Pandemic Parables: The Thaw Begins

Pandemic Parables: The Thaw Begins

In the words of the Beatles song “...it’s been a long, cold, lonely winter” at the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. The number of virus patients within the hospital remains steady, and we are prepared for another surge if that comes after the State reopens, although we fervently pray it does not.  There are signs, though, that the thaw has already very slowly started. 

From tomorrow at 5pm - Friday, May 15th, Governor Hogan has lifted the stay at home order in Maryland enabling many people to go back to work. However to ensure safety within the hospital our wonderful CEO has said that hospital employees working from home will not return for a month and then the situation will be reassessed. 

However a few familiar faces are beginning to reappear. Two social workers who interact closely with the patients are back. 

“It’s good being here again” said one. “But I feel as though I’m on a huge curve to relearn my job. Everything has changed.”

And everything has indeed changed. Technology has inserted itself dramatically into all of our lives. On line conferences, supervisor meetings, and patient-sitting are now everyday occurrences. Those of us who have been here the whole time have adapted to it gradually.
My Social Worker friend plunged in headlong. 

“I see a lot of the Covid-19 patients” the Social Worker continued. And that’s it, I can’t see them. Everything is done by phone or video. It’s exhausting getting back up to speed.”

Another familiar face was the nurse receptionist in Same Day Surgery, which is located in the front foyer. 

“How wonderful to have you back!” I said. "It hasn’t been the same without your cheery face. Have you been at home?”

“No” she said with a grimace. I’ve been on nights. Three twelve hour shifts. I’ve never done nights before and it’s hard to start something new like that when you are forty nine. It was grueling. It’s good to be back.”

I motioned to the scattering of people in the large, comfortable entrance space. 

“It feels so wonderful to have people here. It’s been deserted for weeks because there have been no elective surgeries. I know the Governor has just lifted that ban. This is the first day isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” She said. “We have eight in surgery today, and each person is allowed one person to be with them. We are starting slowly. Normally we have about forty.”

Later, in the Emergency Department, I discovered that there was a new protocol for patients with a disability. 

Everyone coming to the ED can have one person with them. However if the patient is admitted their companion has to leave as visitors are not allowed on the floors, with a few exceptions including an end of life situation. 

Now, if a patient with a disability is admitted, the person who accompanied them to the hospital is allowed to remain by their side throughout their stay.  

The floors have been devoid of visitors for weeks. 

The thaw is slowly starting. 

But with the changes come, well, changes. 

With more elective surgeries there will be an increase of patients in the hospital. 

I was told by a knowledgeable nurse friend that the dedicated Isolation Wing on the third floor - my floor - will probably be disbanded at the beginning of June. The virus patients will be moved to another part of the floor - my nurse friend’s section - and they will be put in isolation rooms amid the general population. 

“What is now the Isolation Wing usually specializes in helping people recover from orthopedic surgery.” My nurse friend explained. “With the increase in elective surgeries their expertise is really needed.

I get it, but I don’t like it.”

Later that morning, on my daily visit to the Isolation Wing, I talked to the wonderful Nurse Manager there who said that they would likely be returning to their normal orthopedic workload around June 1st. 

She told me that this date - indeed the plan - was still fluid. 

“How do you feel about that?” I asked. 

“ I see why there is a need” she said thoughtfully. But I really wanted to finish what we’d started here.”

I sensed her sadness. 

“Will it be a relief to no longer be in isolation dealing with Covid positive patients exclusively” I asked. 

“I thought it would be.” She said. “but surprisingly, no.”

I thought of something else. 

“How will your team go from being under the stress and tension of being sequestered away here on the Isolation Wing one day, to being an open unit the next? Won’t it be like divers coming up from the depths. If they don’t do it in stages won’t they get the bends?”

“That’s right.” She replied. “It will really hard. I’m going to have to give a transition plan some real thought,” 

And she will. This is a leader who truly loves and cares for her staff, and she is admired, respected, and loved in return. 

The picture of the diver having to come up to the surface slowly kept returning to my mind. I saw that it was not just true for the staff of the Isolation Unit, but, to a perhaps lesser extent, everyone who was working in the hospital from the CEO to the janitorial staff. 

We have all been living in a sealed off world filled with tension, rapid changes, and great uncertainty.  

Even though we have longed for a return to normalcy it might take us all more time than we anticipate to emotionally recover from these Coronavirus encrusted days. 

I know that is true for me. 

In many ways I feel out of sync with my friends who have been sheltering at home. It feels as though when life once again has liberty they will burst out of their doors refreshed and raring to go, and I will crawl back through mine, collapse into bed and sleep. 

But perhaps we are all closer than I think and the picture of that diver is true for all of us, wherever we work, live, or play. 

People throughout the globe have endured a traumatic time filled with stress, tension, vigilance, and fear.  Our worlds have been turned upside down. 

Perhaps we should take care to turn them right side up again gently. 

May the good things  that have come on this forced retreat, remain. 

May the unity, love, generosity, and creativity that have been seen everywhere during this long, cold, lonely winter be still with us when the thaw comes. 

And when the ice finally melts, and the rivers of life are once again in full flood may we see and live the words spoken by Amos so many years ago. A cry that has sustained countless people with hope throughout the centuries. 

“..let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream. “

If that heart cry is fulfilled  in the Spring, then this hard Winter will have been worth enduring. 

Oh Lord. Let it be so. 

Amen.

Pandemic Parables: Open Doors

Sunday May 10th 2020

Pandemic Parables: Open Doors

Every week day, with a few exceptions, I go for a lunchtime walk around the beautiful, but empty campus of Hood College. It is just behind the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. 

A few days ago a side door to one of the halls, a door that is always locked, was wide open. The next day it was propped open again. On both days the front door remained closed. On Friday, in a different building, a door that is always shut, was ajar, letting the Spring air blow through the student-less building.

For me those doors were a symbol of change about to happen in our lives. 

The breeze wafting through them represented the liberty that lies ahead after a long, hard, confined winter. 

In the hospital we are all so ready for that breeze of hope, for change, for freedom. 

The staff is battle weary. 

After one day when there was an increase of Covid patients on the isolation wing on the third floor the always upbeat, gentle, kind-hearted secretary was unusually quiet. Her eyes were downcast and her head drooped. 

“What is it?” I said. “You look so sad.”

“How are you feeling?”

“There has to be a light at the end of this tunnel” she responded. 

“I get it.“  I said. 

“You are exhausted and you just want to have hope that all this really will end at some point. Is that it?”

“Yes.” She nodded in agreement. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

Later that day on a non virus wing of the floor a wise, senior, unflappable charge nurse said. 

“I feel so emotional. I find myself crying easily. Even the smallest thing sets me off.”

I smiled wistfully, understanding. 

The same thing is happening to me. 

Someone sent me a song with images of nurses in an Emergency Department that was the twin of ours. 

After seeing those exhausted medical personnel, I  found myself gently weeping. 

On Friday three planes from the Maryland National Air Guard flew in a large circle around the hospital complex to honor those working within. 

I had to swallow hard to stop from crying. 

Saturday May 9th was my birthday and I often found myself close to tears because of the many acts of kindness and generosity that peppered my day. 

Yes, I understand how the charge nurse felt.  I think many in, and indeed outside, the hospital are feeling the same way. 

She carried on. “Of course it doesn’t help wearing these all day, motioning to the N95 and cloth mask covering her face. It means we are breathing in our own Carbon Dioxide. I wonder how much that affects us all.”

I had never thought of that!

I am only double masked when I’m on the floors. Otherwise I wear a cloth mask only. 

I find the N95 to be annoying, tight, and uncomfortable. And to wear both together is unbearable. I do it anyway though. 

The nurses feel the same way. But in these virus times, they have to double mask all day. 

I learned that they are advised to go outside, take the mask off, and breathe deeply in their breaks. But all the exits are closed except for emergency room and front foyer. 

That is a long trek for many of them. 

And sometimes they have to work through breaks...

But there is hope. 

Like the breath of spring coming in through the open doors on my walks, the end does seem to be finally appearing over the horizon. 

Although at times you need binoculars to see it. 

Our wonderful hospital CEO released a new video on Friday saying that we are in the eighth week of what he always thought would be a ten week journey until the virus peaked. 

It seems as though we are right on track. 

He reminded us that the virus would still be present in the hospital after the hill had been crested but at least we’d have a clearer picture of the finishing line. 

This gives hope to the battle weary. 

The numbers of virus patients in the hospital remains steady. As of today, Sunday May 10th at noon, thirty three are in isolation with another two under investigation. 

However eighty three have now beaten the virus and have been released. Celebration Walks are happening several times a day. Glory!

The winds of change are definitely starting to blow. 

Since the beginning of the virus the hospital has been operating at a sixty percent capacity, according to the CEO. 

On Friday Governor Hogan announced elective surgeries can start again, ahead of his original projection. Our first ones are scheduled for Wednesday and from then on the hospital will start to get busier. 

Then there are other changes. Beginning this coming week everyone who comes into the hospital, patient or staff will have their temperatures checked. (All patients are currently tested for the virus whether they are showing symptoms or not.) 

A friend who lives in Hong Kong was surprised that temperature checking wasn’t already happening at the hospital. 

“Here in Hong Kong I’m tested about nine times a day.” He said during a phone chat. 

“When I enter and leave my apartment, the same at work, and I’m tested again when I go into a supermarket or restaurant. Checks are automic here. They have become a way of life.”

It makes me wonder what temporary changes we have seen happen in our lives during this virus season, will become permanent.

I began to think of those doors at Hood College.  The closed front doors and the side doors flung open. 

I feel that by the end of this pandemic - and it will come to an end - our lives will have permanently changed. 

In many ways for the better, although we might not realize that at first. 

Things and people we always thought would be there will have disappeared. And new friendships and undreamed of opportunities will open. 

It will be as though our lives have been picked up, have been turned, and then set back down again. What was the front door no longer opens, but a side door is flung wide letting in love, light and opportunity. 

So in these almost, but not quite days. 

Days where we sense we are coming into a new phase of the war against Coronavirus, but are not there yet. 

May we have the strength, courage, and resilience to hold firm and continue doing what needs to be done to get to the other side of this virus season. 

May we be released from people and situations that have hindered us. And may doors be locked behind them to prevent re-entry. 

And may unusual doors be flung open before us, side doors leading to fulfillment, grace, love and deep abiding peace. 

Doors that would simply never have been opened without this virus. 

May we become all that we were created to be. 

Indeed may we become fully and gloriously alive. 

May that happen for you. 

May it happen for me. 

More wonderfully than we could dream or imagine. 

Amen.

Pandemic Parables: Insight

Pandemic Parables: Insight

Recently I had a moment of real insight in the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. 

Let me explain.

I had a fascinating conversation with the head of one of the departments of the hospital. I knew he was a kind, gracious, caring man. However I learned more about him when we were having a socially distanced chat and his mask accidentally slipped off.

“Don’t you find it a relief to not have to wear a mask even for just for a short time?” I said. 

“Oh its so much easier without masks! He replied putting his back on. Especially for me as I’m deaf.”

“I had no idea.” I said. 

“Yes” he replied. 

“I’m completely deaf in one ear and with the other I can hear people on the telephone. 

Just. 

So I rely on lip reading, which of course I can’t do when people are wearing masks.” 

“Have you tried those masks where they have a clear panel at the front” I said. 

I had just read a story on line about a woman who had got a grant to make them in bulk. I felt rather pleased to know about this development. 

My smugness rapidly dissolved. 

“It’s no use me wearing one of those.” 

He said with a laugh. 

“For them to work everyone else would have to be wearing one.”

The light went on! 

“Of course!” I said. “So tell me more. How do you manage?”

The department head went on to explain how very difficult it was for the deaf community at the moment. He reminded me that to just communicate ordinarily they use their eyes and hands, and so more of their brain is working than hearing folk. 

In addition not everyone’s signing is as skillful as it could be so they rely heavily on lip reading. 

But now lips aren’t visible. 

He told me about a friend of his who works in a deaf unit within a psychiatric hospital. She and her team are exhausted with the great strain of communicating. This is in addition to the exhaustion we all feel at being plunged into a virus-soaked world. 

This double burden is leading to depression, serious depression in some cases. 

“And,” said my new friend, “that depression is spreading within the deaf community even when they communicate among themselves.”

This surprised me. 

“Why?” I said. “Why is it harder for them to understand each other than normal?

“It’s because of punctuation.” He explained.

“We use our faces to bring sense to our sentences.” 

Continuing to stand at a safe distance, he slid his mask down. 

“Look,” He said. 

Then with nose flares and twitches of his mouth he explained the finer points of deaf speech. The periods, the commas, the exclamation points. 

For some things he used his eyebrows. But mostly he moved areas that are covered by a mask. 

I was fascinated!  I had no idea of the depth of the deaf community’s current challenge. 

“What if everyone wore the masks with the clear inserts, would that help?” I asked eagerly, really wanting to learn. 

“Well my mother thought of that.” He responded. She is an expert seamstress and she produced many of that kind of mask for me. But they were a disaster! The vinyl insert was continually fogging up because of breath, and no trick or solution would stop it. Wearing a face shield without a mask helps because there is more room for the air to circulate. But even they can fog up - and they are often heavy and uncomfortable. Who wants to wear one of those all day?”

Then he added: “There are a lot of older people who don’t like to admit they are hard of hearing. They are only realizing now how much they usually depend on reading lips to get by. They too are struggling and can sink into depression because their life has suddenly got so much more difficult.”

Of course!  It all made so much sense!

I felt like a window had been opened into a new world.  I knew the view it gave me would help me be more understanding with my patients, coworkers, and deaf friends. 

Or at least I hope it will!

It certainly made me wonder what other situations I don’t understand. 

Other areas where I have only seen things from my perspective, through the filter of my own worldview. 

Where I have been oblivious to silent cries of frustration, of heartache, from the depths of people that I interact with daily. 

And so, I consider that conversation with the department head to be a gift. 

A gift of sensitivity. Of awareness. 

May we all be given insight to understand the hidden struggles all around us. 

In the midst of our own challenges may we be aware of the hurdles faced by others. 

And no matter what is thrown at us each day, no matter how we are overwhelmed, oh Lord, help us, help me, to be understanding. 

To be kind. 

Amen.

Pandemic Parables: May the Force...

Pandemic Parables:  May The Force...

Today, on Monday May 4th, I met Darth Vader. 

I had just turned into the Emergency Department to pray at the end of their daily 11 am “huddle” and there he was!  Dressed in his signature swirling black cape and full face mask he was getting ready to convene the meeting. Surrounding him was a forest of Princesses Leia hairstyles on both the men and the women. 

And then I spied the head of the department smiling broadly and handing out hair bands containing the signature swirls. 

Today had been declared Star Wars Day in the ED of the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. 

They were having a party!

I came ready and armed with “Dark Side Pumpkin Bread” that, despite its name, was a Trojan Horse as I had prayed that every bite consumed would bring great peace, healing, love and light. 

Once Darth Vader had finished updating the staff it was my joy to be able to declare that the Force would indeed be with this brave, skillful, medical team. Then I prayed that the power and love of God would blast through them bringing healing, comfort, strength, blessings, and miraculous provision for them and their families. 

Lord let it be so in great measure!

The Force of God’s love did indeed swirl through the hospital today bringing comfort and healing. There were two more Celebration Walks bringing the total number of patients released virus-free to seventy.
Hallelluia!

I was in a patient’s room and so hadn’t heard the overhead announcement to gather for the first Walk. But as I was returning to the Chaplain’s office I saw medical staff heading for the stairs. 

“Are you going?” said one.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world” said the nurse behind her. 

I thought there must be another Star Wars party somewhere until I got to the top of the main foyer’s stairs. 

There below me was an abundance of masked, mainly scrub-wearing well wishers waiting for the departing patient to appear. 

I spied the hospice nurses down below and went to join them. 

“This is wonderful” said one. “We see so much death, so it’s invigorating to celebrate life.”

The patient was wheeled through, oddly without music, and was ushered into the care of his waiting sister. Meanwhile the place had erupted with applause and cheers. 

When it died down the sister addressed the crowd. 

“When my brother was brought in here he was terrified. I’ve never seen him scared before. He didn’t know how he’d be treated. My family gathered every night on Zoom and prayed for him, and we prayed for all of you. And look what has happened. He is healed and you are here. Thank you!”

The place erupted once again and the love that drove out that patient’s fear, was tangible in the foyer. So was the unspoken relief that this dark enemy was being vanquished. 

Light was overcoming darkness. 

The place was abuzz. 

As I walked back to my office amidst a swell of people I saw, off to the side, near the registration desk, an inmate in a bright orange and white prison jumpsuit flanked by two enormous correctional officers. He was in full restraints - handcuffs, waist chain and leg irons. I caught his eyes above his mask and we both nodded and smiled at each other. His eyes laughed. Despite his circumstances he looked as though he could have started dancing. 

Clearly he too had been swept up in the joy and enthusiasm surrounding him. 

Any other inmates I’ve seen being registered have have had slumped shoulders and downcast eyes. 

But I’m believing that force, the force of love, had swirled around him bringing fresh hope and inner freedom.

There are reminders of the power of love everywhere in the hospital. Literally thousands of masks have been made and distributed. Beautiful masks with pretty fabrics and prayer in each stitch. Companies are coming together and blessing the staff with meals, car care, coffee, treats. 

I have a second angel on my desk gifted to be by Connie, the cleaner on the third floor. She is the one with an angel ministry. She collects all kinds of statues, prays over them, and asks the Lord who she should give them to. She gave me a beautiful cherub with a rose some weeks ago that touched me deeply. 

The other day she said to me. 

“Here. This is for you. This is my last day. I’m retiring. But I felt you should have this.”

She pressed into my hand a brightly colored angel that looked as though it had been painted by a child. The face was a blank oval surrounded by long brown hair. 

I treasure that angel. 

To me it symbolizes the many acts of simple, innocent love that Connie poured out over her long years at the hospital. 

Genuine kindness

It represents the nameless, faceless people who have prayed, given, sewn for this hospital. Small acts that together form a tsunami of grace and love that bring hope and healing.

This is a dark and difficult time we are living in. Uncertainty, fear, despair are swirling in the atmosphere. 

But light overcomes darkness. 

May the light of love surround each one of us and show us the way forward. 

May we see miracles in our lives in these days both domestic and dramatic. 

May we be recipients of both small and large gifts of loving kindness, and may we pay that forward with ease and grace. 

May we be transformed in this season to become who we were meant to be all along. 

And on this fourth day of May, and every other day in our lives from now to eternity, may the force of God’s love be with us. 

Amen.

Pandemic Parables: Processions

Pandemic Parables: Processions

I was in tears twice on Thursday April 30th at the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I am a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. 

Grateful tears. 

It was because of two different processions. 

Let me explain.

The number of Covid-19 Positive patients who are discharged virus-free from the hospital grows daily.  By Friday May 1st it was up to sixty two. 

Glory!  Thank you, Lord!

The hospital leadership wanted to acknowledge this continually-increasing achievement; mark a milestone in the patient’s life; and recognize the skill, love, and care of the medical staff that were an integral part of their recovery. 

So they instituted the “Celebration Walk.”

We got an email outlining their plan. 

They told us that if they chose to participate, a recovered Covid patient would pick either the theme song from “Rocky,” which is “Gonna Fly Now” by Bill Conti, or the Beatle’s “Here Comes the Sun.” Their choice would be played on the overhead speakers after they were discharged and being wheeled out of the hospital. 

Any staff member who wanted to participate were to line the route from the ICU to the front lobby. 

A mask and physical distancing would both be required.

And then this Thursday, it happened. 

On the overhead speakers we heard

“A Celebration Walk will take place in five minutes. If you would like to take part please gather along the route...”

I headed for the front of the building not sure what to expect. I had participated in a deeply moving Honor Walk in the hospital months before. A patient about to be taken off life support was going on their final journey from the ICU to the operating room to donate their organs so that others might live. Their gurney was followed by grieving relatives. Hospital staff lined up throughout the long corridors in somber, respectful silence, paying tribute to the sacrifice and generosity that was being played out before them. 

This was different. As the staff gathered there was excitement. This increased as the “Rocky” theme song started. Then, when the patient appeared clutching flowers and being pushed by a nurse, the crowd erupted in cheers, clapping, hoots and shouts of joy. We started to follow the wheelchair into the foyer where a socially distanced crowd of nurses in scrubs were also raucously rejoicing. 

It was joyful. 

And surprisingly emotional. 

This has been a hard, tense season in the hospital with constant change and rapid adjustments. As the patient left the building it seemed that the virus was being swept out also.  This was a visual first fruits of certain, if distant victory. 

An assurance that the end will come, one patient at a time. 

“There’s more!” someone said. “Another patient.“

We took our places again. This time we heard “Here comes the Sun” and an elderly gentleman was wheeled out to the same excited exultation. 

I was hit with deep emotion. A few tears of gratitude and relief trickled down my cheeks. 

As I looked around I spotted several co-workers, some familiar, others unknown. 

Above their masks I saw their faces were also wet with tears. 

We nodded at each other. 

For a moment there was mutual, silent understanding. 

We recognized in the other the same joy, relief, tension, and tiredness. 

Then we breathed in deeply and went back to work. 

The next procession happened that afternoon at four o clock on the dot. To show support for the hospital workers around fifteen police vehicles, with their lights flashing and horns blaring, slowly drove through the hospital property. They went past the emergency department, main entrance, and parking lots, back out into the Main Street and away. It was raining but the staff still poured out of the building in a sea of scrubs waving, clapping, grateful. 

I was laughing, cheering, and capturing the scene with my phone one moment, and weeping gently the next. It had been a real honoring. From one set of front line workers to the next. 

And that is when it really sunk in. 

I am a Storyteller who will return to Storytelling. 

But in this hospital, at that moment,  I belonged.

And in some as yet unseen shape and form I want to work in hospitals. 

I want that to be part of my Storytelling future. 

The next day, on Friday evening not long after I got home, my cell phone rang. 

“Are you in the hospital? Did you see it? Were you there?”

One of my Hospice nurse friends was calling. 

She told me that just after I left work, half an hour apart, there were two Walks. One was an Honor, and the other a Celebration. 

A young non-Covid patient hadn’t made it. 

An older virus patient had. 

My friend had lined up twice with her colleagues within a short space of time. Grief and gratefulness were followed minutes later by rejoicing.

And that seems to sum up all of our lives at the moment. In rapid succession we have lost so much, and yet gained abundantly.  

Our familiar routines have been turned upside down. We chafe under the restrictions. We grieve our losses both small and deeply wounding. 

And yet there is bonding, comradeship, kindness, mutual understanding that couldn’t have happened any other way. 

It is a season of hyssop and honey. 

Bitterness and sweetness. 

In all of our lives going forward may the good outweigh the bad. May the joy be greater than the sadness. 

And at the end of this virus procession may we all find ourselves, often to our amazement, at a different destination than we envisioned. 

But exactly where we are meant to be. 

May that be a safe place where physically, emotionally, and financially we are provided for. 

Where we are appreciated. 

A place where we belong.

Home. 

Amen