reflections on death

This summer I am interning as a chaplain at a downtown Atlanta hospital for Clinical Pastoral Education, a requirement for graduation and ordination.  Since I'm required to serve as a chaplain somewhere, it's really impossible for me to say whether I would have volunteered for this or not.  It's not something I've ever felt particularly called to, but I was also not particularly opposed to the opportunity, either.  

One of my goals for the summer has been to explore my theology of death, grief and funerals.  I haven't been around a lot of death, and I was a little afraid that if I didn't make myself pay attention to it, I'd do everything I could to avoid it.  I don't mean actually avoid the circumstance of someone dying - my hospital is a Level 1 Trauma Center, and of course we have critical care units.  People die everyday.  I knew I couldn't avoid being nearby when it happened.  But I also knew that if I didn't make myself stop and actually be in that moment, and then, later, stop and interrogate myself about the moment, then I would just zoom around the circumstance of death.  That would be unfortunate for those I seek to serve while I'm at the hospital this summer, but also for myself and all those who I may have the privilege of ministering to in the future.  I think it's possible that the reality of death is the beginning of faith - making us ask questions about divinity, and the things that may be beyond what we can perceive with our senses.

Looking back on the way I framed this goal, I’m a little amused at myself.  What does it even mean to have a theology of death?  I think what I wanted to explore is what I believe happens when someone dies, and what true things I could possibly say to someone who is dealing with the death of their loved one.  I think that’s what I wanted, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever attain that.  

In the meantime, I am reading and experiencing things that allow me to look at death and grief through different angles.  I’m wondering if death is like a multi-faceted prism – something of which we can only see pieces of but never the entire thing all at once.  Or, maybe it is the effect of light caught in the prism – casting certain hues at certain angles, but never what we expect, and never the same thing twice. 

This week I sat with a woman as she received the news that doctors had determined that her husband was brain dead.  This is a strange death - to be told that the one whose heart beats audibly on the monitor, whose every breath is inescapable because of the ventilator - is actually already dead.  How can one be both dead and alive at the same time?  

I sat in the tiny CCU family meeting with her.  First, the room was overflowing with myself, two doctors, the charge nurse, the wife of this patient, and a friend of the family who served as an interpreter (this patient and family do not speak English).  Quickly after delivering their bad news, the doctors left.  A few moments later, the nurse also left, and then the interpreter left as well to go tell the other family members.  The wife and I sit next to each other; she cries silently, I rest my hand on her arm.  We say nothing - we couldn’t understand each other even if we did speak.  The room is stuffy and the lights are dim – I silently  pray for this woman and her family and wonder why this family meeting room isn’t set against an outside wall to have the benefit of windows, and then I wonder if it even matters what kind of light is present when you learn of a loved one’s death. 

I wonder what it is like for this young wife to be here, in a room that you know is too small and warm to remain in, but for this moment is terribly safe.  The chair is comfortable and tears can flow here and nothing needs to be said and it doesn’t matter what you say or what language you use because nobody, nobody could understand.  It doesn’t matter what words are used because they could not express the shock, pain, fear, and at times even relief that comes with the news.  The sorrow that has an accompanying though distant joy that you and the one who is no longer shared such love that such grief is required. 

I wonder if it’s enough that I sit with her, that she at least knows she’s not alone.  I look at the door and consider that it may be impossible for her to turn the knob and leave this place, to step into the hallway and admit that her life now has a before and after.  I wonder if it’s easier to remain in the room that is neither before nor after but the in-between, and I hope that I am doing the right thing by sitting here with her, and opening the door for her when she is ready.  I wonder if this is what it means to be present in someone’s grief – to sit with them in this tiny room, to be with them in this moment that changes their entire existence, to give them the space to stay here as long as they can stand it, and support them when it’s time to face whatever awaits them on the other side.