A new blog for new times! So I started a chaplain residency program at a hospital in Brooklyn and have taken some time to settle in. Not only is it a new job for me, but a new city as well. I have been waiting to start a new blog since I began, but I was so busy with other things that I haven't had the time. Now that I have a free moment, I thought I would share some things from my first duty shift.
On my first duty shift, I received the page of all pages. I'm sure that many in the profession would call it the worst page you could get. In the middle of the night, I cancelled the blaring notification ringing from the duty pager and called the extension. "Hello Chaplain, this is Labor and Delivery. We have a fetal demise." There is an instant sinking feeling that comes with those words "fetal demise." I think the word that best describes the sensation would be dread, but that may be too melodramatic of a term. Fetal demise; turn the phrase over in your head. At our hospital, it is the phrase we use to describe babies that are stillborn. In my opinion, it is a cold, clinical term meant to create distance between the user and the reality of the situation. You find that a lot here; "expiration" instead of death, "procedure" instead of surgery. Sometimes they are appropriate as they minimize the risk of alarming the patient and increasing their stress levels. However, there is a sanitary notion behind it, as though it sterilizes the perception of an uncomfortable reality.
Upon hearing the page, I immediately went to Labor and Delivery, which was a mistake. My personal anxiety and discomfort with such cases in addition to a general unfamiliarity with this hospital's patient-care protocols coupled for disastrous results. Here, the chaplains are the ones responsible for filing the paperwork regarding burial arrangements in cases of fetal demise. We guide the family through the process of deciding whether they want a private burial, a public burial, hospital disposal, etc. We then file the paperwork as well. My first call was a complete fiasco. I botched the paperwork due to only having a cursory knowledge of the system, then one of my supervisors had to return to the patient and bring up a loss that was still fresh in the patient's mind. I think that despite not being terribly busy, that was one of the most stressful duty shifts of my life.
When I got to the room, I had no words to say. Language is so crucial in providing care to patients. As noted above, it can provide illumination or it can insulate us from discomfort. The words we say and the actions we perform matter to the patient. With that in mind, what language is appropriate in this instance? The loss of a child is perhaps the most egregious one a person can suffer. It seems to fly in the face of the natural order of the world. Parents are not supposed to bury their child; their child is supposed to bury them. I don't think I've ever encountered a situation where I felt words couldn't be more insufficient. As I reflected later on, meditating both on my mistakes and on the general nature of the situation, the thought occurred that words are often utterly insufficient. Words in such encounters are rarely remembered unless they cause harm. What is remembered is positive presence. I carried my fear into that room, and I think it showed. This limited my ability to project a positive presence, which in part led to my later mistakes. What I often forget is to have grace, not just for others but for myself as well. By remembering to have grace, we also remember that we are insufficient. Our language, our actions, our intentions are insufficient in the light of truth. By remembering that, we allow ourselves not to be overcome by fear, but instead find courage and thereby increase our ability to provide compassionate presence.
Therefore, I hope that you remember to find grace for yourself this day so that you may also find the courage to live decently in this world. Remember that sometimes there are no words to say, just a compassionate presence.
No comments:
Post a Comment