, having gone home the previous week following a life-threatening episode of renal failure. Charlotte, too, died in the same room where Leo and Karen had breathed their last, yet it was a turning point for me without my even realizing it at the time. I wrote a blog about the Spirit’s work through me, inspiring me to open the large Bible in our interfaith chapel to the 14th chapter of the Gospel of John, and then Charlotte’s son telling me how much he’d needed to see precisely those words, that it was God’s self speaking words of comfort to him.
This week I finally realized why it’s changed for me; James has been the room’s occupant since a few days after Charlotte died. Like Karen, he was quite young, but very ill. From early in his stay, he let his nurse know that he would like prayer as often as possible – daily if we could. When I approached James’ room for the first time after he asked this, I pondered the subject of prayer and the old spiritual ‘What a friend we have in Jesus’ came to mind, along with its lyric “what a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer”. He was often too weak to respond, instead merely listened, when I spoke about the privilege of prayer giving us a connection to the Almighty. Each time we met, I built on that initial talk, praying about giving thanks, praying about asking forgiveness, and praying about our hopes and desires for both our families and ourselves. As I write this, I realize that God was at work within me during these times, because it was such a privilege to pray with James, that it made us two into one part of the Church every time we met and communed with God. Early in my residency, I was so stiff that I would have found this very difficult; now I found it something that I anticipated every time we met. Sometimes James actually had energy enough to speak, and one thing he said to me twice – during our very first visit nearly 7 weeks ago, and very late in the stay when he had been taken off the breathing tube briefly – stays with me: “I never say no to prayer.” The way this prayer circle lifted us together taught me more about why Charlotte’s son pursues the spiritual discipline of intercessory prayer on a weekly basis.
Early this week, James’ family made the decision to remove life support. For all his ills, he had a lot of strength, and his end of life process lasted nearly four hours. I spent three of them with James, his wife, mother-in-law, children, nephews and the pastor of his church. Several things stand out to me about this true celebration among God’s family. His mother-in-law grieving while telling me what a fine husband he’d been to her daughter. His 20-something nephew leading a revival type prayer toward the very end, repeating the phrase “My God” in a meditative manner with no less awe the tenth time than the first time. His 18-year-old daughter yelling her grief as his heart finally slowed to a stop. And, the family prayer around the bed, led by his Pentecostal pastor, with all holding hands. For the first time in her life, the White girl who was too afraid to pray with patients was swept up into a rich Black Gospel prayer, repeating “yes Lord, Hallelujah Lord!” in a chant along with the other prayers, with utter conviction. I’ve never in my life felt truly comfortable in this mode – until I spent James’ last three hours with him and his family.
It’s always emotional when I’m present for withdrawal of care, but this one was tougher than most. I cried a LOT, and the nurses who had tended to James were more emotional than they usually are as well, not only because of his lengthy stay but also because his family had become so close to them. I didn’t have time to come down from it, either, because, like Leo and Karen, James died just before 5pm. The night chaplain (who happened to be the same one who had completed care with Leo’s family) also came on and completed the paperwork for James, while I stayed with his family a few minutes longer before heading to a 5:30pm staff meeting. Without a second thought to how private I’ve been in the past, I mentioned openly how emotional it had been for me, and I think my supervisor was concerned. However, as I wrote this I realized that I’ll always cherish this as a good memory, one of my fondest, in fact, for the reasons listed above.
During his last few hours, James' family covered him with the gift that had been made for them by some relief workers after Hurricane Katrina destroyed their home in southern Mississippi: a handmade quilt with a beautiful rainbow of colors. Every square had a cross, above which was the phrase FOR EVERY SEASON THERE IS A MIRACLE. That’s the standout image now when I see this room. And when I think of James, and how the privilege of prayer with him brought another miracle into my journey of spiritual growth. Yes, Lord. Hallelujah Lord!
