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June 9, 2009
The Humanness in Front of Us by Rev. William E. Alberts, Ph.D.
My daily work begins with visiting patients whose religion is unknown, obtaining their affiliation, and, if affiliated, making that information known to the appropriate chaplains. These patients especially provide examples of the spontaneous humanness one encounters as a hospital chaplain.
Like the older white male patient in an intensive care unit, whose religion was listed as “unknown.” I entered his room and introduced myself as the hospital chaplain making my rounds on the floor. He interrupted, “I can’t hear, and I had cataracts and can’t see.” I crossed the room, walked around to the upper side of his bed and said, more loudly, “I’m Rev. Alberts, hospital chaplain, making my rounds.” Before I could state the purpose of my routine visit, he shouted, “I don’t want any religious person in my room!”
The patient’s outburst surprised me. But my surprise was tempered by my belief that patients usually have a good reason for reacting negatively to a “religious person.” Moving away from his bedside, I replied, “You answered my question” [about whether he had a religious affiliation]. Then, reaching for something in common with him, I said, “I recently had cataracts removed from my eyes.” He replied, “I had one removed, and that is why I’m blind.” “I’m sorry,” I said, heading toward the door, and adding, “I respect your wishes very much.” “That’s okay,” he replied, his tone positive. Then he asked, “Could you do something for me?” “Sure,” I answered, surprised again. “Push that table [his over-bed mobile table] closer so I can reach that Ginger ale and cup,” he directed. He then commented, “These freakin’ people don’t know what they’re doing. I have a bum right shoulder and can’t reach it, and the table is too far away from my other hand.”
The patient’s predicament was obvious, and his frustration understandable. I pushed the table closer to him, and handed him the cup. He drank what was left in it, pulled the straw from the can of Ginger ale and said, “That straw doesn’t work either.” He proceeded to pour Ginger ale into the cup and drink it. Then, after a pause, he said, “Thank you. You’ve been a big help to me.” “You’re welcome,” I replied. It was about him having access to Ginger ale and not to a god. The humanness in front of us.
For another patient, it was about his needing access to a loving god. An older, terminally ill black man, the patient told a palliative care nurse that soon he would be “shoveling coal.” The concerned nurse shared his troubling words of self-condemnation with me, said he was dying of cancer, had difficulty speaking because of his weakened condition, and asked that I visit him. His doctor also told me “We’re in a muddle about his saying he’s going to shovel coal in the next life, not knowing how to handle it.”
The patient confirmed that he was “going to be shoveling a lot of coal” when he died. Why? “Because of the number of bad things I have done in my life,” he said in a weakened tone. I did not pursue the “bad things” he said he did because of his difficulty speaking. Instead, his being a black man, led me to ask if anyone had ever done “bad things” to him “growing up and in your life?” “Yes, a lot.”
Having researched and written about America’s white-controlled hierarchy of access to economic and political power, I assumed he probably had at least two racial strikes waiting for him when he was born. One invisible strike could be seen in a study that found, “Blacks Suffer Heart Failure More Than Whites . . . at a rate 20 times higher than did whites, even dying of it decades before the condition typically strikes white . . . researchers reported.” (The New York Times, Mar. 19, 2009)
The second unseen strike against this patient may be found in another recent study that showed, “Chronic stress from growing up poor appears to have a direct impact on the brain, leaving children with impairment in at least one key area—working memory.” The “bad things” here: “Children raised in poverty suffer many ill effects: They often have health problems and tend to struggle in school, which can create a cycle of poverty across generations.” (The Boston Globe, Apr. 7, 2009). In other words, a full stomach feeds a hungry mind. And a hungry mind is the pathway to a full stomach and a self-loving heart.
Sadly the patient had a self-loathing heart. A white-dominated hierarchy, with him at the bottom where “bad” economic and social and political “things” happen to poor people of color especially—and also to economically strapped white persons. “Bad things” legitimized by a theology of self-hatred, which was the third strike that apparently led this patient to believe he would be “shoveling coal” in hell when he died.
What seemed to reassure the patient was not so much that I said Jesus revealed a “god of love who especially loves you.” Nor my statement that all of us are human and in need of grace. Nor the fact that a lot of “bad things” had happened to him already. Nor even the prayer that I offered, though prayer is often a powerful way to affirm and reassure a patient.
What seemed to especially connect with this patient was my telling him, “Wherever you are I will see you there.” “You will?,” he asked. “Yes, I’ll be there. And neither of us will be shoveling coal.” “I hope you’re right,” he said. Before his discharge to a hospice I saw him again and repeated: “Wherever you go, I’ll be there. I’ll look for you until I find you.” “Okay,” he replied, “that’s a promise.” “That’s a promise.” The patient seemed to find reassurance in hearing someone not only voice caring about whether he lived or died but caring about him even after he died.
The humanness in front of us. The humanness inside of us.
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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 June 9, 2009 8:55 AM