And that’s what I want to talk about today. Being “warm and caring” is about kindness. Boston Medical Center’s mission of ‘EXCEPTIONAL CARE. WITHOUT EXCEPTION’ is about kindness. Whether one is an Emergency Room staff services information person, or a doctor, or nurse, or chaplain, or housekeeping person, or security person, or an administrator, kindness is the indispensable human element that makes hospital care exceptional. It’s about kindness. Here’s an example.

One day, during my chaplaincy work here, as I entered 8E on the Newton Pavilion, a 59-year-old black Catholic patient was sitting just outside her room crying. She looked at me from a distance, and, in her desperation, repeated what she asked everyone she could lay her eyes on: “Would you walk me down the hall?” I told her that I could not do that, then went over to her and said that she should request that of her nurse. Apparently assuming that I was a chaplain, she said that she would like to receive communion. I told her that I would share her request with any Eucharistic Minister I might see. “And I hope you will be feeling better,” I said. “Thank you,” she replied.

When I returned to the unit’s center after visiting another patient, I observed a black staff person in her fifties stopping and talking with the patient, who was now crying. I was struck by the staff person’s kindness toward the patient. “Look here, girl,” she said in a sisterly way, “I want you to stop crying. I’m going to come back and comb your hair. Okay? I’ll check what is down the hall, and come back, and we can talk. No more gray eyes. Bright eyes and a smile,” she added, with a smile of her own, seeking to bolster the patient’s spirit. “Alright,” the patient said appreciatively, and stopped crying.

Shortly, a longtime, caring, white, Catholic Eucharistic Minister, who had been a nurse all her adult life, entered the unit. I told her that the patient was upset, and had requested communion. The Eucharistic Minister walked over to the patient, introduced herself, and asked, “Would you like to receive communion?” “Yes,” the patient replied. The Eucharistic Minister served her communion, and said, “I hope you will be feeling better.”

No sooner had the patient received communion than the staff person returned from down the hall with breakfast on a plate for the patient. The staff person then proceeded to bend over and cut the patient’s food for her. From spiritual food for the soul to physical food for the body—both of which evidently warmed the patient’s heart.

The staff person’s kindness led me to introduce myself to her later, and say, “I really appreciate what you are doing for that patient.” “Well, thank you! Thank you!,” she replied, with a big smile. “Anytime!”
Palestinian-American poet Naomi Shihab Nye had people like this vulnerable patient—and her care givers, and all of us—in mind in her poem on “Kindness”:

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
(http://roiword.wordpress.com/2007/12/01/poem-of-the-day-kindness)
I was privileged to observe these acts of kindness by a staff person and a Eucharistic Minister. Kindness that may go unnoticed but may be seen anywhere “anytime!” Pastoral and spiritual care are about embodying and facilitating and revering kindness.

“Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.”

During my chaplaincy here, a son, who is a minister, had just lost his mother, who died suddenly. He said to me, “I have never lost anyone close to me. How will I feel tomorrow? Can you tell me?” “You will still love your mother tomorrow,” I said. “Yes,” he replied. “And tomorrow you will still feel the pain of your grief,” I continued. “In time, the grief will still be there, but the ache will lessen.” “Have you ever lost anyone?,” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. “My father and mother, and four brothers and a sister.”

“Will I be able to continue my ministry?,” he asked. “Yes,’ I said, “And your grief will help you understand others even more. And you will have an even deeper love, and for more people. For all people lose loved ones and grieve. It is part of who all of us are as human beings.” He nodded with an understanding smile.

I stayed a long time with this son and his family, which included being with him during his extended telephone conversations with his grandfather and then with his father—both in their native country in South America. Love of a father and grandfather that affirms and remembers and comforts and strengthens. Pastoral and spiritual care are about giving grief a hearing so that it does not become bottled up and beside itself.
As Naomi Shihab Nye writes, “kindness” is what the whole world has “been looking for.” Here’s another example about kindness, taken from my work as chaplain here.

I visited a 60-year-old white patient, the owner of a cranberry bog, who was sitting behind a metal table, with a pencil laying on a paper that had writing on it. He began to tell his story: “I had this burning sensation in my chest, and thought it was from the medication I was taking for acid indigestion,” he said. “But it persisted and got worse. I finally went to my doctor,” he continued. “He told me how foolish I was, that I needed open heart surgery right away, and referred me to the hospital for surgery. Suddenly I went from indigestion to open heart surgery. And I’m wondering, ‘How did that happen?’”

The patient then said, “Little things mean a lot.” He explained: “I’m here, and I’m scared. I didn’t know what to expect. They wheel me down to the operating room. And the doctors there are warmly greeting me, calling me by my name, asking how I’m doing, and joking with me—as if I have nothing to worry about. They made me feel a lot better.” He went on, “And I’m doing well. So, I’ve been thinking about writing a letter thanking them,” and with that he held up the paper laying on the metal table. I responded that such a letter would probably be very much appreciated by the doctors and the hospital.

There Is more to his story. He said, “The doctors would come into my room and sit down and talk with me. They took the time to explain everything to me, and asked if I had questions, and answered them.” His next words put flesh and blood on Boston Medical Center’s mission statement ‘EXCEPTIONAL CARE. WITHOUT EXCEPTION’: “For them, it was not routine.” (Italics added) Being “warm and caring” is about discovering the little things that mean a lot to patients and their loved ones.

Being “warm and caring” is about kindness. One more example from my experience here. It is difficult to be kind to a person whose behavior reminds you of abrupt, angry-looking and -behaving persons in your past. A particular white female staff person presented that kind of a challenge for me. Her abrupt and angry demeanor and responses were a turn-off for me.

In time, I made it a point to transcend my own negative perception of her. A key element in moving beyond my own guardedness towards her was remembering and saying her name—and taking time to talk with and listen to her. There was the sharing of experiences and a story or two. She then began to share her conflicted religious beliefs, talking and asking questions about her issues with religion. I began to enjoy seeing her and to make it a point to talk with her. I grew to like her.

One day, she told me that she stopped going to church because she did not agree with certain beliefs held by her denomination, which evidently led her to ask me, “Can you tell by looking at people whether they are good or bad?” I replied, “I can tell by looking at people that they are human beings.” She looked at me for a few seconds, and then a smile crossed her face.

There is far more to people than what meets our first impression-- or second impression. The challenge is to go beyond what meets our eyes and experience what is actually in their eyes.

It’s about kindness. ‘EXCEPTIONAL CARE. WITHOUT EXCEPTION’ is actually about The Golden Rule. Christianity teaches, “In everything, do to others as you would have them do to you; for this is the law and the prophets.” (Jesus, Matthew 7: 12) Judaism teaches, “What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. This is the whole Torah; all the rest is commentary.” (Hillel Talmud, Shabbat 31a) Islam teaches, “Not one of you truly believes until you wish for others what you wish for yourself.” (Imam Nawawis Fourty Hadith, n13)
‘EXCEPTIONAL CARE. WITHOUT EXCEPTION.’ It’s about kindness. It’s about being “warm and caring,” like Lorien Manns.
______________________________
Bill Alberts was a hospital chaplain at Boston Medical Center from December 7, 1992 to July 15, 2011, when he retired. Dr. Alberts is a nationally known writer and an occasional contributor to Counterpunch. A diplomate and member of the recently named Dover, New Hampshire Chapter of CPSP (formerly the New England Chapter), his e-mail address is wm.alberts@gmail.com.