Fast Backward

Juliet, the wife of a patient of mine, used to work at the residence where I now serve as a chaplain before it became a hospice. “It was a place for elegant ladies,” she said, fondly reminiscing about the luxurious setting she experienced there some sixty years ago. “I would prepare their lunches and set the plates in front of them by the hand -carved napkin holders on the linen tablecloths and run other errands. And they wore gloves as they ate and most of them wore tiny white caps on their heads. They were so well-to-do. And another thing, if they wanted to leave the premises, they had to sign out with the receptionist to go out to lunch (never mind dinner) and then sign back in when they returned.” As she relived that time, I wondered where all this quaint standard of behavior really happened. In Mayberry perhaps?

The residence is actually in Elizabeth, New Jersey and still has the features of a mansion, such as chandeliers, a stairway carpeted with a floral design, sun rooms overlooking a gushing fountain, a miniature walkway, and gardens that meet the standards of squirrels and Siamese cats. One of my other patients there, who had been homeless, felt he too had fallen into the lap of luxury, as if sensing its former classiness. “This is like a hotel,” the former motorcycle repairman told me. “I get food brought over to me anytime I want and don’t have to do anything. I can stay in bed all day if I want.” He also liked not having to hustle for drugs and could get all the pain medications he wished on demand. His friend even cautioned him to treat us staff “real nice” because it was a special place and he should not do anything to get thrown out. But both of them knew darn well what he was there for, and the patient took a guess that he would last for two months and then that would be “it.” He figured the residence was a great warm-up for the hereafter. Nothing like ending on a high note. But before “it” happened, he showed me pictures of the detail work he did for motorbikes, and had me run a tape of a band he had played with on a cassette player borrowed from the recreation room.

The inhabitants at the residence, like the mansion itself, keep transplanting me back to their individual pasts as I listen. With so little future ahead, they prefer to unravel their own long histories rather than poke around their Spartan present. As I listen, I do the opposite of what you might expect from a chaplain: I midwife a rebirth of what has already occurred; I do not flash forward to presume what a patient may expect in the Beyond.

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Getting Into The Act

My childhood dream of becoming an actress has come true: relating to others as a chaplain is like performing improv theater, only the “audience” is participating at least as much, if not more, than I.

For instance one evening as I was walking towards one patient’s room, I heard someone just across the hall saying, “Look there goes the chaplain.” I took that as a cue to veer away from my original destination and detour towards that merry invitation. The beckoning voice was the patient Maxine’s brother, and as I walked in, Maxine looked me over with as much delight as if I had been made out of chocolate all ready to consume in bite-sized pieces. We three engaged in the sort of talk that paradoxically refers to nothing much in particular but warms people up to each other. Maxine suddenly stalled the banter with, “I want a hat. I want something around my ears.” It happened to be on the weekend when the receptionist was not on duty, and I was not sure where the donated clothes were stashed. As I stepped out to ask the aides and nurses, they did not know either. I even went over to one of the cooks, and as we were talking about the clothes, I noticed a white thin net the cook used while on her shift. Ah! There was the prop I needed. Better than returning empty handed I could improvise and bring one of those nets to Maxine. I asked the cook if there were more. Skeptical, she handed me one from a stack daintily lined up on a hook.

When I came back into the room I gambled on the patient having forgotten exactly what she had asked for since she had some dementia. Sure enough she enjoyed the attention of having me place it on her head, and her brother laughed along with me at how charming it looked.

That same day, I went to someone’s private home, expecting to see the patient Marge and her sister. Her sister had asked me to come over because  Marge did not have much longer to live. Instead, I saw an aide-turned-friend there who wanted to pour out his angst, not about being at the point of losing someone who he was so devoted to, but about the President of the United States. This was the first time I had listened to political fears as a form of spiritual distress, so like changing my direction from one “stage set” (i.e. room) to another, I had to swerve from the intimate atmosphere of a friend grieving imminent loss of another friend, to the public source of his feelings of vulnerability. This friend told me about how the President has bred in him his own fears and feelings of negativity which he has not confronted in himself before. He is worried about the resultant changes in himself and in our society. By the way, the “subscript” of this genuine alarm over politics may have been a way to hide from his sadness at the patient’s waning days. But as with improv on the stage, I went in the direction the other “actor” chose, not what I knew to be the deeper issue. Perhaps in the next “act” he will be ready to go there.

As I understand it, the way improvisational theater works is that one actor spontaneously starts some miming action or indicates some trait in him- or herself or in the other actors. This is called an “offer”. Then the other actors build on that, and so on, back and forth among the actors or among themselves and members of the audience. On my own “stage” a lot of times I wait and see what the patient will offer as a first cue for me to react to, and then I take it from there. Coming into these unscripted situations and having clients make the first offer is the appeal as well as the challenge of being a healthcare chaplain. It also cuts to the chase for spiritual healing.