An essay written during Clinical Pastoral Education at UC Davis Medical Center. -DM
The call finally came. It was a call I dreaded, had feared – had hoped would never come. But it came and there was nothing to do but answer it.
The nurse's hushed voice spoke volumes. “Fetal Demise” she whispered over the telephone, using euphemism like a dam to hold back a river of tears. But in truth I already knew the reason: "Birthing and Delivery" the pager read, knowing too little.
Inside the room, a bright July afternoon dulled to twilight gray, filtered through drawn window blinds. The young woman, just into her twenties, sat in silence and I entered like a trespasser, to proffer my badge – and do what? I didn't know. What was there to say in that dark room, muffled in mourning and fearful expectation? For the moment I let silence envelope us.
“Did I sin?” she asked, from behind hollow eyes. “No!,” I was moved to answer, “It wasn't you, you didn't do anything wrong...” Assurance without hope – the “why” of it hanging limply overhead, unspoken. “Does she have a name?” I asked, but quickly wished I hadn't.
“Joy,” she whispered.
And then I wept, and wept, and could not stem the weeping. Our hands clasped in anguish, her sorrow welling up from the pit and the terrible death she bore bearing down on us both, burrowing into the spirit. And there was nothing to do but pray for Joy, and weep for Joy and beg that God would carry this Joy, whose own mother would never hold her, into the arms of silence.
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Thank you for sharing the essence of why we do what we do: witness God's presence in moments of unspeakable sorrow and unspeakable joy.
ReplyDeleteSometimes I cry too easily it seems and just reading what happened that evening made me weep. Someone once told me that their father's definition of a good priest is someone you'ld want with you at your own death.
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing part of your story and for being there for all of us.