I was never good at math and science. Or at least, they never came easily to me, like languages did. I remember how shocked I was when my sister failed first year Spanish, because it was SOOO easy for me (only that first year; once el subjuntivo entered the equation, it was a lot of hard work). Two years later, I struggled –with the help of a tutor, mind you – to get a C in geometry, a class in which my sister had earned an A, without much work, from the same teacher. That’s when I realized that maybe I should focus on the things that I understood well, improving on what I already knew. I spent all four years of high school studying Spanish & working as my teacher’s aide, and then I majored in Spanish at university, with the intention of teaching Spanish at the secondary level. After a year’s break, I pursued a masters’ degree in Spanish linguistics, an unusual area of focus since most graduate students in language focus on literature. My area of focus was on the skeleton, as it were: how and why the language evolves the way it does, based on society and its communication needs. One of my assignments, for example, was to translate four pages of the literary classic Cantar de Mio Cid, written in the 12th century, to modern Castilian, explaining why I made the choices I did. Among the things I learned was how heavily we humans are influenced by outside elements when we attempt to communicate. I also learned that teaching the language was far too boring for me; I’d rather use it in the work I do. My first job, post grad school, required native fluency in Spanish so that I could edit translated documents, side by side, comparing the Spanish and English together. For all the differences between the languages, some things are just as dry in one language as they are in another (for a great sleep aid, try reading income tax law in Spanish; I guarantee you’ll be asleep in less than ten minutes!). For the most part, though, things sound far more beautiful in Spanish than in English, in my opinion. At my graduation from seminary, I read the Scripture lesson from the book of Nehemiah in Spanish while my friend (& fellow graduate) Jorge read it in English. To my ears, there is absolutely no comparison between “I am doing a great work and I cannot come down. Why should the work stop while I leave it to come down to you?’” and “Estoy ocupado en una gran obra, y no puedo ir. Si bajara yo a reunirme con ustedes, la obra se vería interrumpida.”
At the time, I had not yet earned my first unit of clinical pastoral education, and so it had not occurred to me that sometimes the communication is just as beautiful and fluid without words. As fate would have it, I learned that lesson from a woman who was able to speak only Spanish - when she could speak aloud. Silvia was the first person whose death I attended; no chaplain ever forgets that. Five days into my first unit of CPE, I was paged to the ICU because a Spanish-speaking chaplain was requested by Silvia’s family to pray with her. Due to the nature of her illness, I was required to don a gown, gloves and a mask before entering her room. In the end, I must have looked like a giant ghost, hovering above her. The entire time I prayed, she squeezed my fingers, as if not only to be a participant in the prayer even if unable to speak, but also to bring some semblance of humanity back into the room, to reassure herself that it was God’s representative who hovered above her. Two days later, during my first ever on-call shift, I was paged from another unit to attend her death. Though it’s been two years now, I still recall her face when I arrived, how peaceful she looked in death.
One day a young man, here in the US illegally, was brought in with a gunshot wound. It was clear he was frightened of more than simply the medical care, but I hastened to reassure him, saying “No soy la migra” [I’m not from the INS], and explained that I was a chaplain. The word didn’t seem familiar to him, so I added, “Pues, es obvio que no soy padre [Well, it’s obvious that I’m not a priest] - this brought a huge grin to his boyish face, and drew a weak laugh - pero soy una mujer de Dios [I didn’t know how else to describe it, since I wasn’t yet ordained, so I said simply that I was a woman of God].” I doubt anyone ever uses this phrase in most Spanish-speaking countries, but the young man understood perfectly and was more than willing to pray with me. I still feel a little self-conscious when I speak with the Spanish-speaking patients here (I’m the only Spanish-speaking chaplain on a staff of seven, so I am called to meet with all Spanish-speaking patients); though I understand what they say perfectly, it’s when I myself speak that I feel as if I’m underneath a colossal spotlight. Gradually I’ve realized that it’s not about wanting to be perfect; it’s that I still want so badly to be able to FIX everything, both in English AND in Spanish. Sure that’s unrealistic, but it’s the truth. And I know deep down that the people with whom I meet couldn’t care less if I conjugate a verb wrong, or due to my self-consciousness teeter between the TU and USTED forms. Whether words are used or not, whether I use newly invented phrases to express myself, it’s always met with a smile and a genuine GRACIAS.
Ah, gracias….and its English cousin, gratitude. I thought of Silvia and the young man again yesterday, after I met with a patient rendered speechless after a stroke. Sharon is not Hispanic, she’s Black, but the lack of speech was strongly reminiscent of my meeting with Silvia, and our unorthodox way of communicating brought back my meeting with the young man. She was able to write on a notepad, shakily, and though some words were legible, I struggled to understand what she wrote about her family as I asked about them. Frustration caused her to grunt, shaking her head. Gradually, the grunts formed into a weak sound…BRUH…BRUH….BRUH….and I realized that she was saying the word BROTHER. Once we mounted that hurdle, she wrote the following about her mother: MOM IS R D. I thought it meant that her mother is dead, but when I asked she shook her head slightly and again tried to explain what she meant, holding up her hands with her fingers bent in various patterns. Tears came to her eyes, and she grunted again. Slowly, the grunts began to take shape until they sounded the same: AAAY…..AAAYT….AAAAYT….I jumped on it, exclaiming, “your mother is 80-something?” and she smiled in relief. Far from being frustrated over spending ten minutes to discover that she has 6 brothers and an 85-year-old mother, I was overjoyed that she had spoken to me. I said as much, and after a minute of pausing to reflect, I took her hand in mine and prayed a prayer of thanksgiving. I thanked God that the gift of speech was returning to her, that the staff members care about her, that she has family to be there for her during this time in the hospital. I also prayed paraphrasing Paul’s words from his letter to the church in Rome, insisting that God has a purpose for Sharon, that she is called, and that these things happening will work together for her good so that she may go and accomplish great works for God. By the time I was through praying, Sharon had drifted off to sleep like a trusting child. I whispered that I would return today to check on her, and left the room. Today, while making rounds through her unit, I was surprised to see from the door that her bed was empty. Imagine my shock when I moved further into the room and saw her sitting up in the chair next to her bed, talking with a friend, no less! She explained that the doctor told her that she’d not had a stroke, but something that strongly resembles one. She's already regaining her strength; the doctors had plans to reassess her late today and, if all is well, she will be released to go home. When I asked how all this happened in so short a time, she told me that what she remembers is waking up at 1:30am this morning. Gradually she realized that she was praying aloud, saying “praise God, thank you, Jesus!” repeatedly. I was so awestruck that I could say nothing. Some things simply can’t be expressed in the language of words, even by those of us who were gifted with it. Instead I thought of the prayer I had prayed the day before, focusing on gratitude and on having a purpose to accomplish great works for God. Apparently, Sharon is expected to begin work on hers immediately!
As for me, my great work is continuously in progress, and though sometimes I have setbacks, the last thing I want is my own self-doubts and fears to hinder it. Through the gift of words, I express here in this blog the things I am experiencing and how they affect me. In effect, part of my great works is what is written here, and those fears won’t become a tangible thing and hold me back from my purpose. Or, as I’d rather put it, estoy ocupada en una gran obra, y no puedo ir. Si bajara yo a reunirme con ustedes, la obra se vería interrumpida.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Hail Mary, Full of Grace
Most people are aware that New Orleans is a heavily Roman Catholic city, but I never realized just how pervasive the presence is until I moved here. This is the only place I’ve ever lived where Black people are as likely to be Catholic as they are to be Baptist or Pentecostal. Many times it’s apparent from a person’s name: the Creole or Cajun names like Boudreaux and Thibodeaux (as common as Smith and Jones are in other places) are almost always indicative of somebody who is Catholic. So one day several months ago when I met Mary, whose surname is a Cajun one not mentioned here, I was a little surprised to see that her religion was listed as Protestant.
She was 72, and so tiny that at first I thought her room was empty until her nurse explained that she was sitting in the chair beside her bed, a sight obscured to me by the large curtain that was half drawn. Mary had been hospitalized for over a week by the time I met her, and it was plain that she was eager to have a visitor. Unlike some people, she didn’t talk about her own aches and pains, or complain about them. Instead, she spoke about her daughter, who lives in Minnesota and hikes mountains when she’s not busy writing books and teaching at university. She also talked about her son, who is in his early 40s and still unmarried, because – as she puts it – he is his mother’s caretaker first and foremost, and therefore he could not commit himself to another woman in the way he felt a husband should. Mary was proud of him for being such a devoted son, but she worried about this a lot; she wanted very much to see him happily married. We also spoke of religion; her surname was that of her husband, who himself had been Catholic. Mary was not, but allowed her children to be raised in the Catholic faith. Prayer was very important to her; that, too, sticks out from our first meeting. Prayer sustained her, and we had prayed a nice prayer together before I left. It’s only looking back that I realize Mary was the type who focused on everyone except herself. No talk about her heart problems, or if she was scared, or lonely as a widow of five or six years. Instead, she found strength through giving to others. She even gave me the advice that LSU’s dental school is a great place for inexpensive dental work, after I showed her the tooth I had chipped on a piece of Halloween candy.
I had not seen Mary since, though I was aware that she was what I call a “frequent flier” – the people who spend a great deal of time in and out of the hospital. She had not been in my unit so I didn’t get the chance to see her again until last week, when she was again hospitalized and this time given a room in my ICU unit. I went to visit her last Tuesday, and came in while she was discussing some things with her nurse. The nurse wrapped up and Mary looked up at me rather vaguely, asking, “is there something I can do for you?”
I was rather crestfallen that she did not remember me. I see so many people, and most are tough to remember though I try my best (especially after a patient said it was good to see me again, leaving me horrified because I had no clue who he was!). Mary was one who was easy to remember, if only in part because of her boldly Cajun surname. I explained who I was, without mentioning our previous visit, and asked how things were going. Mary told me that she had been in a rehab facility, and it was a nightmare. There was one nurse for 30 patients, and said RN worked 17 hour shifts. She rarely saw her nurse, her bedding was rarely changed, her doctor’s orders were not followed, and her special dietary needs were ignored. She deteriorated rapidly and had to be readmitted to our hospital as a result of the rehab facility’s negligence.
It was incredibly difficult for me to listen to all this, because it brought back strong memories of our first meeting in early November. At that time, my aunt had spent six weeks in a rehab facility like the one Mary told me about. The anger I felt over the lack of decent care for my aunt was strangling to me since I was 2000 miles away and could do nothing. It was very difficult at the time to focus on my patients instead of the injustice facing my aunt and my family in Tucson. I had to tamp down the anger I could feel rising in me again, this time on behalf of this sweet lady who seemed to spend all her time trying to make things better for others. I commented neutrally that it must have been a horribly frustrating experience for her, and she replied, “Well, I realized that God put me there for a reason. When I came into the hospital again, my doctor asked me about the facility and how it had gone. I told him every detail and told him not to recommend that place to any other patient, ever again. He said he wouldn’t.” How characteristic of Mary to say such a selfless thing, to state that there was a reason. She was not impotent with anger over the treatment she’d received, nor was she acting like a martyr. It was a straightforward, matter-of-fact statement. While I processed that, she cocked her head at me and asked, “so, did you ever go to LSU’s dental school and get that tooth looked at?” I stuttered to a halt as I realized that she indeed remembered our visit, had remembered all along – or perhaps her memory just needed a nudge. We spoke briefly about it, and then, in her characteristically blunt manner, which is so reminiscent of my aunt, she asked, “Well, are you gonna pray with me?” I smiled broadly and did so.
Earlier this week, Mary signed a DNR order, which means that if she reached code blue status that she was not to be revived. Then she and her son chose a hospice care facility to assist her as she went home; he signed the papers on Tuesday afternoon. Very early yesterday morning, though, her condition worsened dramatically. I was called by the doctor to pray with her at 10:30am, about 90 minutes before I was off duty after a full night on call. Mary’s every breath was labored, and it was difficult to understand what she tried to say. No family was present and based on the things she’d said about her relationship with her son, I explained my concern to her nurse. He was en route to the hospital from his job; his sister was flying in from the Midwest.
Mary’s daughter did not arrive in time to try to speak with her again, but her son was at her bedside when she died two hours after we’d prayed together. I never did ask her how she reconciled the Catholic and Protestant faiths (and believe me, in this city they are DIFFERENT faiths), but I learned from her how to demonstrate grace in the face of a challenging situation. It made me think of the teenage Mary in Luke 1, being told that she would be the mother of God’s only child. Instead of complaining or whining, she said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.” Maybe it’s a stretch to compare the two women, but for the first time I have a full understanding of the phrase spoken so reverently in the Catholic Church: Ave Maria, Gratia Plena. It means a whole lot more than just a mother’s love for her child.
She was 72, and so tiny that at first I thought her room was empty until her nurse explained that she was sitting in the chair beside her bed, a sight obscured to me by the large curtain that was half drawn. Mary had been hospitalized for over a week by the time I met her, and it was plain that she was eager to have a visitor. Unlike some people, she didn’t talk about her own aches and pains, or complain about them. Instead, she spoke about her daughter, who lives in Minnesota and hikes mountains when she’s not busy writing books and teaching at university. She also talked about her son, who is in his early 40s and still unmarried, because – as she puts it – he is his mother’s caretaker first and foremost, and therefore he could not commit himself to another woman in the way he felt a husband should. Mary was proud of him for being such a devoted son, but she worried about this a lot; she wanted very much to see him happily married. We also spoke of religion; her surname was that of her husband, who himself had been Catholic. Mary was not, but allowed her children to be raised in the Catholic faith. Prayer was very important to her; that, too, sticks out from our first meeting. Prayer sustained her, and we had prayed a nice prayer together before I left. It’s only looking back that I realize Mary was the type who focused on everyone except herself. No talk about her heart problems, or if she was scared, or lonely as a widow of five or six years. Instead, she found strength through giving to others. She even gave me the advice that LSU’s dental school is a great place for inexpensive dental work, after I showed her the tooth I had chipped on a piece of Halloween candy.
I had not seen Mary since, though I was aware that she was what I call a “frequent flier” – the people who spend a great deal of time in and out of the hospital. She had not been in my unit so I didn’t get the chance to see her again until last week, when she was again hospitalized and this time given a room in my ICU unit. I went to visit her last Tuesday, and came in while she was discussing some things with her nurse. The nurse wrapped up and Mary looked up at me rather vaguely, asking, “is there something I can do for you?”
I was rather crestfallen that she did not remember me. I see so many people, and most are tough to remember though I try my best (especially after a patient said it was good to see me again, leaving me horrified because I had no clue who he was!). Mary was one who was easy to remember, if only in part because of her boldly Cajun surname. I explained who I was, without mentioning our previous visit, and asked how things were going. Mary told me that she had been in a rehab facility, and it was a nightmare. There was one nurse for 30 patients, and said RN worked 17 hour shifts. She rarely saw her nurse, her bedding was rarely changed, her doctor’s orders were not followed, and her special dietary needs were ignored. She deteriorated rapidly and had to be readmitted to our hospital as a result of the rehab facility’s negligence.
It was incredibly difficult for me to listen to all this, because it brought back strong memories of our first meeting in early November. At that time, my aunt had spent six weeks in a rehab facility like the one Mary told me about. The anger I felt over the lack of decent care for my aunt was strangling to me since I was 2000 miles away and could do nothing. It was very difficult at the time to focus on my patients instead of the injustice facing my aunt and my family in Tucson. I had to tamp down the anger I could feel rising in me again, this time on behalf of this sweet lady who seemed to spend all her time trying to make things better for others. I commented neutrally that it must have been a horribly frustrating experience for her, and she replied, “Well, I realized that God put me there for a reason. When I came into the hospital again, my doctor asked me about the facility and how it had gone. I told him every detail and told him not to recommend that place to any other patient, ever again. He said he wouldn’t.” How characteristic of Mary to say such a selfless thing, to state that there was a reason. She was not impotent with anger over the treatment she’d received, nor was she acting like a martyr. It was a straightforward, matter-of-fact statement. While I processed that, she cocked her head at me and asked, “so, did you ever go to LSU’s dental school and get that tooth looked at?” I stuttered to a halt as I realized that she indeed remembered our visit, had remembered all along – or perhaps her memory just needed a nudge. We spoke briefly about it, and then, in her characteristically blunt manner, which is so reminiscent of my aunt, she asked, “Well, are you gonna pray with me?” I smiled broadly and did so.
Earlier this week, Mary signed a DNR order, which means that if she reached code blue status that she was not to be revived. Then she and her son chose a hospice care facility to assist her as she went home; he signed the papers on Tuesday afternoon. Very early yesterday morning, though, her condition worsened dramatically. I was called by the doctor to pray with her at 10:30am, about 90 minutes before I was off duty after a full night on call. Mary’s every breath was labored, and it was difficult to understand what she tried to say. No family was present and based on the things she’d said about her relationship with her son, I explained my concern to her nurse. He was en route to the hospital from his job; his sister was flying in from the Midwest.
Mary’s daughter did not arrive in time to try to speak with her again, but her son was at her bedside when she died two hours after we’d prayed together. I never did ask her how she reconciled the Catholic and Protestant faiths (and believe me, in this city they are DIFFERENT faiths), but I learned from her how to demonstrate grace in the face of a challenging situation. It made me think of the teenage Mary in Luke 1, being told that she would be the mother of God’s only child. Instead of complaining or whining, she said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.” Maybe it’s a stretch to compare the two women, but for the first time I have a full understanding of the phrase spoken so reverently in the Catholic Church: Ave Maria, Gratia Plena. It means a whole lot more than just a mother’s love for her child.
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