Pandemic Parables: Finished!

Pandemic Parables: Finished

Friday August 28th 2020

 

It is finished!

 

I am no longer working as a Resident Chaplain at the hospital in Frederick, Maryland. 

 

At 4.30 this afternoon I clocked out for the very last time after having been employed there for the last year, and volunteering as an intern for four months before that. During that time, I have completed five Clinical Pastoral Education units (CPEs,) the last three during a pandemic. (Forgive me for repeating this information but I am still slack-jawed, amazed that this is now on my resume…)

 

I have learned more, and experienced more than I ever expected.

It has been a wild, soul-searing, exhilarating, emotionally-painful, exhausting, life-changing ride!

 

This past week has been filled with final leave taking, and memories of things that have happened during my tenure. I have tried to take mental snapshots of everything going on around me, serious, serendipitous and silly, so that they will be seared into my mind.

 

One such snapshot was when my phone rang in the Emergency Department last Tuesday.

Let me explain.

 

I was issued a hospital mobile phone at the beginning of my residency that I have never quite mastered.  I like to think I have some strong points in my life. Technology is not one of them. For example, not long after I got my first IPhone – long after my peers – I was in church.  It was the holiest part of the service. A worshipful hush had fallen over the congregation. Suddenly a phone in the pew behind me started ringing.

 

Sacrilege!

 

I turned round and gave the offending chap a “please do something” stare.  He hung his head – as well he should – and seemed to nod towards my pew.

 

The phone rang on.  My stare became a glare. 

And then I realized it was my phone that was ringing. I was mortified and signaled my abject apology.

 

A similar thing happened this last week.  Every day during the height of the pandemic, and every Tuesday since the fear and tension have subsided, I have been invited to join the Emergency Department morning “huddle.” This is when the leaders briefly pass on needed information to their team.  At the end I pray for everyone who would like to stay.  It has been one of my greatest joys and privileges in the hospital. 

 

At my very last huddle someone’s phone rang. I looked around at the assembled people, but still it rang. Then a technician nodded towards the small cross body bag that I wear. Sure enough – it was ringing,

Some things haven’t changed despite a rigorous year of learning.

 

One memory led to another. I recalled that there is a reason I wear the bag.  When I first got the phone I put it in my clothing’s elastic waistband. One day, when I was new, I was walking down a long corridor when I realized that my phone had slipped deep into my underwear.

 

And then my crotch rang.

 

I still have no idea how you deal with that decently in the middle of a pre-Covid-19 crowded corridor. Hence the bag.

 

I have always taken walks throughout the hospital.  I deliberately take the longest way to my assigned beat on the third floor to do rounding. 

This week was full of mental snapshots.

 

A custodial worker stopped me in the corridor the other day. We have said hello and smiled at each for the last year but we’ve never had a proper conversation.

“My grandson,” she said with no preamble. “I’ve got a problem with my grandson…”

“Tell me about it,” I said. And she poured out her heart about her on-the-cusp-of-manhood child’s child, who was running with the wrong crowd and breaking her heart in the process.

 

She talked. I felt her deep emotions and reflected back what I heard and what I was feeling. Skills honed during this residency program. Some of the tension oozed out of her. She started to relax. She had been heard. And we prayed, right there on a second floor corridor yards from the ICU.

 

Medical, emotional, and spiritual needs being met on different sides of a wall.

 

Talking about a wall.  On my travels this past week I passed the place where the secret medical library was housed, that I mentioned in a previous parable.  I had tracked it down behind a “Medical Staff Suite. Physicians Entrance” door, and had persuaded an assistant to let me in to the inner sanctum. Only to find that a meeting was taking place within and I couldn’t enter.

 

I was determined to see it before I left.

 

I passed the assistant’s office who had let me in before and told her I was desperate to finally see the hidden library.

“I don’t think it’s there anymore,” she said.

What! Oh my goodness.

“Yes,” she continued. “They are doing renovations in that area and I’m not sure what’s happened to it. But I’ll let you in so you can see.”

 

Sure enough, when we got inside, the brass plaque on the wall, telling of who had donated the library, was gone. So had all signage.  The door was locked and the windows were ceiling height, with no ladders or extra tall basketball players around to help me peer in.  Through the crack in the door I could see lots of nothing. 

Had the library been vaporized? Nobody seems to know.

 

It remains a mystery.

 

On my floor I passed a nurse practitioner who was wearing her white coat, and I was startled. Since the beginning of the pandemic such coats were banned and so were sleeves covering up tattoos that had been obligatory when the world was right way up. This was so there was no impediment to medical staff being able to wash hands frequently up to the elbows.

 

I remember thinking that these senior-level nurses, that I admire so greatly, looked vulnerable without their coats, like turtles without shells. Now their raiment armor is back on, once again clothing the wearer with authority and respectability.

 

It is a visible sign that the Covid-19 presence in the hospital is waning.

 

We are not yet completely out of the Coronavirus woods, but the numbers are low.  On Wednesday we only had four virus patients and a further four under investigation. Two hundred and forty four patients COVID patients have been released, and we have had no deaths since the middle of June.  Thank you Lord.

 

As I have said before, the hospital is well prepared for a potential second wave, which we pray never comes. On Wednesday we heard that there now enough N95 masks that people can have a new one at the end of each shift. A far cry from the days that non-medical staff were told to wear them until they fell apart, such was the shortage and the blocked supply lines.  We have come such a long way, and we are all incredibly grateful.

 

There have been goodbyes with so many people over the last few days, including my online residency peer group. It was easier than it might have been as we have not been all together in person since March.  One of the hospice chaplains is transferring to the hospital and will start on Monday.  One will stay for a two-week interim period moving from hospice to the hospital, before transferring with his military wife and their family to Belgium. The one who I see daily will stay on for a few weeks until a third resident chaplain is confirmed. Interviews are taking place for both the hospital and hospice from the current crop of interns – all good people.  Whoever they choose, we will leave our posts in good hands.  A relief!

 

The process is all askew and not as smooth as it would be normally because of necessary changes brought about mainly by the pandemic. So although the 2019-2020 Residency Program has ended, I am the only one from our group who makes their exit today.

 

However, one of the other chaplains in our office, a supervisor-in-training, who has been at the hospital for three and a half years, is also leaving. So the four of us chaplains who are regularly in the hospital during the day, had a socially distanced final lunch together yesterday. It was the last time we will be together because of different schedules.

 

Some of you might remember from an earlier parable that we used to have a ‘summer” cottage” in the office. (One chaplain hearing about this thought we had purchased real estate.  Not so!)

It was a huge behemoth of an ancient wooden table that dominated what we thought would be a temporary office space while major construction was going on around us.  My computer was on one side near the end. So I would walk to the other side to have lunch so I could look out the window.  I called it “going to my summer cottage” and it became a ritual with the chaplains, one we became attached to. Without moving from the office, every day we had lunch in bucolic beauty.

 

And then, when the plans for our new office were finalized, we lost our summer cottage! But you can’t keep a good, British storytelling chaplain down. For the last few months two of us have been eating on the “summer trolley” – a commandeered library cart from the volunteers’ area. They have no need of it at the moment as there are no volunteers, and probably won’t be until sometime next year.

 

Today we piled boxes around this trolley so that it assumed the shape of a banqueting table.  We then covered them all with grandma’s lace – aka Costco paper towels - and had a raucous, delightful, delicious barbeque lunch.

 

A fitting final gathering.

 

The last time I logged off my computer I smiled at the screen. Throughout the hospital the main screen saver is a beach scene.  It seems to be taken from within a cave looking out.  The edges of the picture are black in contrast to the bright seascape in the center.  Somehow, after had a computer upgrade, mine was different.  There was no black in the picture. A wider view was visible as though the photographer had stepped out of the cave. There by the side of the water, invisible on every other computer I had seen, was a woman with her hair flung back.

 

Running.

 

In so many ways that picture has spoken to me during this last semester.  It certainly resonated with me today as I was leaving.

 

I clocked out for the last time and headed for my car. With great joy I carried three goodbye presents from different staff members – a staff chaplain, members of the volunteer staff, and a front desk security officer.  Each touched me deeply. 

There was a beautiful scented candle.

A mug that said, “It is well with my soul” - and it is. My soul is well. 

And a glorious arrangement of brightly colored flowers that caused my well soul to sing.

I felt swaddled in love and appreciation, and I was incredibly grateful.

 

I walked past the three flag poles in the main foyer, one of which has the Maryland State flag. Seeing it I was reminded of something my transporter friend had told me. He had pointed out that the American flag had an eagle atop its pole, but that the state flag and the hospital flag next to it, had round steel spheres at their apex.

 

“Did you know that by law the Maryland flag has to have a cross on the top of its flagpole?” asked my transporter friend, his eyes brimming with intelligence and humor.

“It goes back to the state’s religious roots from when it was founded?”

 

I did not.

 

“Come,” he said, and led me to the big entrance window. “Look!” and pointed towards the three same flags in the parking lot.  Sure enough, the Maryland flag’s pole was topped with a cross.

 

I know myself.  From now on I will check the top of every pole I pass that flies the state flag.

 

I said goodnight for the last time to the evening shift security officer at the front desk. Walked past the ornate stone wall topped with spiky, fake foliage. A wall that had finally emerged from its huge, white, building shell, just before I left my own hospital cocoon.

 

One last time I drove past the man who used to be a valet parker when there were so many visitors and volunteers that the parking lots overflowed. Now he is gratefully reassigned to hours of boredom. He sits in an open front tent guiding what visitors there are and enforcing any new parking protocol.  The hospital didn’t lay off anyone during this pandemic. They found ways to keep everyone productive if they wanted to stay. God bless them.

 

The valet parker is from Thailand.  My cousin and his family live and work in Thailand.  So this valet and I have a bond. He waves and smiles broadly at me every day as my car passes him just after four thirty every weekday evening like clockwork.  I waved back today savoring the last time this sweet ritual is likely to happen.

 

And then I drove out of the hospital and on to freedom.

 

My time at the hospital would not have been possible without the encouragement, love, and prayers of all who read and commented on the Pandemic Parables.

 

This is not hyperbole.  This is fact.

 

During the depths of this virus season there were times when I was going through incredibly difficult times, merely hanging on by the fingernails of knowing that I was called to the hospital. I would write and post a parable, and the reader’s words, your words, of response would act as a balm filling up this storyteller turned chaplain’s sad, lonely, and sometimes overwhelmed heart.

And then there were surprise gifts, sometimes sent in response to a parable. An electric kettle; a cairn; home made fortune cookies; toilet rolls; a pink rabbit; a hand knitted, vibrantly colored pair of socks; a crocheted woolen hanging rainbow. My friends will never know how much these treasures meant. How they pushed back darkness with kindness. Thank you. From my heart. 

 I said this in one of my earliest parables, and it remains true as I end them. In the Good Book, in 1 Samuel 30:24, it says that those guarding the home front, looking after the baggage and supplies, shall get an equal reward and share of the spoils as the ones that plunged into battle.

 

My friends and readers, your heavenly blessings will be great.

Thank you for reading, commenting, and encouraging.

 

May the Lord pour out His love into you in new ways.  May He make a way for you where there is no way. And for your loved ones also.

 

May He provide for you in miraculous ways so there is no lack in your lives.

 

May you walk in the blessings prepared for past generations of your family that they did not claim, as well as the ones laid up for you alone.

 

And as it says in the great blessing of Aaron – the Aaronic priestly blessing:

“May the Lord bless and keep you;

May the Lord make His face shine on you and be gracious to you;

May the Lord turn His face towards you and give you peace.”

 

And so as one adventure is ended, another unknown one begins. I can see a few steps ahead of me, that is all.

But because I know the Lord will guide and guard me I have peace. Knowing that because he is already there, the future will be good.

 

Amen.

Copyright © 2020 Geraldine Buckley

Pandemic Parables: Retrospection

Pandemic Parables: Retrospection
Sunday August 23rd, 2020

I am about to embark on my last week at the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where, since last May, I have been working, first as a Pastoral Care Intern, and then, since September, as a Resident Chaplain. At the same time, when I finish, I will have earned five Clinical Pastoral Education units (CPEs) - professional chaplaincy qualifications.

I leave next Friday, August 28th.

This past week has been the last of our regular seminars, led by a pastoral supervisor and consisting of a group of six chaplains, three of whom work full time for Hospice. These chaplains, five men and me, started gathering together for two hours three times a week since last September, first in person and then on line. Two of the hospice chaplains were interns with me. So we now know each other well, although I only interact with one, in the hospital, on a daily basis.

We are an eclectic group, all ordained in different denominations with widely varying life stories. Only two of us were born in the US. We are single, divorced, and married. Sipping saints, in recovery, life-long teetotalers. All but two of us have children. We are military husbands, storytellers, geologists, home health helps, missionaries, as well as ministers. We come from India, England, Kenya, Togo, Pennsylvania, and Georgia.

Our home lives were radically different. One chaplain’s dad was a British chef, another’s worked for the Indian Railroad, a third’s father was a Mau Mau - a feared freedom fighter whose goal was to expel the British from Kenya.

We have shared stories, delved deep into our own psyches and commented on painful experiences related by others. We have laughed and wept together.

Considering our differences it is incredible that more metaphorical blood was not spilled, but we have survived.

This coming week is when we do the last requirement for this, my final, CPE.

Evaluations.

This is basically a long, in-depth essay, which includes summing up the events of the last semester; our relationship with patients; staff; training supervisor; and fellow residents. We also evaluate how we have been challenged, and grown, throughout the previous three months.

Writing this evaluation has put me in a retrospective mood as I survey what has happened since I came to the hospital.

My time as a Resident Chaplain has been cut into two distinct parts - pre and post COVID-19. The first six months were getting to know and be comfortable with the rhythms of the hospital.

The Resident Chaplains used to meet in our supervisor’s small cozy office, unthinkable these few months later in this season of social distancing. Now, when on-line seminars and supervision are the norm.

In that intimate setting we learned how to be an effective spiritual and emotional support in a medical environment where focus is naturally on the physical. Understanding in new, deep, ways that we are made up of body, soul, and spirit and so there is a place and a need, for all of our caring expertise.

The best results happen when medical teams, social workers, chaplains, and other specialties work together to ensure the best outcome for the patient and their families. When the patient is well cared for physically, and is also listened to and knows they have been really heard.

I had been a prison chaplain in the largest men’s prison in Maryland ten years earlier, but this work was completely different. Still, I had just become more secure in my role in a very unfamiliar setting when the pandemic hit.

I always have managed to stumble into inadvertent adventures!

Everything changed dramatically, as I’ve outlined in these parables. The world stopped. It filled with fear, which seeped into the rapidly emptying corridors of the hospital, as most visitors were banned and any staff that could, worked from home.

I honestly thought by the time I wrote my penultimate post we would be on the other side of the virus. That I would have a perfect arc of a story - the hospital before, during - and after the Coronavirus virus swept through with its almost medieval pestilence and wrath.

Not so.

We are not where we were. But we are not home free yet. Maryland has low virus numbers throughout the state. Thank you Lord! Like elsewhere, our hospital had a blip, an increase, after the July 4th holiday, but now it has a low, steady turnover of COVID-19 inpatients.

At the moment we have six confirmed virus patients and one under investigation. This goes up and down by a few numbers daily, but on the whole it remains steady.

Two hundred and thirty seven positive patients have been cared for and released so far. And, glory be, we have had no virus deaths for a long time. The number remains at thirty seven in total and we grieve every one.

The hospital is already well prepared for a second wave in the Fall that we pray never comes.

I thought we wouldn’t need masks by now. We do. And our marvelous CEO has let us know that no matter what happens with the virus, the mask policy will stay in place until April, long after I’ve gone. Apparently, in the Southern Hemisphere, now in the grip of winter, Flu cases have been down considerably because of the population wearing masks.  He wants us to do our part to help that happen here.

Masks, of course, are everywhere. A new intern, a fellow creative soul whom I adore, gave me a red sequined one that I drool over. Then, as I’ve said elsewhere, someone anonymously left me a package at the front desk. The envelope said “Just a little something to say Thank you for all your Pandemic Parables.” I was stunned with gratitude, which increased exponentially when I saw that there were two masks inside, one white with black writing, and the other the reverse. One says “Faith Over Fear”.  The other “Fueled by Tea and Jesus”. Perfection! I love them both.  Thank you, whoever it was, for your much appreciated kindness.

Once the shock of having to wear masks had passed, their use has become familiar.  We have adapted.

We are a campus with a preponderance of women, certainly among the nursing staff. It is fascinating to walk along the long corridors and hear people say:

“I love how your mask matches your blouse!”

“Stylish mask!”

“My goodness! That mask is the same material as your dress. Beautiful!”

You can’t keep a good woman down. Even in times of pandemic, even when wearing scrubs, they know how to accessorize!

I laughed when I passed the gift shop the other day. In the window they had a collection of small, sweet bunnies. And they are all wearing masks.

Besides masks, other things will also continue. Checking the virus status of all visitors and staff is one of them. Patients are all automatically checked for COVID-19. The few visitors that are allowed in  have their temperatures checked by security as they enter. Staff take their temperatures at home and self-attest by swiping their badges against a reader. However the hospital will be installing new gizmos for both visitors and staff that take your temperatures from a distance of three feet. All who enter will have to pass its scrutiny.

What incredible technological advanced times we live in! 

There have been such enormous changes in the hospital since I’ve been there. Who would have thought that few visitors would be allowed? That, on the whole family members would only be allowed in if they were dying, and then only two, or the one when they gave birth? One can accompany you to the Emergency Department and two to Same Day Surgery. That strict policy continues.

Volunteers under the age of eighteen or over the age of sixty are still not allowed in and probably won’t be back until sometime in the New Year. Incredible!

And those who can work at home are doing so, at least until September 15^th. Then the policy will be reconsidered, and perhaps extended.

The hospital remains quiet.

But I feel that some of the deepest changes that have happened in the hospital during this virus season are the ones that have been taking place within me.

When I first came to the hospital I confessed that I had a difficulty talking to people who were close to death.  I can truly say that fear has gone. Over this past year I have been with so many patients as they are close to, or actually take their last breaths. I have had the incredible privilege of anointing with oil and praying with patients as they cross from life to death, to real life. I have comforted so many grieving friends and relatives - each one a sacred honor.

I have had to confront other of my own fears, unconscious biases, and misconceptions. I have seen where things I thought were one way, really weren’t.

I have reframed events that happened in my life that had caused pain. I saw them from a different angle and the pain was released.

I have seen and recognized emotional abuse aimed at me, and stood up to it.

I have learned to sit in deep sadness, recognizing that the world is full of sadness, and let that emotion come in, through and leave me. And when it had run its course I felt joy and peace being restored.

I feel I have been turned inside out emotionally, like a cushion cover during spring cleaning. I’ve been shaken thoroughly to get rid of years of dust, turned right side up and then been refilled.

Refilled with humble confidence, clearer vision, deeper insights, truer love, and hope.

All of this has made be better able to listen to patients and staff from a deeper more understanding place. To be able to be with them in a shared sacred moment and not to have to help. I have learned that to hear, to be, and if they want, to pray, is enough.

This has been the best of times, the worst of times, as Dickens said. And I wouldn’t trade any of it.

And over the weeks, months, and years ahead, as I begin to fully process all that has happened to me at the hospital, I feel that sentiment will only increase. 

But before I get too carried away with reminiscing, let me gird up my loins and get ready.

Examination week lies ahead!

This Coronavirus season has hugely impacted and shaped all of our lives. We all long for it to be over. It is not.

We never thought it would go on so long. We long for all the restrictions to be lifted.

They cannot be yet.

Coronavirus has brought with it devastation, fear, loss, and the oddest of blessings. We have learned deep things about ourselves.

Who we are.

What is important to us.

What we are no longer able to accept.

May we all have the grace to honestly examine our inner landscapes.

May we sit in sadness with our losses and inner grief until the sadness lifts. And it will.

Until we feel peace.

May we see a new way forward, and have the courage to embrace that way.

May we have the grace and wisdom to change. To discard old ideas, patterns, and situations that masked who we really are. That are no longer needed as the real emerges.

May people who are no longer part of this new era in our lives gently slip away, and may those who are to accompany us appear.

May there be abundant provision, opportunities, and wisdom to embrace that which we are called to be and do.

And there will be.

Because the God who loves us more than we can dream or imagine longs for us to be all He created us to be.

Our authentic selves.

That same God is with us, cheering us in this time of retrospection, in this season of transition. And He is already in our future to welcome us.

So our futures will be good.

Copyright © 2020 Geraldine Buckley

Pandemic Parables: Sounds

Pandemic Parables: Sounds
Monday August 17th 2020

I have been very aware of the unique sounds of the hospital in Frederick, Maryland, where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until August 28th, less than two weeks away.

In my early twenties, fresh from England, I worked for KLBJ, Lady Bird Johnson’s radio station in Austin, Texas. There I learned about a brilliant media theorist, advertising director, and sound archivist called Tony Schwartz (not the ghost writer of the President’s book). This Tony Schwartz was known as “the wizard of sound”. One thing he did was record sounds in New York streets that were very common at the time, but now are rare, or no longer. These included boys hawking the evening editions of papers. Children playing street games. Trolleys.

Influenced by him I wanted to capture some of the sounds that have been part of my every day for the past year so I don’t forget. Sounds like the swishing of cars coming in to the staff garage every morning and evening at shift change. As they clunk over metal plates there is a roaring sound like the ebb and flow of a mighty ocean.

Unexpected laughter! The manager of KLBJ told me so many years ago that laughter in the corridors and offices of a work place are proof that it overflows with creativity and contentment. It is a hallmark of businesses of excellence with happy employees.

There is no doubt that the work done in the hospital is often life and death important. But I love walking past nurses stations on my floors and hearing a gurgle of laughter and flashing smiles.

I was going to visit a patient the other day and he had a sign on his door saying “Chemotherapy- please see the nurse before entering”. I found the nurse.  She was with one other staff member.

“There is no chance of me being pregnant,” I said. “Is it all right for me to go in?”

The two of them assessed my age and smiled.

And then the nurse said “you’ll be fine as long as you don’t touch his urine.”

“I give you my solemn promise,” I said, “that I shall go nowhere near his urine.”

It was all so silly that the three of us burst out laughing, and the visit went all the better because of it.

There is the sound of kindness everywhere. Nurses encouraging frightened patients. Happy birthday being sung to a patient who is in the hospital on their natal day, alone because of the COVID restrictions. Then the sound of candles being extinguished on the cup cakes that were paid for by a generous charge nurse.

The soft shuffle and creak as an orthopedic patient slowly walks along a hall way supported by two physiotherapists, both murmuring quiet praise. A third one walks slowly behind with a big, comfortable hospital chair so the patient knows she can sit down at any time.

The medical beeps and whistles in a patient’s room coming from drips and the like. Sounds that continue to baffle me. However there is one medical sound I will never forget. A patient was in the Emergency Department. Death was imminent. The patient’s daughter was there, in her scrubs from a different medical establishment. Everything was done to save this patient’s life. And then the doctor turned to the daughter and said: “I’m so sorry. She has gone. I’m going to turn her oxygen off now. I want you to be prepared. Are you ready?”

The daughter nodded. The rhythmic hiss of the oxygen stopped. The silence of death flooded the room. We had a Pause. Then the doctor offered his sincere condolences. And, letting humanity override protocol, the nurse hugged her fellow nurse in wordless deeply-felt comfort.

Unspoken kindness in action.

One of the dramatic sounds of the hospital is the medical helicopter arriving on the helipad, situated on the top floor of the parking garage. When it arrives and leaves it seems to hover over the chaplain’s office that is next door to a peaked glass atrium. The windows rattle and a flood of fuel fills the room. That is our cue to pray for the person who has arrived or left so dramatically.

I asked one of the heads of security about the helicopter. “You never know when they are going to come,” he said in his North of Ireland brogue. You won’t get any for ages and then, they appear. We had two arrive at exactly the same time once. One of them had to land temporarily at the airport.”

“So it’s like busses back home?” I said.

“He laughed, his kind eyes twinkling. “You’re right,” he said. “Wait an age for one and then two arrive at the same time.”

“What happens if a helicopter arrives at night?” I asked. “Do the neighbors mind?”

The hospital is right in the middle of a residential area. And that helicopter certainly makes its presence known.

“Well,” he said hesitantly. “That doesn’t happen too often. And that’s a good thing.”

God bless the neighbors that will overlook the sound of an overhead medical emergency.

That atrium I mentioned next to the chaplains’ office is dramatic in the rain. The atmosphere darkens and it sounds as though we are in a suburban rain forest. One day we heard the swishing sounds of the rain, but the room was still bright. We looked out the window. It didn’t appear to be raining, certainly not to the dramatic level we were hearing.

A mystery!

But then we discovered that it was the large machine that cleans the floors of the hospital’s long corridors. There had been construction surrounding the chaplain’s recently moved offices for several months at the beginning of the virus. Because of that, the machine hadn’t been in our area. It was a new sound for us. This time the sound of water sloshing marked a return to normality.

One of the most prevalent sounds in the hospital are the operators announcing messages overhead. 

Celebration walks used to happen several times a day as COVID-19 patients were released. That happy announcement caused people to drop what they were doing and head for the front foyer to cheer on the exiting patient. Now those walks are rare as we have so few cases in the hospital. There were five on Sunday and none were in the ICU.

Thank you Lord. 

Much more common overhead messages from the operators are:

Vehicles that need to be moved.

Medical staff who need to phone a certain extension.

And codes.

There is a code for every emergency. For example a code green is for a combative person. A code grey for an elopement, when someone has left the hospital without being discharged, often their mind in a muddle. And then there are the three that chaplains respond to, these are usually, but not always for the Emergency Department. My beat.

Code heart - for a heart attack.

Code stroke - when someone is having a stroke.

And code blue when someone has stopped breathing and is near death.

When the overhead announcement starts, the chaplains immediately stop what they are doing, write down the details and respond. The first action is to phone the dedicated code line to tell the operator we have heard. You can’t hear the tannoy in certain parts of the hospital, for example patient’s rooms. So the operator will call to make sure we know about the code.

These operators sound universally lovely. My transporter friend told me that they are chosen for their calm voices.

“They have to be soothing so as not to alarm people,” he said. “They have to be able to announce an emergency in a way that does not create panic.”

The only time I heard a glimmer of a crack in their usual sang froid was when a code red was announced recently. This is the code for a fire. Our fire alarm system is tested often. We are warned before it happens and told to ignore the flashing lights, persistent sound and closed doors. However a real, small, fire broke out the other day on the roof. Knowing their voices well I detected that the operator, who must have been new, was not as calm as usual. The edge in her voice hinted at what she really wanted to say, and didn’t. “This is real folks. This time it’s real!”

I had no idea where the operators lived in the hospital, and so the other day I set out to find their control center.  I have a soft spot for operators. My mother was one before marrying my father and I loved to listen to her stories of loves lost and found, connections made and broken.

I phoned to make my request, directions were given, and I was welcomed with open arms.

What a delightful group of women! (And I have no idea why there aren’t any male operators. Perhaps they just don’t apply. )

It was wonderful to put faces to voices. We reminisced about some odd calls I’d had. I met the woman who told me my husband was on the line and insisted it was him, although I’ve never been married. We laughed at the memory.

One young operator came in to the room from her break and was surprised to see an outsider in this hallowed sanctum.

The others were working - and it was nonstop work. So I took the opportunity of asking this one a question before she settled down to work.

“What is the oddest phone call you’ve received?”

She giggled and said “Well there was one man who insisted that we had stolen his sperm and were using it to impregnate patients. And then there was a woman who called saying that her husband was keeping her from her children. Neither were patients at the hospital…”

I’m sure she handled it with these operators’ normal aplomb.

All in a day’s essential work.

In this Coronavirus season the soundscape of all of our lives changed. Traffic sounds hushed, birds seemed to sing louder, the world slowed down. Despite the fear and ravages of the virus, the world was a more tranquil place. There were the sounds of people helping their neighbors, taking meals to the home bound, phoning long lost friends.

My prayer is that none of us will forget the camaraderie, the bonds formed, the sounds of caring and every day kindnesses that have flooded this virus season. God’s work in action.

Let us take the best of what we have learned, the soundscapes we have rediscovered, into the future.

And then the future will be good.

Pandemic Parables: Exploring

Pandemic Parables: Exploring
Sunday August 8th 2020

I have been exploring in the hospital in Frederick, Maryland, where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. The intense work study program that I have been doing for the past year, plus a three month volunteer internship before that, comes to an end two weeks next Friday, on August 28th.

Before leaving I am keen to learn as much as possible about this hospital that I have grown to love. So I wanted to see if I could visit some places that I have passed often but never peeked inside.

Friday, I thought, Friday might be my opportunity. The hospital is often quieter on that day. Patients prefer to be at home over the weekends if at all possible, and by Friday morning the exodus has started happening.

I was doing rounds before my explorations began when a Code Blue was called in the ICU. A patient had stopped breathing and a team was being called to try and save their life. Normally the ICU is not on my beat, but the chaplain who covers that area is away on a Friday. So as soon as I could leave the person I was seeing, I set off for the second floor.

On the way I passed a pharmacist I knew. She had writing on her mask.

It said, “I sling pills to pay my bills.”

I burst out laughing and her eyes twinkled. It was a much needed moment of levity before the seriousness that lay ahead.

When I arrived at the ICU I saw a group with a doctor and other medical staff in the hallway. The unit manager was walking in my direction. I saw sorrow etched in the lines of her forehead above her mask and a weariness in her walk.

“I’m too late?” I said. “Yes,” she nodded.

“Has a Pause been done?” I asked. She nodded again, “Yes.”

The Pause happens after someone dies. The medical team always does everything they can to save the patient’s life unless the person has previously requested otherwise. The intensity, determination, and concentration during those life and death last minutes is palpable.

When finally the attending doctor realizes nothing further can be done, they call the time of death. Then the chaplain, if they are in attendance, or indeed anyone else who is present, calls for a Pause - a non-denominational moment of remembrance. Of transition.

So for example, let’s say the patient’s name was Mary (and I have not cared for any Marys who have died at the hospital).

The leader would say the words that are on the Pause cards that have been distributed throughout the hospital and that chaplains carry attached to their IDs.

“Let’s take a moment to Pause and honor this person who has just passed away. Mary was someone who loved and was loved. Mary was someone’s friend and family member. In our own way, and in silence, let us stand together and take a moment to honor both Mary and all the valiant efforts that were made on her behalf. (This is followed by 45 seconds to a minute of silence.)

Thank you everyone.”

After the Pause everyone disperses to the next crisis. Most say they are grateful to have experienced a much-needed emotional buffer to regain their equilibrium.

To retain their humanity.

I had arrived at the ICU moments after the Pause had been said. The nurse manager had been part of the gathering.

“Tell me about the patient,” I said.

And that kind, compassionate, weary, senior nurse did just that. She knew not only his symptoms but his quirks, his character. The words came pouring out.

Then we stood for a moment. Both feeling the sadness, the sorrow of the death that had just happened.

“It is still hard after all these years,” she said.

And in these COVID-19 aware times, I may or may not have opened my arms. And she may or may not have stepped forward to gratefully receive a hug.

I walked away knowing I would miss these raw moments of deeply shared caring.

Holy moments.

Sacred encounters.

I headed down to the basement where I had arranged to meet a new friend outside the cafeteria. I was surprised to see so many people eating breakfast. It was ten o’clock. Almost everyone down there was a familiar face. The air was alive with chattering and bonhomie. I’m not in the cafeteria that often. I bring a packed lunch and eat it upstairs in the chaplain’s office. I’d never been there mid-morning.

I was entranced by the gathering.

My friend arrived. He is a transporter, pushing patients in their hospital beds to their next medical procedures. He is a wise, kind, humorous fount of information. He is also a fellow lover of adventures, people, and their stories. So he was a perfect choice to show me parts of the hospital many people don’t see.

He arrived and saw me marveling at the chattering crowd.

“This is the housekeepers and maintenance people’s daily gathering spot,” he said as he motioned me to follow him.

“They arrive at 6.00 am so they are on their midday break. They come together to support each other. No one told them to do so. Their supervisors often aren’t aware, but they gather regularly. They really care for each other. And they help each other whenever and wherever they can.”

I thought of all the cleaners I knew in the hospital, and all the maintenance people. Every one of them was lovely. In their own unique ways they were kind, hard-working, and efficient.

I realized I was looking at the engine room that enabled those qualities to be nurtured and sustained.

I had stumbled upon a mystery while exploring for mysteries!

I followed my friend the transporter.

I know it sounds a little gruesome but I wanted to see the morgue.

I realized a few weeks ago that the morgue was definitely one of the hospital’s hidden places. I knew we had to have one, but I realized that most people had no idea where it was.

“In the basement somewhere I think,” said a sensible Hospice nurse. “I’m not sure,” and then shuddered slightly. “It’s silly. But I don’t like the thought of it.”

My fellow chaplains had no idea where it was.

One of my favorite security officers confirmed it was in the basement. She tried to explain where, but that lower floor is a warren of corridors. I was lost even before I left her desk. Finally she leaned in and said softly:

“The door is unmarked but it has a bug zapper overhead. It’s there so you know which door it is. It’s the only electric insect killer down there.”

A bug zapper? Over the door of a morgue?

I suppressed a giggle.

Of course there would be refrigeration inside so there wouldn’t be any actual bugs. But surely it had been put there by someone with a wicked sense of humor.

It certainly appealed to mine.

I’m afraid that the child in me still giggles whenever I think of what marks the morgue.

I went to see if I could find that zapper one day on one of my lunchtime walks. I take them inside in the air conditioning these hot Maryland summer days.

I scouted everywhere. I knew the morgue must be near an exit for easy transport of the deceased to a funeral home. On my second attempt I scoured the tops of the walls until I came upon that bug death trap and found the unmarked door. And yes, it was a few yards away from an outside door.

Now my transporter friend was going to show me inside.

“I chat to all of my patients when they are alive,” he said. They tell me extraordinary things. Things they need to share but don’t have anyone to tell.”

“Like what?” I said, fascinated.

“Well there was one man, probably in his late seventies, who told me he was ready to die. He’d had a long, fulfilled life. He had made his peace with God and he was ready to meet him face to face. But the only thing was, his family wasn’t ready to let him go. They kept pushing him to have advanced procedures that he didn’t want to have. He was telling me that he needed courage to tell his family that he was going to stop all unnecessary medical interventions and peacefully await the inevitable end.”

I nodded. This story happens a lot in the hospital. It is family members who find it the hardest to let go of a person they deeply love. I was so grateful that the transporter had been there to chaplain the patient when he needed it most.

God has His people everywhere in this hospital.

“So,” my pal continued. “Naturally I also talk to all my deceased patients.”

My eyes widened.

He continued:

“I let them know where we are going and what the procedure will be. And then when we get to the morgue I introduce them to the patients who are already there. Mrs. So and So, I’ll say, meet Mr. So and So. I don’t want them to be put with a roomful of strangers. I treat them as I would want to be treated.”

We had got to the bug zapper and he opened the door. There are three rooms in the morgue suite. The viewing room and autopsy room are no longer used. He opened the door to the morgue itself. It was empty. My code blue patient had not arrived yet. Deceased patients usually stay in their rooms for at least a couple of hours so that their family can spend time with them and, if need be, the medical examiner can visit.

The morgue was not at all what I expected. In my mind I had seen refrigerated sliding compartments like on TV crime shows. This was essentially a large industrial sized refrigerator with two slabs on one side and stacked open shelves on the other. It would hold eight people, two extra if absolutely need be.

My pal explained the procedures, the laying out of the patients on wooden boards with the greatest dignity. Every transporter aware of the care and reverence that must be taken.

I asked about the preparations for the virus. Right now we have eight COVID-19 patients, two in the ICU. This is a slight increase from our lowest numbers, but senior management believes that it will level out and drop again. We are all praying they are right.

However back in March none of us knew what to expect.

It turns out that thirty seven people have died at the hospital during the course of the pandemic. Each one a tragedy, but far less of a number than we had in our worst case predictions. I wanted to know what would have happened if they had needed more than spaces for eight people, ten at a push?

“They had thought all that through,” he said.

“There must have been so much concern because of what was happening in New York,” said I.

“There was,” he continued. “But the autopsy room is refrigerated and could have been used, and they had a refrigerated unit on wheels that they had tucked away at the ready. They never had to use those contingencies. We were full a couple of times but never overflowing.”

My pal closed the heavy door of the main morgue and pointed out a Dickensian looking ledger on a narrow table. The first entry was in 2010.

“When the deceased arrives their name is written here with the funeral home they have selected. Two people have to witness that procedure. When the funeral home arrives, usually a couple of hours later, security or the lab lets them in and the patient is signed out by both of them. It works seamlessly.”

We stepped back out into the corridor and I was moved by what I had seen. I was grateful for the reverence, care, and compassion shown to patients even after their demise. I knew that this information would come in useful when comforting grieving family members. I would have answers when they asked the question. What happens next?

Still in the basement we approached another door that I had passed many times. This one was marked “Hyperbaric Wound Care.”

“Have you been in here?” Said my pal.

I shook my head.

He opened the door.

Transporters, like housekeepers and maintenance have access everywhere.

Inside, I discovered, was a modern day miracle that many people don’t know exists in the hospital. There were two huge machines in there that are the equivalent of deep diving under water. The wonderful female technician who monitors the place, and has been with the hospital for over forty years. explained the procedure.

What my non-medical ears understood her to be saying was that you wear special all cotton clothing. You stretch out in the machine and are sealed in. It’s not claustrophobic, apparently, as there are windows on all sides. Then the chamber is super saturated with oxygen until you are at the equivalent of fifty feet under water. You stay there for a couple of hours, watching a movie, chatting to the technician. Meanwhile all that oxygen is getting deep into cells that haven’t been receiving any for various reasons. They start to spring back to life and accelerated healing takes place.

Oh the marvels of medicine!

“Why all cotton clothes though?" I asked.

The technician and my pal smiled at each other. It was she who answered.

“There is a concern that if you are wearing anything synthetic you might move quickly and a spark might be produced.” She said. “That is very dangerous in a small space filled with oxygen.”

“Boom!” Said my friend with a mischievous chuckle.

I’m glad that sharper minds than mine have thought through all the possibilities and have arrived at solutions to ensure safe outcomes.

Incredible outcomes.

I’m so grateful to my transporter pal for taking me places that I wouldn’t ordinarily have gone.

In a way I feel that this Coronavirus has done that for all of us. We have stepped into worlds we wouldn’t have dreamed we would enter.

A virtual universe.

Like with the housekeepers and maintenance personnel, many of us have been part of nurturing communities during this Coronavirus time often on social media. Cooking communities; “Views From My Window” groups; storytelling, singing, and arts support sites galore.

Places that nurture our spirits, our humanity.

People have looked out for each other during this odd, hard season. They have had time to slow down and care. They have seen a need and filled it. They have shopped for those who couldn’t, baked cakes and left them outside other people’s doors. Shared largess. One English friend said that a distant neighbor gave him a basket of extra apples from her over-abundant tree. He gave her one of the jars of chutney he made from the fruit.

Modern Coronavirus miracles of bonding and grace as what truly matters in life, our lives, comes into focus.

All of this nurturing, caring, giving honor to the living and the dead, spreading love and grace. It is all God’s work.

It reminds me of a scripture in the Good Book when what the Lord wants from us is laid out in Micah 6:8:

“He has shown you, oh man what is good.

And what does the Lord require of you?

To act justly and to love mercy

and to walk humbly with your God."

May we continue to do just that. Thank you to all of you who have acted with humility and mercy during this season. For those who have stood up for what is just and right.

During this time when our worlds have changed so dramatically, may we continue to explore who we are, and where we fit in to this new, totally different reality.

May we have the courage to throw out what doesn’t work, and explore options that bring oxygen to parts of our lives that we thought had died. Indeed may the saturating oxygen of God’s love soak into our cells in such a profound way that we ooze grace and mercy everywhere we go.

May we be vessels of justice.

Ministers of mercy.

Harbingers of humility.

Then we will become what we were always created to be. And in so doing there will be fulfillment, provision, grace, love.

We will be surrounded by God’s favor.

And so whatever it holds, our future will be good.

Pandemic Parables: Flowers

Pandemic Parables: Flowers
July 31st 2020

There hasn’t been as many flowers as usual in the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. I only realized this recently when I saw a beautiful summer burst of color on a counter top on one of the wings of the third floor.

“They are gorgeous!” I said to unit secretary.

“Aren’t they just!” She responded. “A grateful patient sent them to us after they had left.”

“How lovely of them. And so well deserved!” I said. Then started off on the rest of my rounds.

Suddenly I realized that the reason the flowers had caught my attention was because there are so few of them about. Pre Covid-19 days there were blossoms everywhere. Certainly around the nurses’ station where people would often leave their bouquets on their departure.

I started to investigate.

“It’s true,” said a seasoned nursing assistant, who has kindness and joy coming from her pores.

“I passed by a patient’s room the other day and thought how bright and cheery it looked through the open door. It’s only now I realize that it was because he had three flower arrangements in there. That wouldn’t be unusual in the old days. Before the Virus March madness began. But now, few of the patients have flowers in their rooms."

“Why?” I asked. “Why on earth is that?”

“Well there are hardly any visitors allowed” she said. “When friends and family come they often bring flowers. So we are missing those. A few months ago when the no visitor rule went into effect, it didn’t seem to matter so much. Patients stayed for the shortest time possible because they were so terrified of being in the hospital. And besides the virus patients, only the most necessary procedures were being done. But now we are back to regular operations and patients are in here for much longer. They get really lonely without visitors. And their rooms often seem – well unhappy. Now I realize. It’s the lack of flowers!

"Their families send them other things though. Things that they would have normally brought in themselves. Now they have to leave them at the main security desk in the foyer. It is stuff like batteries for hearing aids, clothes, and phones and books and cards. It’s usually the assistants who go down and get them. I’m often up and down six and seven times a day. That’s because we don’t have any volunteers. Only ones that are between 18 and 60 are allowed – and that cuts out most of them as they come to work with us after they are retired. And the ones that can come aren’t allowed back on the floors yet.”

“Is it the volunteers who normally wheel people out when they are released?” I asked.

“That’s right. Well at least they used to.” She said. “And so now we do that.”

I remembered seeing a third floor Nurse Manager pushing a wheelchair to the foyer. In fact I’d seen her do so several times. Now I realized it was servant leadership in action.

Still intrigued I asked the security officer at the front desk, the one who welcomes everyone with grace and love:

“Are you getting many flowers for the patients?”

“No!” She said. “Very few! Of course a few months ago when the virus really took hold, the florist shops were closed. But they still sold flowers in the supermarkets. I don’t think people wanted to come here to drop them off though. If you remember people were terrified of anything to do with the hospital.

“Nowadays we do get a few arrangements. Though not that many. Which surprises me given how sick some of our patients are. We keep the flowers here until a staff member can come down from the floors and get them."

I went to the gift shop. The wonderful sales lady said virtually the same thing.

“We were closed for so long so people couldn’t get anything from us. Just recently, after we re-opened, we started stocking flowers again. But we are not selling many. But then there are only a few visitors,though we do get some phone orders. Of course we are only opened in a limited way, from 12-4 pm Monday to Friday. That doesn’t help.”

Then her face broke into a big conspiratorial grin.

“One man phoned from his sick bed here in the hospital and ordered his own,” she said. “He said he wanted something bright and living to cheer up his room. I was delighted to send them up.”

I wondered if it was the man with the three arrangements.

I also wondered why I didn’t buy myself flowers more often.

Right by the gift shop, in the corridor, are several huge photographs. One is a close up of a dramatic sunflower. I pass by those photographs multiple times a day. But it was after having that conversation in the gift store about buying flowers that the sunflower triggered a memory and acted as a portal to the past.

I remembered being in London twenty-four years ago when my mother was at the Royal Marsden Cancer hospital. She was in the last few months of her life. I mentioned in an earlier parable how much my mother loved flowers, and that my father and I ensured that she always had fresh flowers in her room. Her friends from all over the world also sent arrangements. Or they sent money for us to buy flowers. Her room looked like a glorious, garden show, and the sight made my mother extremely happy and comforted.

They were a splash of color and life as she was facing her own mortality.

The death of a beloved parent is an intense, emotional, sacred, exhausting time.

I had that as my main focus against a backdrop of other intense, heart-wringing challenges.

One day I was at the end of myself. I had left my mother’s side with money that had just arrived in a card. I was going to buy her flowers at the sender’s request. On the way to the front entrance I slipped into the hospital’s non denomination chapel where I had my own private pity party.

“Lord!” “I said. “Where are you? I need to know you love me in a tangible way today. I just do. I feel so bereft. So alone. I wish I had a husband who would buy me flowers to show he cares. Someone I can lean on. I know that’s silly. And I love you regardless. Amen”

And I mopped up a few tears and went to the florists and chose a beautiful arrangement. As I was ogling the floral eye candy I noticed that a man who looked like Pavarotti – the incredibly talented, iconic opera tenor - came in, made a purchase and left. I went to pay for the arrangement that I’d selected. As I did the shop owner handed me a dramatically beautiful, enormous sunflower.

A sunflower that was showing off it was that spectacular.

“That bloke that just came in. He bought it for you.” He said. “He told me he thought you looked sad and he wanted to cheer you up.”

My jaw dropped. I ran for the door to see if I could see the man to thank him, but he had disappeared into the London crowd. Maybe it was Pavarotti, or a Pavarotti-shaped angel, or just an immensely kind and caring fellow sojourner. Either way I know that sunflower came straight from the heart and hand of a dramatic God for one of his heartsick dramatic children. To let her know without a shadow of a doubt that she is loved.

She is cared for.

And protected.

And that the He will always have her back.

And He always has.

The Lord knows that I love sunflowers. He also knows that I love roses even more.

Years ago in London, with the help and prayers of many volunteers, I started a theater in the church where I worked – the largest church in England at the time. We called the theater “The Rose,” short for The Rose of Sharon – one of the names of God.

So roses have always been very special to me. They speak of life-changing creativity, as well as beauty.

The same day that I heard about the man who bought his own flowers I went grocery shopping after work. By the till there was a display of gorgeous cream roses subtly tinged in the center with a soft pink. Normally I wouldn’t have spoiled myself. Finances are uncertain after the end of August. But I almost felt the Lord nudging me and saying – “Go on darling. You are so worth it. Buy them.”

I did.

I am looking at them as I write. They are beautiful. They remind me of one of my favorite scriptures.

Isaiah 35:1: (Indeed the whole chapter was the manifesto for The Rose Theater.)

“The desert shall rejoice and blossom and become like the rose.”

This Coronavirus season has been a desert time for so many of us

Our lives have been turned upside down.

For many there has been loneliness, despair, quiet desperation.

The virus seems to be never ending. In our hospital there is a small spike with seven Covid-19 patients and eleven under investigation. In other parts of the country cases are soaring.

I thought it would all be over by now. It isn’t.

Fear seems to be an integral part of this virus. For some, debilitating fear. Many of us will come to the end of ourselves before this season is over. Sometimes more than once.

When that happens, may we remember the words in the Good Book in Isaiah 43:12:

“A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not snuff out…”

He will be there when we most need Him. The despair will pass. The vast, empty, lonely wilderness will not be a permanent home.

May you know light in the darkness.

Laughter in the sadness.

Joy in the despair.

May there be the equivalent of sunflowers and roses in your present – splashes of love and light in whatever form that brings you joy.

May you have a sure knowledge that the Lord is a God of miracles both domestic and dramatic. And when your spirit cries out for affirmation may He send you your own unique version of a handsome stranger with a sunflower to show you that you are loved.

The Lord is a God of power, compassion, creativity and joy. He is the God who sees you. And loves you. And wants the best for you.

He is already in your future and in mine.

Which means that our futures will be good.