Chapter 9: 40 minutes to Say Goodbye

One of the duties we chaplains perform is to serve as liaison between our Catholic patients and the priests from the local parish.  When patients are sick, their family members usually request a Sacrament of the Sick (SOS), for healing.  SOS sometimes are referred to at the Last Rites.

We received such a request one Saturday early in February, from a family with Vietnamese origin.  The patient, the mother of the family, was going to be extubated the following morning.  Her two sons would come to say goodbye, and they wanted the priest to say a final blessing.

According to the patient's chart, the she had already received the Sacrament of the Sick.  I put in the request to the parish, providing the patient's room number and the time of the extubation.  But as a back-up plan, my chaplain peer, a Catholic Eucharistic minister, would also be available.

Sunday morning came, and I noticed how "normal" things felt.  The COVID cases were much lower than the month before--in fact, there were only 5 patients in the Emergency Room, which was shockingly low.  Now that we weren't in "crisis" mode, I felt more room to actually feel my feelings.

We greeted the patient's two sons at the entrance of the hospital and escorted them up to the ICU.  They told us that their father had passed away here, a few years prior.  One son was married and spoke fluent English.  The other son was single and had lived with the patient, prior to her hospitalization.  Although this was the older of the two sons, he deferred to his younger brother, who had better English.  This is often the case in immigrant families.

The priest did not show up.  My colleague led us in Catholic prayers appropriate to the occasion, and then we left the patient's sons in the room, to say their goodbyes.  That day, nursing staff on the ICUs were so overloaded that some had 3 patients to take care of (the norm is 1-2).  Because of this, the patient's sons got extra time with her.  Sometimes, the extubation requires a whole team, and it must occur whenever the doctor arrives.  Today, there would be no doctor, so the schedule was more flexible.  For that, I was grateful.

40 minutes passed by.  Finally, I escorted the sons out.  The older son carried a plastic bag, containing the patient's clothing, dentures, and Medicare card, among other things.  The younger son communicated with the nurse about mortuary arrangements.  "You'll let us know when she passes?"  "Yes, of course."

On the way out, the younger son visited the restroom, and I spoke with his brother about the adjustment it would be, not only to grieve his mother's passing, but also the loss of his role as her live-in caregiver.  He was a gentle soul, and he said the hospital made him afraid.  "But, I must walk the path that life gives me," he said, in his accented English.

When we reached the hospital lobby, I bid farewell to the two brothers.  As they walked out to the parking lot, they put an arm around the other's shoulder, heading back out into the world together, and having said goodbye to their mother for the last time.  Watching from inside the lobby, the thought came to me: "A life time of memories with their mom, and only 40 minutes to say goodbye."  

Our rule of thumb as chaplains is that we can show emotion, and we can cry--but never more than the patients or their families.  So far, in nearly 6 months of my chaplain residency, I had yet to cry at work.  My eyes had welled up a few times, but that was the extent of it.

This was one of those moments, and to stop myself from losing it in the hospital lobby, I quickly turned around to walk back to our chaplain office.  Within half an hour, I would be out seeing patients again, in the Emergency Room, with another one of my chaplain colleagues, for a peer shadowing assignment.  

Things move quickly on the job.  Mentally, I release each patient I have seen into the care of the Universe as I transition to the next one.  But certain moments leave a deeper impression, and live on in my heart.  The memory of this morning's extubation was one that would stay with me, along with the tenderness of goodbyes a lifetime in the making.