The encounter was at work, near the end of a long shift, when I was called to a Pediatric Level 2 Trauma. Aria was not much more than a year old and she had been dropped by her uncle. On her head. Mom, Susan, could not have weighed more than 85 pounds and looked like she was about 15 years old. She was, in fact, nearly 18. Susan was quiet in the trauma bay, and terrified. Silent tears ran down her cheeks. Aria was lethargic but somewhat responsive. She had no visible injuries but had vomited. For safety's sake, she had been placed in a cervical collar. The trauma team -- about 8-10 individuals representing 8-10 different areas -- gathered around Aria, but were kind enough to pause from time to time to provide encouragement to Susan, who I was keeping close to, supporting, hugging, mopping tears.
Then someone came back and said that Susan's mother and brother were in the waiting area and would I come out and explain things to them. I left Susan and went out. I'd never seen the waiting area so crowded, but before I could ask for the woman I was seeking, she -- and the brother who appeared to be about fourteen or fifteen -- presented themselves to me and began a verbal tirade. I tried to explain that I was the chaplain and I wanted to fill them in on what was going on in the back because I knew they would be concerned. "Bullshit," was the response. "That's just bullshit." This was the opening of the tirade that would go on and on and on, interrupting me every time I tried to speak, insisting on going back to the trauma bay, needing to know what was going on, but not wanting me to tell them. I tried. I really did. But in time I tired of the abuse, the interruption, the insult. The brother/uncle (who I began to think of as "the perp") was worse than the grandmother. I felt like I was a in a scene from "The Wire" (of which I'd watched only one episode). "Fuck" this, "Fuck" that, and demands/insistence on being "with my niece" went on and on until I turned my back, mindful that there was a security guard just around the corner; I could summon him if I needed to. I faced the grandmother and stopped talking. Finally her vitriol stopped. "If you don't want me here, I'll go back to your daughter," I told her. "But you and your son will not be allowed to go to the trauma bay."
She quieted. I explained that Aria was getting a complete work-up, and the next step was a CAT Scan. A CAT Scan that was a routine part of the trauma work-up. She started again, angry, entitled, insistent, and clearly not trusting me for a minute. I told her, "I need to get back to Susan now," and left. The crowded waiting room had gone quiet in horror at the scene.
For the better part of an hour and a half, I went back and forth from the trauma area to the waiting room, doing my best to show these family members respect by keeping them informed in what had to be a terrifying situation. Sometimes Susan went out with me, sometimes not. The grandmother had phoned Aria's father, something Susan had pretty much decided to wait on, and shoved the phone at her daughter; another young/angry/entitled black man was on the other end.
As it turned out, things were not good. Aria had been dropped with such force that there was bleeding into her brain. She was going to have to be transported to the children's hospital in center city. There was a point where the possibility was air-lifting her and this led to uncertainty whether Susan could accompany her in the chopper due to weight restrictions. (My hunch was that once the chopper team had a glimpse of tiny Susan, this would not be a problem.) But the decision was made to use an ambulance. Susan -- but no one else -- would accompany her daughter.
It was a hard visit, a terrible end to a long shift. And I've continued to think about it, to the point of even wishing I was in a CPE group that I could process it with. I am aware of my white privilege, I was aware that I was the person keeping this family from being where they wanted -- and believed they were entitled -- to be. I believed that their distrust of me was not personal but because of my whiteness, my position of unwanted authority. I knew they were frightened and that the son/uncle was likely feeling very responsible/guilty, though that was not something he could admit.
At a couple of points I could actually see the effort the grandmother was making -- she was trying to come out of her culture and into mine so that we could communicate. It shouldn't have been that way, but it was. She wasn't entirely successful, but she tried. I admired her for that. At one point, she received word by phone that her younger son had dislocated his shoulder and was on his way to this same emergency room. It was nearly eleven o'clock and she had to be at work at six o'clock the next morning. "You have an awful lot on your plate right now," I told her and opened my arms to offer a hug. She hesitated for just a second and then let me hold her for a very short time. Another adult would stay with the younger boy so that she could -- somehow -- find a ride all the way downtown to meet her daughter and granddaughter. I was grateful for her moment of shared vulnerability.
The son/uncle never cracked. He remained angry/entitled/distrustful the entire time, never letting up with his horrible recital and demands. I could try to imagine/identify the feelings he was having, but the barrier was too thick and was likely deeply embedded in familial dysfunction and racial issues. I could do nothing for -- or about -- him.
All of this was at the end of a sixteen-hour shift.
