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He was a black teenager. Shot in the head, at night on a Dorchester street, and rushed to Boston Medical Center. The hospital chaplain on call, I was paged at the request of his family, whose members were in shock.
The youth’s father had difficulty containing himself, pacing back and forth in the hallway, now and then leaning against a wall with his head in his arms, and staring blankly when comfort was offered. When he finally sat down on a couch in the visitor’s room, his mother-in-law stood behind him and caringly rubbed his shoulders to calm him.
The teenager’s mother was fearful of entering her son’s hospital room, but finally pushed herself to do so. Seeing her son prone and unconscious on the bed, she screamed. The pain of her own wounded love for him piercing the air. Overcome with fear, she fell to the floor, and was picked up and helped onto a chair by family members and hospital staff. Later, she was sitting in the visitor’s room; and as I returned from her son’s bedside, she continued to stare at me. Finally she fearfully asked, “Do you have something to tell us?” “No,” I replied. “I’m just returning to be with you,” sensing the dread behind her question.
The teenage youth’s younger sibling sat just outside his room, keeping vigil and sobbing—stunned by the sudden violence that was ending the beloved brother’s life. Their short, precious history together as siblings suddenly and senselessly ending in that hospital room. Staff took turns comforting the sibling.
The teenager’s aunt stood next to his bed, gently siphoning the blood repeatedly oozing from his nose and the side of his mouth. At one point, as she siphoned blood coming out of his nose, she looked at him and lovingly said, “You always were a snot-nosed kid.” She then gave a sad chuckle, as did the attending nurse on the other side of the bed.
In spite of the medical staff’s exhaustive efforts, the teenager died early that spring morning, not long ago. His tragic death offers a warning and an opportunity, as summer arrives with its heated potential for street violence.
This young person—and his loved ones—put a human face on state legislatures’ budgets for youth violence prevention programs and for safety net hospitals like Boston Medical Center. It should not be about cutting the budget and saving money during an economic crisis, but about serving vulnerable people in crisis and saving lives. It is about restoring funding for hospitals that provide comprehensive health care especially for those who have the least. It is also about fully funding state-wide youth programs for those who are often last, so that they do not get lost. It is about a “snot-nosed kid” who was dearly loved, and who should not have had to die.
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Bill Alberts is hospital chaplain at Boston Medical Center. Dr. Alberts is a nationally known writer and an occasional contributor to CounterPunch. In addition, he is convener of the New England Chapter of CPSP. He can be reached at william.alberts@bmc.org.
Posted by Perry Miller, Editor at July 15, 2009 10:01 PM
