Here I am at the hospital again. I pulled myself out of bed this morning and donned my professional gear—a black suit, name badge, and beeper. The best part of my day was when my cat Jessie jumped up onto my lap, settled in, and began to purr while I was eating my morning cereal. Even though I had to use the lint roller three times to get the cat fur off, it was worth it. Jessie is warm, and soft, and healthy.
I’m the only chaplain in the hospital today. I’m the one who gets paged for all the deaths, all the Code Blues, all the anxious people about to go into surgery tomorrow. There’s also 21 new people who need to be visited, which is far fewer than the chaplain on call Saturday had to deal with. I should feel lucky.
I was at a church potluck yesterday celebrating the end of the canvass (fundraising pledge drive) for next year. I made my salad, and showed up to see several hundred people that I care about. We talked, we laughed, we listened to a 17 year-old church member’s jazz band. My twelve year-old friend Margaret and I started a dance party in the back. It was…well…it was lovely.
I talked to my adult friend Craig at church and told him some of my stories. Craig has a huge heart. I still remember him crying when his family’s cat died. Craig said he couldn’t do what I do. He said he couldn’t be in so many sick people’s rooms.
I love my job. I really do. And yet, today, I’m not sure how much I can do. I’m not sure how present I can be to people. I’m sure I’ll get into the rooms, and somebody will need something important, and I’ll reach way down to the bottom of my soul to pull up the patience and the energy I need. I know I’ll find a way. But quite frankly, I’m exhausted today. It’s not that I didn’t get enough sleep, it’s that I’m full of the stories. Their stories. I'm brimming with their pain, their shattered hopes and dreams, their fear that they will never go home again. I’m emotionally spent.
As of tomorrow, I will officially have worked at the hospital for 8 months. Being at the hospital 70 hours a week for 8 months…I guess today, I’m feeling it.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Friday, April 4, 2008
For Jay Ray
I feel like I helped someone today. I know that I helped someone today. His name is Justine, and he’s a good 17 year-old kid. Manically and frantically moving from one thought to the other, he threw rhymes at me for over an hour about justice, about not being heard, and about being disrespected. He’s really very angry.
He told me about his passion for swimming. He told me about jumping into the water, being cut off from the world underneath the blanket of liquid, and the peace he found there. It is a gentle solitude away from the domestic violence in his home. Away from the labels of “crazy” and “nut job” his teachers and classmates give him. His mind moves so quickly from one subject to another. He wrote in journal after journal. His mind raced. He raced. We breathed deeply and slowly together.
He talked about being a non-conformist. He talked about being like his hero, Martin Luther King, Jr. He framed his non-conformism in terms of not taking the pills they offered, not following the dress code of the hospital, and of getting out of there. He kept paging through the “Patient Rights” pamphlet and pointing out sections. “See, it says here, it says it right here, that I don’t have to take this, I’m going to go call my lawyer right now!”
We ultimately talked about choices. When he refused to give up a rosary that could be used to hang himself or others, I asked, “Is this really the battle you want to be fighting?” We talked about laws and rules, and about the spirit of those laws and rules. We talked about the differing spirit of a law he did follow—stopping at stoplights so that there weren’t car accidents, and a law he didn’t follow—like upholding segregation laws. We talked about choices and how they are ours to make, but that there are consequences for every one.
I told him he was special. I told him he was unique. That no matter where he was, no matter what he was doing, no matter which medications he was or was not on, he would never lose that. We prayed.
In the end, he walked calmly up to the staff, told them he’d made his decision, and handed them his rosary. The staff woman looked shocked, thanked him for the decision he made, and carefully tucked his rosary away for him in a plastic bag with his name on it. He thanked me for listening to him, for helping him reason through his decision, for really hearing what he had so say. He asked me if it was okay to give me a hug, and I said it was.
I saw the staff person over his shoulder as he hugged me. She smiled a big, deep, true smile. For a moment, just a moment, she got a glimpse of the sweet boy beneath the layers of anxiety, fear, and anger that cause him to rock as he talks endlessly.
I think there might be a place for me someday in this world. I’ve worked with so many youth and children, and I honestly respect them and their view of the world. At any age, what children say matters. They are beautiful gifts to the world, and their vision and purpose is so powerful, so needed in this world. They are the prophets of the coming age.
I spent two hours with Justine, and they were wonderful. It was not two hours languishing in front of the T.V., or entering endless data into a computer, or stuck in some board meeting debating whether the parking lot should have gravel or be paved. They were two hours of connecting with someone. Of caring for them. Of making a difference, however small, in someone’s life. How lucky am I that I get to do this?
He told me about his passion for swimming. He told me about jumping into the water, being cut off from the world underneath the blanket of liquid, and the peace he found there. It is a gentle solitude away from the domestic violence in his home. Away from the labels of “crazy” and “nut job” his teachers and classmates give him. His mind moves so quickly from one subject to another. He wrote in journal after journal. His mind raced. He raced. We breathed deeply and slowly together.
He talked about being a non-conformist. He talked about being like his hero, Martin Luther King, Jr. He framed his non-conformism in terms of not taking the pills they offered, not following the dress code of the hospital, and of getting out of there. He kept paging through the “Patient Rights” pamphlet and pointing out sections. “See, it says here, it says it right here, that I don’t have to take this, I’m going to go call my lawyer right now!”
We ultimately talked about choices. When he refused to give up a rosary that could be used to hang himself or others, I asked, “Is this really the battle you want to be fighting?” We talked about laws and rules, and about the spirit of those laws and rules. We talked about the differing spirit of a law he did follow—stopping at stoplights so that there weren’t car accidents, and a law he didn’t follow—like upholding segregation laws. We talked about choices and how they are ours to make, but that there are consequences for every one.
I told him he was special. I told him he was unique. That no matter where he was, no matter what he was doing, no matter which medications he was or was not on, he would never lose that. We prayed.
In the end, he walked calmly up to the staff, told them he’d made his decision, and handed them his rosary. The staff woman looked shocked, thanked him for the decision he made, and carefully tucked his rosary away for him in a plastic bag with his name on it. He thanked me for listening to him, for helping him reason through his decision, for really hearing what he had so say. He asked me if it was okay to give me a hug, and I said it was.
I saw the staff person over his shoulder as he hugged me. She smiled a big, deep, true smile. For a moment, just a moment, she got a glimpse of the sweet boy beneath the layers of anxiety, fear, and anger that cause him to rock as he talks endlessly.
I think there might be a place for me someday in this world. I’ve worked with so many youth and children, and I honestly respect them and their view of the world. At any age, what children say matters. They are beautiful gifts to the world, and their vision and purpose is so powerful, so needed in this world. They are the prophets of the coming age.
I spent two hours with Justine, and they were wonderful. It was not two hours languishing in front of the T.V., or entering endless data into a computer, or stuck in some board meeting debating whether the parking lot should have gravel or be paved. They were two hours of connecting with someone. Of caring for them. Of making a difference, however small, in someone’s life. How lucky am I that I get to do this?
Monday, March 3, 2008
The Strange World of Dating
As a 27 year-old single woman, I think it's important for me to date. There have been times when I've made the active decision not to (such as when I was nursing a broken heart, or my first year of grad school when everything was new and exciting and exhausting). However, on the whole, it's a good practice to stay open to a relationship. When I'm open to a relationship, I'm more open to trying new things and going outside my comfort zone. I'm more likely to take a chance, to risk looking like an idiot, and to go out and have some fun.
The flip side to staying open, however, is that I never quite know who is coming down the line. Some men seem quite well adjusted and normal in that first chat. Some even make it two or three dates before setting off the alarm bell in my head. While I'm committed to keeping an open mind, there are a few ground rules that need to be set. After twelve years of dating, here are some of the the people who should not, under any circumstances ask me out. And yes, these are all from personal experience.
1. If your primary concern and main life goal is making lots of money (and particularly if you talk about this for 45 minutes), you need not apply.
2. If you are still living with your ex-girlfriend/ex-wife, you need not apply.
3. If you have children from three different relationships, you need not apply.
4. If you can begin a sentence with "three weeks after rehab, I started snorting coke again," you need not apply.
5. If you regularly find dead bodies in parks and you're not on the police force, you need not apply.
6. If you finish stories with "and that's when I saw the hooker get shot," you need not apply.
7. If you have a tattoo, anywhere on your body, that features a naked woman pole dancing, you need not apply.
8. And last, but certainly not least, if your life story includes the line "and that's when the Lord told me to save the heathens of the Middle East," you need not apply.
This is not an exhaustive list. I reserve the right to add more as necessary. For now, though, I'll just sit back and marvel at the fact that I don't run away screaming from dating altogether.
The flip side to staying open, however, is that I never quite know who is coming down the line. Some men seem quite well adjusted and normal in that first chat. Some even make it two or three dates before setting off the alarm bell in my head. While I'm committed to keeping an open mind, there are a few ground rules that need to be set. After twelve years of dating, here are some of the the people who should not, under any circumstances ask me out. And yes, these are all from personal experience.
1. If your primary concern and main life goal is making lots of money (and particularly if you talk about this for 45 minutes), you need not apply.
2. If you are still living with your ex-girlfriend/ex-wife, you need not apply.
3. If you have children from three different relationships, you need not apply.
4. If you can begin a sentence with "three weeks after rehab, I started snorting coke again," you need not apply.
5. If you regularly find dead bodies in parks and you're not on the police force, you need not apply.
6. If you finish stories with "and that's when I saw the hooker get shot," you need not apply.
7. If you have a tattoo, anywhere on your body, that features a naked woman pole dancing, you need not apply.
8. And last, but certainly not least, if your life story includes the line "and that's when the Lord told me to save the heathens of the Middle East," you need not apply.
This is not an exhaustive list. I reserve the right to add more as necessary. For now, though, I'll just sit back and marvel at the fact that I don't run away screaming from dating altogether.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Good News!!!
So, I've got two pieces of news:
1. Last Friday (Feb. 1st) I went before a really big, scary committee for my denomination. Six people questioned me for an hour on everything from church history, to polity, to personal finance, to counseling, etc... This is one of the big committees I have to see on my way to becoming a minister, and they could have given me a red light, which means I would be stopped dead in my tracks and wouldn't be able to continue on. However...I passed. They green-lighted me to continue my pursuit of being an ordained minister--I'm now a "Candidate"!!!!!
2. After a nation-wide search in a very competitive market, I got a church internship for next year!! I'm going to be the 2008-2009 Intern Minister at a church in Kansas!!! I'll be at the hospital in San Francisco until September 12th, and then I basically turn right around and drive to Kansas with my two cats in the backseat of my car!
I'm the first intern the church has had in 25 years, and they have already been really welcoming. They even sent me a "Welcome to Kansas" package that contained things like a University of Kansas baseball cap, chocolate covered sunflower seeds (it's the sunflower state), and a pet tornado (a little cylinder full of liquid that you can spin and a funnel cloud forms inside). A bunch of people applied for the one intern position, in part because the church is getting a national reputation as one of the fastest growing churches in the denomination (right now they're a mid-sized congregation, about 325 adult members).
Even though I won't be geographically close to my Midwestern friends and family in Kansas, I'm a lot closer, and I've become more and more aware of the distance since moving out here. I love my friends and colleagues out here, and I have really grown to love the Bay Area, but it's time for a change.
I'm nervous about all the changes coming up, but I'm also excited for them. This is what I've been training to do for so many years, and it's amazing to feel it coming into fruition. Woo hoo!
Love,
Anne
P.S. I heartily apologize for the overuse of exclamation points!
1. Last Friday (Feb. 1st) I went before a really big, scary committee for my denomination. Six people questioned me for an hour on everything from church history, to polity, to personal finance, to counseling, etc... This is one of the big committees I have to see on my way to becoming a minister, and they could have given me a red light, which means I would be stopped dead in my tracks and wouldn't be able to continue on. However...I passed. They green-lighted me to continue my pursuit of being an ordained minister--I'm now a "Candidate"!!!!!
2. After a nation-wide search in a very competitive market, I got a church internship for next year!! I'm going to be the 2008-2009 Intern Minister at a church in Kansas!!! I'll be at the hospital in San Francisco until September 12th, and then I basically turn right around and drive to Kansas with my two cats in the backseat of my car!
I'm the first intern the church has had in 25 years, and they have already been really welcoming. They even sent me a "Welcome to Kansas" package that contained things like a University of Kansas baseball cap, chocolate covered sunflower seeds (it's the sunflower state), and a pet tornado (a little cylinder full of liquid that you can spin and a funnel cloud forms inside). A bunch of people applied for the one intern position, in part because the church is getting a national reputation as one of the fastest growing churches in the denomination (right now they're a mid-sized congregation, about 325 adult members).
Even though I won't be geographically close to my Midwestern friends and family in Kansas, I'm a lot closer, and I've become more and more aware of the distance since moving out here. I love my friends and colleagues out here, and I have really grown to love the Bay Area, but it's time for a change.
I'm nervous about all the changes coming up, but I'm also excited for them. This is what I've been training to do for so many years, and it's amazing to feel it coming into fruition. Woo hoo!
Love,
Anne
P.S. I heartily apologize for the overuse of exclamation points!
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Why the Doctors Have a Seperate Cafeteria
When I arrived at this hospital back in September, I was disappointed that the doctors at the hospital had a separate dining room. They would head off into their cubbyhole, away from all the "little people" (my words, not theirs).
However, I have since learned why it is good and even necessary that they have their own lunch room. Namely, they talk about really disgusting things like it's nothing. Take for example this little gem that I got to hear about while riding in an elevator with two surgical residents (f.y.i., the tibia is one of the leg bones):
"The tibia was completely exposed and subsequently was transected utilizing a hand-held saw. The anterior surface of the tibia was then beveled and filed."
All I have to say to that is "EEEEEWWWWWW!!!!"
Working in a hospital has helped me realize that anybody who has had to dissect human corpses is bound to be socially awkward on some level.
I hope everyone is doing well, and that your tibias never need to be beveled.
However, I have since learned why it is good and even necessary that they have their own lunch room. Namely, they talk about really disgusting things like it's nothing. Take for example this little gem that I got to hear about while riding in an elevator with two surgical residents (f.y.i., the tibia is one of the leg bones):
"The tibia was completely exposed and subsequently was transected utilizing a hand-held saw. The anterior surface of the tibia was then beveled and filed."
All I have to say to that is "EEEEEWWWWWW!!!!"
Working in a hospital has helped me realize that anybody who has had to dissect human corpses is bound to be socially awkward on some level.
I hope everyone is doing well, and that your tibias never need to be beveled.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
For Adam
The A.B.C.’s of Gratitude
When I saw him across the room at a floor meeting for my college dorm—a young man from New York, sports t-shirt, jean shorts, and bushy hair that I would later hear him call a “Jew ‘fro”—I though to myself, “he’s going to be my friend.” Unbeknownst to me, he looked over at me—a young woman from Illinois with crazy curly hair she had yet to learn how to tame and a small butterfly tattooed on the inside of her left ankle—and he was afraid. Having grown up in a world where “nice girls don’t get tattoos,” he looked at me with trepidation, aware that this strange, boisterous, crazy-haired, tattooed girl was going to be his friend no matter how much he might run away.
I chased him around mercilessly. I sat next to him at dinner, I befriended his friends and roommate, I asked him about his classes, his family, and I stayed in the room when his life story got too hard to tell. I sat on his bed after he found out about his parents’ divorce, his father’s affairs, his brother’s depression from living in a house full of secrets and lies. I watched him throw a phonebook, one of the large metro area phonebooks, onto the ground with a SLAM.
I stood up, walked over to him as he panted with rage, and I hugged him. I don’t know why exactly. We weren’t good friends yet, and his walls were strong and tall with years of building and fortification. When someone asked me years later how we became friends, I said it was a mixture of concerted stalking, my total disregard for his personal space, and a healthy dose of knowing my life would never be the same without him.
He talked to me at two in the morning when my cat died, and the world seemed so cruel. He spent a day with me riding busses around Minneapolis looking for an art museum, both of us unaware of where we were going. And when I felt purposeless, afloat on a sea of pent up grief, depression, and isolation, he showed up, stayed for several days, and brought cherry pie.
We are miles away now. His life in Chicago and mine in Berkeley do not allow us the luxury of daily interaction. However, his presence sneaks up on me in moments I’m not expecting—his old Knicks t-shirt I find in the bottom of my drawer, a photo of the two of us hugging each other on graduation day, and the random pieces of mail, the last being a “Do-It-Yourself Plague Kit” for the Passover inclined. It included things like sunglasses for the eclipse, small plastic bugs for the plague of locusts, and granulated red dye for turning water into blood. I never thought fake blood was a way of saying, “I love you.”
He means so much to me. He has brought so many gifts into my life. I love him in the way that you can only after you have fought and said terrible things to each other. I love him in the way that you can love only when someone has made you laugh so hard you cry. I love him in the way that comes after spilling a huge, embarrassing, terrifying secret only to be mystified when the other person doesn’t think it’s so huge, embarrassing, or terrifying. I love him when he is honest, and says, “Of course you’re a freak, that’s why I love you, and I’m a freak, too.”
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully capture my gratitude for him and how thankful I am for the good times as well as the bad. I will never be able to express, without the hindrance of awkward words and actions, how very honored and grateful I am to have him as a friend. I guess the important thing is to keep trying.
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