Pandemic Parables: Exploring

Pandemic Parables: Exploring
Sunday August 8th 2020

I have been exploring in the hospital in Frederick, Maryland, where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. The intense work study program that I have been doing for the past year, plus a three month volunteer internship before that, comes to an end two weeks next Friday, on August 28th.

Before leaving I am keen to learn as much as possible about this hospital that I have grown to love. So I wanted to see if I could visit some places that I have passed often but never peeked inside.

Friday, I thought, Friday might be my opportunity. The hospital is often quieter on that day. Patients prefer to be at home over the weekends if at all possible, and by Friday morning the exodus has started happening.

I was doing rounds before my explorations began when a Code Blue was called in the ICU. A patient had stopped breathing and a team was being called to try and save their life. Normally the ICU is not on my beat, but the chaplain who covers that area is away on a Friday. So as soon as I could leave the person I was seeing, I set off for the second floor.

On the way I passed a pharmacist I knew. She had writing on her mask.

It said, “I sling pills to pay my bills.”

I burst out laughing and her eyes twinkled. It was a much needed moment of levity before the seriousness that lay ahead.

When I arrived at the ICU I saw a group with a doctor and other medical staff in the hallway. The unit manager was walking in my direction. I saw sorrow etched in the lines of her forehead above her mask and a weariness in her walk.

“I’m too late?” I said. “Yes,” she nodded.

“Has a Pause been done?” I asked. She nodded again, “Yes.”

The Pause happens after someone dies. The medical team always does everything they can to save the patient’s life unless the person has previously requested otherwise. The intensity, determination, and concentration during those life and death last minutes is palpable.

When finally the attending doctor realizes nothing further can be done, they call the time of death. Then the chaplain, if they are in attendance, or indeed anyone else who is present, calls for a Pause - a non-denominational moment of remembrance. Of transition.

So for example, let’s say the patient’s name was Mary (and I have not cared for any Marys who have died at the hospital).

The leader would say the words that are on the Pause cards that have been distributed throughout the hospital and that chaplains carry attached to their IDs.

“Let’s take a moment to Pause and honor this person who has just passed away. Mary was someone who loved and was loved. Mary was someone’s friend and family member. In our own way, and in silence, let us stand together and take a moment to honor both Mary and all the valiant efforts that were made on her behalf. (This is followed by 45 seconds to a minute of silence.)

Thank you everyone.”

After the Pause everyone disperses to the next crisis. Most say they are grateful to have experienced a much-needed emotional buffer to regain their equilibrium.

To retain their humanity.

I had arrived at the ICU moments after the Pause had been said. The nurse manager had been part of the gathering.

“Tell me about the patient,” I said.

And that kind, compassionate, weary, senior nurse did just that. She knew not only his symptoms but his quirks, his character. The words came pouring out.

Then we stood for a moment. Both feeling the sadness, the sorrow of the death that had just happened.

“It is still hard after all these years,” she said.

And in these COVID-19 aware times, I may or may not have opened my arms. And she may or may not have stepped forward to gratefully receive a hug.

I walked away knowing I would miss these raw moments of deeply shared caring.

Holy moments.

Sacred encounters.

I headed down to the basement where I had arranged to meet a new friend outside the cafeteria. I was surprised to see so many people eating breakfast. It was ten o’clock. Almost everyone down there was a familiar face. The air was alive with chattering and bonhomie. I’m not in the cafeteria that often. I bring a packed lunch and eat it upstairs in the chaplain’s office. I’d never been there mid-morning.

I was entranced by the gathering.

My friend arrived. He is a transporter, pushing patients in their hospital beds to their next medical procedures. He is a wise, kind, humorous fount of information. He is also a fellow lover of adventures, people, and their stories. So he was a perfect choice to show me parts of the hospital many people don’t see.

He arrived and saw me marveling at the chattering crowd.

“This is the housekeepers and maintenance people’s daily gathering spot,” he said as he motioned me to follow him.

“They arrive at 6.00 am so they are on their midday break. They come together to support each other. No one told them to do so. Their supervisors often aren’t aware, but they gather regularly. They really care for each other. And they help each other whenever and wherever they can.”

I thought of all the cleaners I knew in the hospital, and all the maintenance people. Every one of them was lovely. In their own unique ways they were kind, hard-working, and efficient.

I realized I was looking at the engine room that enabled those qualities to be nurtured and sustained.

I had stumbled upon a mystery while exploring for mysteries!

I followed my friend the transporter.

I know it sounds a little gruesome but I wanted to see the morgue.

I realized a few weeks ago that the morgue was definitely one of the hospital’s hidden places. I knew we had to have one, but I realized that most people had no idea where it was.

“In the basement somewhere I think,” said a sensible Hospice nurse. “I’m not sure,” and then shuddered slightly. “It’s silly. But I don’t like the thought of it.”

My fellow chaplains had no idea where it was.

One of my favorite security officers confirmed it was in the basement. She tried to explain where, but that lower floor is a warren of corridors. I was lost even before I left her desk. Finally she leaned in and said softly:

“The door is unmarked but it has a bug zapper overhead. It’s there so you know which door it is. It’s the only electric insect killer down there.”

A bug zapper? Over the door of a morgue?

I suppressed a giggle.

Of course there would be refrigeration inside so there wouldn’t be any actual bugs. But surely it had been put there by someone with a wicked sense of humor.

It certainly appealed to mine.

I’m afraid that the child in me still giggles whenever I think of what marks the morgue.

I went to see if I could find that zapper one day on one of my lunchtime walks. I take them inside in the air conditioning these hot Maryland summer days.

I scouted everywhere. I knew the morgue must be near an exit for easy transport of the deceased to a funeral home. On my second attempt I scoured the tops of the walls until I came upon that bug death trap and found the unmarked door. And yes, it was a few yards away from an outside door.

Now my transporter friend was going to show me inside.

“I chat to all of my patients when they are alive,” he said. They tell me extraordinary things. Things they need to share but don’t have anyone to tell.”

“Like what?” I said, fascinated.

“Well there was one man, probably in his late seventies, who told me he was ready to die. He’d had a long, fulfilled life. He had made his peace with God and he was ready to meet him face to face. But the only thing was, his family wasn’t ready to let him go. They kept pushing him to have advanced procedures that he didn’t want to have. He was telling me that he needed courage to tell his family that he was going to stop all unnecessary medical interventions and peacefully await the inevitable end.”

I nodded. This story happens a lot in the hospital. It is family members who find it the hardest to let go of a person they deeply love. I was so grateful that the transporter had been there to chaplain the patient when he needed it most.

God has His people everywhere in this hospital.

“So,” my pal continued. “Naturally I also talk to all my deceased patients.”

My eyes widened.

He continued:

“I let them know where we are going and what the procedure will be. And then when we get to the morgue I introduce them to the patients who are already there. Mrs. So and So, I’ll say, meet Mr. So and So. I don’t want them to be put with a roomful of strangers. I treat them as I would want to be treated.”

We had got to the bug zapper and he opened the door. There are three rooms in the morgue suite. The viewing room and autopsy room are no longer used. He opened the door to the morgue itself. It was empty. My code blue patient had not arrived yet. Deceased patients usually stay in their rooms for at least a couple of hours so that their family can spend time with them and, if need be, the medical examiner can visit.

The morgue was not at all what I expected. In my mind I had seen refrigerated sliding compartments like on TV crime shows. This was essentially a large industrial sized refrigerator with two slabs on one side and stacked open shelves on the other. It would hold eight people, two extra if absolutely need be.

My pal explained the procedures, the laying out of the patients on wooden boards with the greatest dignity. Every transporter aware of the care and reverence that must be taken.

I asked about the preparations for the virus. Right now we have eight COVID-19 patients, two in the ICU. This is a slight increase from our lowest numbers, but senior management believes that it will level out and drop again. We are all praying they are right.

However back in March none of us knew what to expect.

It turns out that thirty seven people have died at the hospital during the course of the pandemic. Each one a tragedy, but far less of a number than we had in our worst case predictions. I wanted to know what would have happened if they had needed more than spaces for eight people, ten at a push?

“They had thought all that through,” he said.

“There must have been so much concern because of what was happening in New York,” said I.

“There was,” he continued. “But the autopsy room is refrigerated and could have been used, and they had a refrigerated unit on wheels that they had tucked away at the ready. They never had to use those contingencies. We were full a couple of times but never overflowing.”

My pal closed the heavy door of the main morgue and pointed out a Dickensian looking ledger on a narrow table. The first entry was in 2010.

“When the deceased arrives their name is written here with the funeral home they have selected. Two people have to witness that procedure. When the funeral home arrives, usually a couple of hours later, security or the lab lets them in and the patient is signed out by both of them. It works seamlessly.”

We stepped back out into the corridor and I was moved by what I had seen. I was grateful for the reverence, care, and compassion shown to patients even after their demise. I knew that this information would come in useful when comforting grieving family members. I would have answers when they asked the question. What happens next?

Still in the basement we approached another door that I had passed many times. This one was marked “Hyperbaric Wound Care.”

“Have you been in here?” Said my pal.

I shook my head.

He opened the door.

Transporters, like housekeepers and maintenance have access everywhere.

Inside, I discovered, was a modern day miracle that many people don’t know exists in the hospital. There were two huge machines in there that are the equivalent of deep diving under water. The wonderful female technician who monitors the place, and has been with the hospital for over forty years. explained the procedure.

What my non-medical ears understood her to be saying was that you wear special all cotton clothing. You stretch out in the machine and are sealed in. It’s not claustrophobic, apparently, as there are windows on all sides. Then the chamber is super saturated with oxygen until you are at the equivalent of fifty feet under water. You stay there for a couple of hours, watching a movie, chatting to the technician. Meanwhile all that oxygen is getting deep into cells that haven’t been receiving any for various reasons. They start to spring back to life and accelerated healing takes place.

Oh the marvels of medicine!

“Why all cotton clothes though?" I asked.

The technician and my pal smiled at each other. It was she who answered.

“There is a concern that if you are wearing anything synthetic you might move quickly and a spark might be produced.” She said. “That is very dangerous in a small space filled with oxygen.”

“Boom!” Said my friend with a mischievous chuckle.

I’m glad that sharper minds than mine have thought through all the possibilities and have arrived at solutions to ensure safe outcomes.

Incredible outcomes.

I’m so grateful to my transporter pal for taking me places that I wouldn’t ordinarily have gone.

In a way I feel that this Coronavirus has done that for all of us. We have stepped into worlds we wouldn’t have dreamed we would enter.

A virtual universe.

Like with the housekeepers and maintenance personnel, many of us have been part of nurturing communities during this Coronavirus time often on social media. Cooking communities; “Views From My Window” groups; storytelling, singing, and arts support sites galore.

Places that nurture our spirits, our humanity.

People have looked out for each other during this odd, hard season. They have had time to slow down and care. They have seen a need and filled it. They have shopped for those who couldn’t, baked cakes and left them outside other people’s doors. Shared largess. One English friend said that a distant neighbor gave him a basket of extra apples from her over-abundant tree. He gave her one of the jars of chutney he made from the fruit.

Modern Coronavirus miracles of bonding and grace as what truly matters in life, our lives, comes into focus.

All of this nurturing, caring, giving honor to the living and the dead, spreading love and grace. It is all God’s work.

It reminds me of a scripture in the Good Book when what the Lord wants from us is laid out in Micah 6:8:

“He has shown you, oh man what is good.

And what does the Lord require of you?

To act justly and to love mercy

and to walk humbly with your God."

May we continue to do just that. Thank you to all of you who have acted with humility and mercy during this season. For those who have stood up for what is just and right.

During this time when our worlds have changed so dramatically, may we continue to explore who we are, and where we fit in to this new, totally different reality.

May we have the courage to throw out what doesn’t work, and explore options that bring oxygen to parts of our lives that we thought had died. Indeed may the saturating oxygen of God’s love soak into our cells in such a profound way that we ooze grace and mercy everywhere we go.

May we be vessels of justice.

Ministers of mercy.

Harbingers of humility.

Then we will become what we were always created to be. And in so doing there will be fulfillment, provision, grace, love.

We will be surrounded by God’s favor.

And so whatever it holds, our future will be good.