When it is us, we cope, we slowly adjust, we reimagine and reinvent our lives. When it is our friend, we support, we bring food, we futilely try to "make it better."
One of the dimensions of my job as a hospital chaplain is being exposed to these moments for others, people I never knew before. And with this exposure comes absorption of some of their pain.
My most recent shift was fraught with such experiences.
Early in the evening I was with six men who had gathered to remove life support from their brother/uncle. Four of them had flown to my city from Texas, and all of them bore a strong resemblance to Javier Bardem's character in "No Country For Old Men." All of our mothers told us that "appearances can be deceiving" and "don't judge a book by its cover," but I was unprepared for the incongruity of how gentle, loving, and tender these brothers/nephews were, eagerly holding hands all around while we prayed for God's mercy.
A lovely, too-old-to-still-be-driving octogenarian mistook the accelerator for the brake pedal, causing a five-vehicle accident and most likely her husband's death.
A pedestrian hit by a car as he crossed the street to the train station on his way home suffered a massive skull fracture and intracranial hemorrhage; his wife and son live so far away that he had already been taken to surgery by the time they arrived. "But I had just spoken to him!" she said over and over, trying to take back time. It will be days before the heavily-sedated patient will be allowed to attempt to wake up; and only then will he will be able to be assessed for brain function, for mental capacity. And during that time the family will spend hours driving to spend hours at the bedside, waiting without any idea of the outcome. "This will be a long process," the resident said and I noticed she didn't use the word "recovery."
All of these lives changed in a moment.
And perhaps the saddest story is the one about the man of -- oh, how do we phrase this? -- limited intellect who called 911 for his bedridden mom who had stopped breathing. The two of them lived alone together in an unhealthy environment. What will become of poor "Ben," now that she is gone?
Changed in a moment.
Forever.
