Pandemic Parables: Gratitude

Pandemic Parables: Gratitude

This week was National Healthcare Week and messages of support and gratitude flowed in and around the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. 

A banner was hung at the entrance to the staff parking garage, “Thank You To Our Shining Stars.” It gave me a ridiculous surge of pleasure every time I drove past. 

There were contests to be entered and prizes to be won. In some of the nursing departments there was an abundance of treats and goodies to be eaten. The CEO of the hospital sent a truly lovely letter of thanks and appreciation to all the staff, giving everyone extra points towards earning gifts from an incentive website.

And then there was the Kona Ice truck. 

This much anticipated, annual, thank you treat visited the hospital’s other sites during the week, and arrived at the main campus on Friday. It was there for a two hour window three times throughout the day so all the shifts could enjoy the shaved-ice-topped-with-syrup goodness. 

It is amazing how such a treat could bring out the inner child in all of us. I was attending the Emergency Department huddle and the competent, caring, ED Manager said that we would hear an overhead announcement when the Kona Ice truck had arrived. 

Anticipatory smiles started to spread. 

Then her words were clipped by a disembodied voice announcing that very same vehicle’s arrival. 

Laughter and a few cheers broke out, and 

for a moment burdens seemed to lift from those tense, exhausted workers as we all reveled in the perfect timing. 

Throughout the two hour lunchtime window, groups of happily chatting, masked, and social distancing workers flowed toward that truck parked outside the main entrance. I went with my fellow chaplain who was astounded that I’d never had a Kona Ice before - that they were not part of my British childhood. 

The day was hot, the humidity was low, and there was a large bubble of joy around that truck. Everyone within its sphere was in a party mood: from the person squirting sanitizer into the hands of those in line; to the department head scattering words of heartfelt thanks; to the staff members eagerly choosing and then comparing their flavors. 

It was as though for a few minutes the pandemic had lifted, and we were plunged into a care-free micro-vacation whisked away on a magic carpet of childhood summer memories and shave ice. 

“How was this different from other years?” 

I asked my fellow Chaplain as we savored the delicious treat back in our temporary office. From an acceptably safe distance I could see that her mouth was stained with dark cherry syrup. 

She thought for a moment, then said. 

“It was similar in many ways. But in the past we all had great fun for the rest of the day seeing what flavor people had chosen. It was clear from the colors on their mouths. This year you can’t see that because of the masks.”

This pandemic seems to have crept into the crooks and crannies of our lives in small but increasingly pervasive ways. 

In this gratitude week in the hospital I am grateful for many things large and small - in addition to being introduced to Kona Ice. 

As of the evening of Friday May 15th, ninety five Covid-19 positive patients have been released from the hospital virus free. Hallelluia! 

There are now adequate supplies of most Personal Protective Equipment, PPE, including N95 masks, although exam gloves are starting to be in short supply. Except for the gloves this is marvelous news. 

Our wonderful hospital CEO, in his ninth weekly Covid-19 video, said he thinks we have crested the hill, a week earlier than he projected. The virus will still be with us going forward but now we will be concentrating on reopening safely. 

And then I got another injection of hope - for which I was immensely grateful. 

When a building project happens in the hospital, large or small, they seal it off so that dust and debris doesn’t get into the hospital’s atmosphere. Temporary, removable white walls are put up that completely enclose the work. I pass a section like that on the second floor a couple of times a day. On Friday those white walls on 2C were gone. The second floor renovations were completed. 

This was one of the areas that was turned into a third ICU in anticipation of a flood of Virus patients. It was not needed. After some remodeling it has now returned to being an area for cancer recovery, and end of life patients. 

I was so grateful that the anticipated surge has not arrived.  

And that I had solid proof that a hospital building project really does come to an end. 

Let me explain. 

The Pastoral Care Department is in the middle of a building zone as a new Pediatric Emergency area is constructed, closer to the regular ED. 

As part of this project our old offices were whisked away from us, and we have been perching in a transitional space until we are rehoused in new quarters. The workmen, their charm, and their power drills have been part of our everyday reality. But it seems that the maze of temporary white walls surrounding us on the ground floor will be gone by the end of first week of June. 

In a passing conversation the Project Manager assured us that the Chaplains will no longer be wandering Gypsies but will be ensconced in the promised land. Or at least the promised offices. 

For which future hope we are relieved and grateful. 

There was one other building change that took me by surprise on Friday. It was on the Isolation Wing that I visit daily. As usual I went through the swing doors that contain warnings not to enter, and then I stopped, confused. 

Was I in the right place? I checked around to make sure. 

I was. But it was looked completely different. 

The floor to ceiling plastic wall with two zips to let people and gurneys in or out had gone. 

It wasn’t there. 

On the virus wing. 

It felt naked. Shocking. Unsafe. 

My jaw dropped and stayed that way, invisible under my double masks. 

I wondered if it was no longer an exclusive Coronavirus area. If the future transition back to being a regular orthopedic wing had happened earlier than anyone had expected. 

I rounded the corner to the reception desk and asked one of the PPE clad nurses:

“What happened? To the plastic wall?  I’m in shock!”

“We all are” she replied. “An air specialist came and tested the area and said we didn’t need it. The vinyl wall was put up through an abundance of caution, but apparently it served no real use, except visual. So it came down.”

I realize now I liked the drama of that wall. The unzipping and zipping was part of the mystique that separated this area from the rest of the hospital world. But the drama-less entry and exit might relieve a layer of stress from those who work full time on that wing.  

And for that I am grateful.

Of all the thanks that flowed throughout this past week, one meant the most to me. And it came from that wing, the Isolation area on the third floor. A white envelope was delivered via inter office mail to my desk. It was addressed to:

“Geraldine Buckley, our Awesome Chaplain!!!”

I melted. 

Inside was a sheet of paper that had a scroll printed on it with large letters saying “Thank You! From FHH 3A”. (The hospital and the floor.) 

Handwritten on it, completely covering the page and margins, were messages from all the staff in that wing. 

In the middle of all their incredible work they had stopped to give gratitude to the many people in the hospital and beyond that had supported them.  

I was so moved to be included. 

To receive an unneeded, but so appreciated thank you for the pumpkin bread, presence, and prayers. 

The sentiments included:

“Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness and support.”

“...We deeply appreciate your kindness. It really means so much to us!”

“Thank you so much, it means more than you know.”

These words and the many others caused me to sit stunned for a long time. 

I’m framing both the page and the envelope. It will be one of my most precious mementos from this extraordinary hospital interlude.

In this week of gratitude in the hospital, I want to thank everyone who has been staying at home. 

Those who have been juggling jobs, and children, and schooling. 

Those living with others, amid boredom,  uncertainty, and fear for the future. 

Those who live by themselves and face daily stretches of alone time without a hug or a shared meal. 

Those who have missed public celebrations of life events: weddings, funerals, life rituals. 

Those who long to be with an elderly parent in a nursing home or a loved one in the hospital. 

Thank you everyone for giving up so many liberties so that others may live. 

So that the hospital is not overwhelmed. 

So that the healthcare workers throughout this nation are able to cope. Just. Mostly. 

Thank you for carrying on in seclusion when you were on your last nerve. And beyond. 

Thank you 

The Lord sees what it has cost you, and as it says in the Good Book, your reward is in His hand. 

In the meantime, in the words of the blessing in Numbers 6. 

“May the Lord bless you and keep you;

May the Lord make His face shine upon you

and be gracious to you,

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

May it be so Lord. 

Amen