Pandemic Parables: Frustration
Pandemic Parables: Frustration
For me, Thursday (April 23rd) was a day filled with frustration at the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I’m working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August.
But let me start with comforting news. The number of virus patients remained the same and has not dramatically increased. There have been nineteen deaths (each one a blow.) Thirty one patients either have the virus or are in isolation awaiting results. Unfortunately one of those includes my friend, an amazing Hospice nurse practitioner who has the virus, took a turn for the worse, and came into the hospital in the early hours for additional support.
I’m praying she will soon be added to the thirty five virus patients who have already heard the “Rocky” theme tune upon being released from the hospital. Lord let it be soon!
Bear with me while I tell you about the frustrations.
They started early, even before leaving the house. Straight after making my essential morning brew my electric tea kettle broke.
Thankfully not before.
It is irredeemably dead - which I thought was pretty rotten of it considering that April 23rd was St. George’s Day - the patron saint of England. No respectable British kitchen would be seen without a mandatory electric kettle.
It was a very unpatriotic day to die.
But then nothing is as we think it should be in these odd, strange virus-soaked days.
On arriving at the hospital I saw that there was an “out of service sign” on both the individual rest rooms near the chaplain’s makeshift office. Peeking inside one open door I realized why. They had both been gutted as part of the large renovation project that has been going on around us.
A few days before I been concerned about loo (the British term for toilet) rolls. Or the lack thereof.
Today there are no loos.
Of course there are facilities. But the conveniences aren’t convenient anymore. They are a trudge away.
The ever-present workmen, pleasant though they are, are pretty noisy chaps. Especially when working with electric drills and emitting a sound that soars over the not-nearly-ceiling-height partition walls that currently encircle our temporary office and rattles the fillings in the teeth of the getting-less-holy-by-the-minute chaplains sequestered there.
Our Clinical Pastoral Education session was also a source of frustration. For two hours every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoon the Resident Chaplains and one part time Staff Chaplain meet with the Head of Pastoral Care as part of the program that will give us our professional chaplaincy qualifications.
There are six of us, born in five different nations, five men and me. Three are Hospice Chaplains and the rest of us work in the hospital. The part time Chaplain covers the weekend nights so we don’t have to. God bless him.
We used to meet in the head of the department’s cosy office. Now the Hospice Chaplains work from home and our meeting space, the department head’s former office has been swallowed up in the construction. She is working partly at home and partly perched in a vacated office in the hospital that has ceiling high walls.
She is not happy with the development.
Our two hour meetings are now via Webex.
On Thursday the content of the session was deeply moving and emotional.
Unfortunately, throughout the two hours, my computer and that of my office mate emitted screeching feedback sounds despite the intervention of our in-house computer wizards.
It sounded like nails down an old fashioned blackboard.
By the time I started my hospital afternoon visitation rounds I was in great need of grace.
Great need.
If that were not enough, there was more. We had new protocols.
Everyone who is interacting with patients, or interacting with hospital care givers, now has to wear an N95 mask under the compulsory cloth mask at all times. That means that chaplains have to wear the double protection whenever we are on the floors visiting patients, and nursing staff have to wear them throughout their shifts.
I had to go to Operation Control and be issued an N95, a plastic container that it sits in when not in use, and a large zip lock bag that houses both and must never be sealed so that air can circulate.
“How often can I get a new one?” I said to the nurse administrator who was struggling to teach me how to wear this contraption.
“When this one starts to fall apart then come back to us” she said adjusting the mask so it no longer covered my eyes.
“That should be about ten days or more.”
I was not happy about wearing this mask, the N95. Only a few weeks before I had been fitted for one and failed the fitting. That was the second time that had happened to me. Apparently those with fuller faces or with facial hair - beards for example - can’t effectively wear this style of mask.
Well I’ve lost weight and I wax and I’m still not a proper candidate.
But I’ll be wearing it anyway.
I discovered that N95s are very uncomfortable if you have them on for an extended period of time.
The nurses I met were not happy about this new development.
Nor was this chaplain.
We bonded over our displeasure.
As I walked along the corridors towards my first patient’s room I anticipated the difficulties. It was hard enough connecting with a patient and drawing out feelings and emotions whilst wearing a cloth mask. How much more difficult and muffled it would be with two. Especially if the patient is hard of hearing.
The only patients I am allowed to visit at the moment are virus-free and not in isolation of any kind.
My first patient, while wearing this new double protection, a lovely older gentleman, was no exception.
I felt he looked a little bewildered at the sight of my masked face as though he was being visited by an alien.
He couldn’t hear.
I was apologetic and felt stifled.
I shouted.
But gradually we both relaxed and communication and grace happened.
When the Lord wants to move, and, touch, and comfort, He will.
Despite a bad attitude and a double masked mouth.
At the end of this visit, after we had prayed together, this gentleman said to me rather shyly.
“May I ask you a favor. It wouldn’t take you long.”
“Certainly,” I said. “What is it?”
“Will you raise your mask just for a moment so I can see who I’ve been speaking to?”
I felt like a Victorian maiden who had just been propositioned to show her ankle.
I plead the fifth on what happened next.
However when I left the patient had a smile on his face.
At the end of my shift it was pouring with rain. I needed groceries.
It took thirty five minutes to line up and start shopping at Costco.
Life seem very difficult.
I was so grateful to get home.
Then things started to change.
As I pulled into my driveway I remembered with relief that I had a travel kettle in the trunk of my car. Hallelluia!
Outside my front door was a sodden looking parcel. The writing on the front had almost washed away. But I could just make out it was from a wonderful friend in West Virginia, who is integral part of the Storytelling Community.
Inside, I removed the dripping paper. The solid cardboard box had held up and the contents were completely dry.
There were - glory be - four hard to come by toilet rolls. A bag of home made fortune cookies.
And a pile of three perfectly beautiful small rocks.
Such incredible kindness!
Love and generosity pored from that box.
I was so grateful.
There was also a wonderfully encouraging note. Part of it said:”I have ...included a cairn for you. As you no doubt know, cairns are used as trail markers when hiking so one doesn’t lose their way.” They are “often put there by other hikers to mark which way to go on a tricky part of the trip. Seems like this one belongs to you. ... Hope you know how loved you are.”
I melted.
I stared at that cairn. Through it the Lord seemed seemed to be saying to me: “You are on a difficult part of the path. It feels rocky and insurmountable. You are weary. But you are going in the right direction. You are exactly where you are meant to be. Keep going forward. It will all be worth it in the end. Stay the course, my brave, beloved one. Stay the course!”
And then I remembered that it was St. George’s Day.
Legend tells us St. George, who is also celebrated in other parts of the world, took on injustice, and that to right wrongs he fought a dragon that others had feared to face. When he finally defeated the dragon a red rose sprang up where his blood had soaked into the land. That rose - the symbol of love - is now the emblem of England.
In these Coronavirus days, whether we are working in a hospital, or sheltering at home, we are facing a fearful enemy. Together, my brave and beautiful ones, we will defeat this dragon. And one of the legacies will be the love and generosity that has been poured out by friends and strangers in so many settings which will ultimately change this generation at a deep level and make the world a better, kinder place.
Let it be so.
Amen!
0 comments