Lost in a Hospital
Impatience magnified by intemperance is a serious flaw; a flaw I claim as my own.
Yet, to say that I’ve contended with this difficulty would be a lie. Most often there isn’t even recognition, let alone struggle. If I’m provoked, I instantly respond in kind. There is no attempt to take the highroad or imagine that another person’s circumstance should temper my own ill-mannered response. I allow a second’s reaction to substitute for all that I do not know about someone’s situation or history.
That one second is all that matters.
That said, it might appall you to know that I serve as a communion minister in hospitals. Me, a person so easily provoked, visiting hospitals filled with overworked staff and patients irritated, depressed and fearful. Me, called on to offer a sense of care and compassion, hope and consolation. What an awful mismatch of situation and temperament.
How did I wind up in this circumstance? Well, I do think of myself as a Catholic; a believing Catholic with hopes of one day becoming a good Catholic. That imperfect status has characterized my entire life. What has changed is that now I’m retired with copious amounts of time on my hands; time to do what I once avoided with the excuse of having too little time.
It was in this circumstance, deprived of any excuse for inaction, that a request came to my attention. A host of people were now filling the hospitals and care centers within the boundaries of our parish. Volunteers were needed to visit these people and offer them communion — something important to a Catholic. Something they could not access on their own.
I felt defenseless against that call. It did not match well with my own personality traits, so why did it seem so compelling? If I now had more time to give, why couldn’t I give from my strengths instead of my weaknesses? Let me organize, let me lead, let me teach… but this kind of anonymous and private service? Why this?
Yet there was a definite sense of “this” being what was on offer — all that was on offer. There were no other option, but “this.” Do “this!”
And so I did.
My one advantage was a clear understanding of the weakness I brought to the task. Sure, as time moved forward I enjoyed experiences that were rewarding, but there were also episodes that tested me. I might open a patient’s door, find a doctor in conference, and be treated like an unwelcome intruder. Hospital clerks could be suspicious if I needed access to a name tag. Patients who had asked for a visit could rethink the issue on the very instant of your arrival.
In short, it was a grab bag. Yes, there were good moments, but it was not unusual to endure situations that grated on my own worst instincts. That sense of skeptical uncertainty continued until one odd experience landed me in a place of reassurance.
One Sunday I was walking through a maze of disjointed hallways at a hospital undergoing massive expansion. I was in a newly opened part of the hospital that was mostly vacant. Nurse’s stations were empty and there was no evidence of other staff. I was exasperated, frustrated… lost.
Eventually I found an orderly who, in a halting way, tried to give me directions. After pointing first one way and then another her face became blank, and her shoulders sagged. She surrendered to her own confusion and said, “Follow me, we’ll find it together.”
We walked until at last we stood before a door bearing the number I was looking for. I thanked her, but clearly both of us were emptied of patience. She scurried off hoping to find where she herself had come from, while I turned to open the door.
There I found an elderly male patient in bed and a female nurse perusing monitors and dials. She avoided looking at me and communicated the same impatience that invaded me entirely.
With a condescending tone she spit out the words, “Who are you?”
I guess someone wearing a badge engraved with the words “Spiritual Care” should have smiled and answered, “I’m sorry, I’m here to share some love and good company.”
Instead, I glowered and offered a terse comeback, “And exactly who are you?”
Clearly, my impertinence surprised her, but I could also see her reflect on what had provoked it. “Well, I’m a nurse,” she murmured, in a far less condescending tone.
And I replied, “Well, I’m here because your patient requested a clerical visit.”
The use of the word “clerical” implied something I was not. My purpose might have been spiritual care, but I was clearly not a priest. Perhaps I was trying for some advantage in a of contest over who mattered most. Or maybe that was simply the easiest way to explain my presence. Whichever… I suddenly felt a bit like an imposter, while she lost her enthusiasm to control the moment.
The nurse demurred and offered by excuse, “Sorry, I thought you were an Uber driver.”
She then quickly concluded what she was doing and left the room. I turned to her patient and started to share small talk before realizing that he wasn’t entirely with us. He was smiling and eager to please, but the details of his situation were unclear to him. However, we both seemed to realize a simple truth; we were sharing each other’s company and had the best of intentions for each other. Perhaps that simple realization was all that really mattered.
Eventually, I drew our meeting to a close feeling my visit — defective in its beginning and perfect in its conclusion — was now over.
Back in the hallway I was feeling only slightly less lost than I had on my arrival. A turn left, a turn right and then down a long corridor. Soon I saw two nurses sitting in conversation on wheeled stools. They shared a short shelf with papers they were perusing together. I was a bit distressed to see that one of these two nurses was my foil of just a few moments before. However, they were both engaged in conversation so I could easily see myself scooting by without notice.
Then, just as I was about to pull even with them, my nurse of previous acquaintance suddenly pushed against the wall and moved her wheeled chair in my direction. I stopped as the other nurse looked on with my self-same expression of surprise and confusion.
After a brief pause the nurse in front of me crossed her arms and rested each of her hands on opposite shoulders. In that posture of supplication… maybe even penitence… she looked up and said, “Would you please bless me before you leave?”
For Catholics, the privilege of blessing is reserved for the ordained, and that is not me. However, there is no barrier to resting your hands on someone and offering a prayer in their behalf. So, she, probably believing I was a priest, and me, knowing that I was not, shared that moment together.
Once my prayer was over, she scuffed her foot against the floor and propelled herself back to where she had been sitting. There she resumed consideration of the papers shared with her flummoxed companion who now looked up to me as if to say, “What?”
Soon she saw I had nothing to offer so she turned back to her colleague and the scene became exactly as it was before I arrived.
In the end my “nurse of previous acquaintance” did answer the question each of us had asked each other… that question being, “Who are you?”
She was someone just like me; an imperfect person hoping to be better, but all too easily compromised by a deficit in temperament. Something told me that she, like me, found that deficit habitual and difficult to improve. Perhaps both of us had endured many occasions when we had acted impetuously and then felt both disappointed and diminished.
Out of that experience I came to believe that while I might not be well suited for this calling, it was perfectly well suited for me. I had come into this circumstance believing that I had something to offer my community — that things could be better if I were allowed to share what was strongest in me.
What I learned was that, more than my community, it was I who needed to be made better. That was the necessary preface to anything else good that might happen. I could carve out my project of goodness and service, if not with the sledgehammer of my own strength, then with the fingernail of my own weakness.
