Some belated thoughts on Dr. Tiller's murder

The murder of Dr. George Tiller has evoked a strong emotional response within me. First of all, I feel anger and outrage that anyone who is "pro-life" could murder in cold blood. I also feel such sorrow and sadness for this man's family, both biological and ecclesial. I cannot imagine the grief and trauma they could be experiencing now.

But I also feel wildly compelled to correct the malicious lies misinformation about late term terminations being propagated by the so-called "pro-lifers" who oppose such procedures, casting women who make such a "choice" as wanton harlots who cannot be burdened by a pesky little thing such as a living baby. But this is not truth. This is not reality. At least not the reality I know.

My reality involves holding the hands of grieving parents who have made agonizing decisions to terminated longed for pregnancies. My reality has been reaching into incubators and offered blessings/prayers/baptism to dying babies born with myriad fetal anomalies. My reality is comforting grieving husbands whose wives has just died due to complications from their pregnancies.

But my reality isn't what is being told. And my reality isn't what necessarily needs to be told. My reality is one step removed from the real stories of grief, anguish, and heartache.

Obviously, the protesters outside the Tiller's Kansas clinic have no idea the reality of the "choices" these patients make. How anyone can know the heartbreaking truth and still cast these women as sinners is beyond me. But then again, how anyone can call themselves "Christian" and "pro-life" and then murder a doctor in his church is also beyond me.

Life Before Death

I face death each and every day. This morning, my day began with stroking the hair of a woman who was dying all alone, unresponsive to words but able to be soothed by human touch. Later, I gathered with a large, boisterous family as they laughed and told stories of their loved one, who left life amidst the merriment and celebration of his many years. I held the hand of a young bride as she gave the word to "go ahead" and withdraw the machine that were no longer supporting her new husband's life but prolonging his death.

You ask me how I can do my job, with death and dying confronting me all day long. You may assume it's a heavy burden. Grief is heavy. Pain and suffering, they can be tremendous burdens. But death, in and of itself, is not such a heavy load.

Death is very real. It's all around us. It's the only certainty we have in life - we will die. Denying this reality, I imagine that could be a laborious task. But I can't do that. Mortality is all to present for me, as I hold the hand of a dying patient as she takes her last breath,or embrace a grieving loved one in my arms.

As I watch people die, I realize that, in many cases, we die as we have lived. If we live life in fear, we die fearful. If we live life in anger, we die angry. If we live life in meaningful relationships and connected to loved ones, we end life loved.

You ask if I believe in life after death. I know for many people, the hope of an afterlife, the idea that somehow, in someway, they continue (or that they will be reunited with loved ones) gives them comfort and peace. I also see that for others, the threat of eternal damnation means they spend their lives afraid.

You ask if I believe in life after death. I am avoiding your questions, I know. [we chaplains are trained to deflect]

You ask if I believe in life after death. Well, no. But I don't necessarily disbelieve it. I just don't think it really matters for me.

You ask if I hope that there is more than this life. Well, no. This life, lived well, is all I could ask for. And it is my desire and my calling and my hope to live the best life I can: to be in healthy relationships, to care for others, to work for peace, to create beauty, to make love, to learn, to grow, to laugh, to live...

You ask what I do believe in. And that's easy. I believe in life. Maybe not life after death. But certainly life before death. What about you?

cleansing

I began working in hospital ministry in 2000. At that time, like now, we had to wash our hands before and after every patient visit to prohibit the spread of germs from patient to patient. The difference between then and now was that in 2000, we had to walk to a physical sink on the unit, stop, plunge our hands under a stream of hot water, and scrub. Now, we push a lever on one of the ubiquitous hand sanitizer pumps and get handful of cleansing foam which we rub into our hands as we move to the next patient.

While I appreciate the efficiency of the hand sanitizer pumps, I miss the old way of going to the sink. I know, I know, I sound like an old fuddy-duddy, "Back in my day...". But the pumps take something away. I felt this something missing when I first returned to hospital ministry in 2007. But it took me almost a year to figure out that what I was lacking was the ritualistic element of stopping after each patient, cleansing my hands, and then returning to my work without carrying anything from the previous visit into the next. And it's more than just germs I am talking about. Standing at the sink and scrubbing my hands gave me a chance to breathe deeply, to pause and reflect on my previous visit, and to release the emotional weight of that visit before I went into another room and another visit.

The sanitizing foam kills the germs on my hands, but it doesn't actually remove anything from me. Instead it just builds up. After several visit, I notice that my hands have become sticky; the foam, coating all of those dead germs, is still there, getting thicker and thicker and making my hands feel yucky.

My heart feels much the same way when I don't pause and release the emotional weight of each visit before moving onto the next. I understand how burnout happens. And I understand how the visits themselves build up and get all sticky and yucky if I don't take a moment for cleansing and renewal.

Aloha

I'm actually surprised that this was my first time. I have always wanted to do it, but have never had the opportunity until last night. Finally, I had my chance.

I donned my grass skirt, carried my new ukulele and my crock-pot full of "chicken" adobo, and headed to a murder-mystery luau (Craig carried the blended and the fixin's for pina coladas).

I love being in costume. I love playing games. I love performing. So a murder mystery dinner is just my thing.

(Mom thought it amusing that a bunch of chaplains gathered for a murder-mystery night. But you know, our work is so intense, and it's good for us to connect with each other outside of that environment. And being surrounded by the seriousness of death and dying all week long, it's good to be able to inject a little "gallows humour" into our lives.)

I didn't solve the murder (Craig did). But I did look smashing in my fabulous grass skirt.

Rachel Weeps

Working as a hospital chaplain, I see much pain and suffering. But these past two weeks have been especially hard. It seems that in the past two weeks, I have had a disproportionate number of deaths of babies and young mothers than would be expected for my clinical assignment. I have held several dead or dying babies in my arms - blessed them, prayed over them, baptized them, and/or named them. And I have held the hands of women my age and younger as they have taken their last breath and left us. And I am a little surprised at the intensity of cumulative emotions I am feeling around these deaths.

Last year, I worked in a children's hospital. I saw many more babies die. But I also held healthy babies. And I was able to see hope as health improved and many babies went home. This year, since my assignment is not the neo-natal ICU nor Labour & Delivery, I don't have the opportunity to balance the deaths by celebrating the lives of healthy children. This have given me a skewed sense of what is normal and it has stirred fears in me for my friends and sister-in-love who are currently pregnant.

In addition, as Craig and I embark on our journey of covenanted life together, the topic of children has arisen. So these sad deaths of babies and mothers fills me with doubts and fears for myself.

But whatever the rationales for my reacting internally the way I have, I need to acknowledge the emotions I am feeling. And the primary emotion I feel is sorrow. Yes, I feel fear, and anxiety, and anger, and rage. But mostly, I just feel sorrow. Sorrow for these babies who will never get to grow up. Sorrow for these mothers who will never get to bring her child to her breast.

And in my sorrow I weep. This Rachel is weeping for her children...for they are no more. (Matthew 2:18)

compassion fatigue

I was "on-call" all weekend. And unlike previous hospitals where I was employed, at my current workplace, we don't get compensation time or recovery time after working a 24-hour or 48-hour shift. See, they don't "require" that we stay in the hospital when we are on-call. We are only "required" to respond to all urgent calls within a a certain amount of time. Since it's possible that we could end up spending the entire night in our own beds, getting a full-night's sleep, we are expected to work our next shift.

My weekend wasn't hard. Until Monday morning, when my pager went off at 1:30 am, 4:30 am, and again at 7:00 am. I didn't get much rest. And I was expected to work. If we "really need" the time to recover, we can take it. But then we are often grilled on whether we "really need" it. And always being in a defensive posture is draining in and of itself.

Yeah, I am bitter. And I am on-call again in two days. So I have anticipatory bitterness, too.

I am also beginning to recognize symptoms of compassion fatigue. Which causes me to question my vocation - even more than I have already been questioning. Sure, I can still provide care, as required by my job description. And I can surprise myself in providing good care, as evidenced by the tokens of gratitude I receive from patients and family members. But I lack joy. And I lack hope. And I lack a genuine desire to be with people in pain and to help ease their suffering. These are kind of essential to my work.

So what do I do? Honestly, I am too tired to even think of doing anything else, much less look for or apply for jobs. So I am stuck.

I realize that this insane, god-awful week will soon be over. And I trust that soon I'll be seeing life through a different lens. But right now, I am exhausted. I am tired. And I am burnt-out.

Question: why is it that so much of our training tells us to practice self-care, to prevent this type of burn-out and fatigues, yet no institution (church/hospital/school) make self-care so dang hard? I have just about given up all hope in having any institution (especially church) care for me, but do they have to make it so difficult for me to care for myself?

Steaming Heap of Walking Compost

A patient received some difficult news today. The results of the various tests have come back and surgery is no longer an option. In his mind, his death is imminent.

"I'm a dead man walking," he said to me. "You're looking at a corpse, nothing but a steaming heap of walking compost."

With such vivid metaphors, he continued to express his grief, rage, frustration, and despair. "What's the point of it all? There is no point. I'm going to die. We're all going to die. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. We're born, we suffer pain and loss and rejection, and we die. You, me, everyone - all nothing but walking compost."

I couldn't help but think of the smudges on the foreheads of so many Christian people today. It's Ash Wednesday. And so many who profess the Christian faith have been marked with ashes, smudges into a cross. They have heard the uttering of the words, "Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Death is certain. For me. For you. For the man who heard the difficult news today. But while I can empathize with him, I cannot share his present belief that this certainty of death makes life meaningless. If anything, the uncertainty of tomorrow gives me the opportunity to grasp today with passionate abandon: to love deeply, to be completely honest with myself and others, to release anger and guilt and those life-sucking bad vibes. If I am nothing but walking compost, I want to be the richest, most stable, most nutrient-filled, most purposeful biodegradation of organic matter I can possibly be.