Move It

Passing through the the Peds (pediatrics) hallway at Hospital for Special Surgery, I hear a little boy say to his dad over and over, "move it move it..." Dad's typing into his smartphone. He says nothing.

Recognizing the boy's refrain, I turn to face him and with a big grin say, "move it, move it" as I shift my hips, dancing like the wacky lemur from kid-flick "Madagascar."

The boy smiles and joins in. Now both of us are dancing and going, "move it move it..."


Dad suddenly looks up and boy, he sure is smiling!

Beautiful

With fewer patients in-house today, some of the nurses are chatting, comparing manicure tips. This sparks a warm tingling in my body. I feel my grandmother's hands holding mine.

Years earlier, I am sitting as a little girl beside my maternal grandmother or Bubby, as we call her. Minutes earlier, this woman who speaks six languages puts out two folding metal "tv dinner tray" tables, one for her and one for me. We sit facing a big TV to watch her favorite soap, "As the World Turns."

On each tray are supplies including: a small bowl of green Palmolive (yes, really), a small moist washcloth, nailfile and other tools, and pinkish-creme-colored nailpolish. We sit in silence and do our nails as drama unfolds before us.

The images and sounds on the screen do not distract me. I am focussed on the ordered sequence of activity and captivated by the wonderful colors, textures, and movements. After polishing each nail, I bend my knuckles down then quickly flick the long fingers up and towards the sky. My fingers are dancing.

When I'm done, I stand and walk over to where she is sitting. Bubby holds my hands to see my handiwork. I feel my whole body tingling and a warmth spreading throughout my chest and hands.

Here, for this instant, all drama slips away and the world is preciously beautiful.

Silent Scream

My pager goes off. I call in and get a referral for a pre-surgery visit with a middle-aged woman. She is reported to be screaming in pain at the slightest touch. I'm told that she is severely underweight and her prognosis is serious and complex.

Entering the pre-surgical "holding area," I hear voices of moderate volume all around, which blur into a churning hum. Moving past one bed, I see a curtain, which opens just enough to glimpse a nurse standing several feet in front and to my left. Bedside with the referred patient, the nurse asks about her medical history.

Directly in front of me is an older woman. After introducing myself, she tells me, "I'm her mom" and appears relieved for my presence. Her face, which showed tension as I approached, now eases a bit. Seeing my badge, she says with enthusiasm and surprise, "a new friend of mine has the same name as you." We laugh. I ask her how she met her friend. She tells me they are in an "opera appreciation" class.

She adds, "the popular operas are easy but the other ones, you have to get into the story and the undertone to really appreciate them. It's not easy but it's worth it."

Just then, the nurse walks past me.  I approach the patient's bed and introduce myself. She looks exhausted. Her eyes seem to have sunken into their sockets. She tells me that a few friends have sent her well wishes, yet her tone of voice suggests disappointment and hurt. I respond in a neutral tone, "a few..." and pause. She turns away for an instant then back to face me, and says with palpable, hushed rage, "yes."

We pause, eyes locking. Then she says, "look, I'm in pain. That's it." My eyes widen in recognition. I affirm, "yeah." She slowly nods her head up and down. She says, "I can't talk now." I say, "ok" and stand up. As I turn, her mother is looking towards me with a hollow expression that conveys helplessness, sorrow, and confusion. I meet the mother's gaze and move closer, approaching the edge of the curtain. I turn to face them both and say, "I was just thinking, the thing I love about opera is the passion, how when you listen, it feels like you get to scream."

Both women look at me with dismay, which quickly shifts to curious interest. The mother begins to smile as I continue, "Once I visited a woman in the hospital who was in intense pain. She says to me, 'I just want to scream but how can I, here?" I suggest, "how about a silent scream?" She asks with enthusiasm, 'how?' I say, 'Close your eyes.' She does. 'Now picture where you need to be when you scream.' Without hesitation, she says to me, "I know exactly where. In the middle of the street, tons of traffic. But when I go there, everything stops.' I affirm, "Ok, now slowly open your eyes." She does and looks directly at me."

I pause. Mother and daughter are looking right at me with the same fierce determination as the woman standing in the midst of traffic. I continue, "As she opens her eyes, this is what I do." Without a sound, I close my eyes and tighten every muscle in my face. Then, I open my mouth as wide as possible and my whole face shakes with intense release.

Slowly, I open my eyes. Both women's eyes are open wide and locked on to me. Their mouths are hanging open. I notice the subtle nuances in each woman's quietly fierce gaze. In the bed, I see the patient's head moving up and down with an understated while powerfully enunciated vibrancy. My whole body hears her.

"YES!"

I stand still. After a few silent breaths, the mother says softly, "thank you." I nod to acknowledge this, then turn to go.

Do Good

An elderly woman sits up in her hospital bed, places her grilled cheese sandwich on the tray, then shakes my hand. She meanders in time from one story to another. I release an impulse to make sense of what she's saying and instead attune to the feel of her words.

She says, "most people would have done nothing but I couldn't." I ask, "What did you do?" She says, "That boy,... he looked confused. There I was, lying on the ground with a broken leg. Three boys were going through my purse but he just sat there. He looked confused like he didn't know how he got there.

I said to him quietly, both of us looking down at the ground, "I don't know exacty what you're doing here, and you might get away with it. Then again, you might not. You might get caught and if you do, it could ruin your life." That's when he looked up. He said, "I'm scared." "I know," I replied."

She pauses then continues, "I don't know what he did after that. The next thing I remember is being in the ambulance."

I affirm, "you did something."

She smiles and says, "Years ago a soldier I knew came home. He wanted to be a cop but his wife didn't want him to. She was afraid he'd be shot. So he didn't try. Then one day, he went outside in the dead of Winter. He was gone a long time. He caught pneumonia and died." She pauses, looks directly at me and says in a hushed tone, "sometimes we are afraid and don't do the right thing because we don't know how to feel the hurt." Her voice cracks, and I see tears in her eyes.

"I try to do what's good," she continues, "When I do what's good it feels good." I meet her gaze. We pause in a very full silence. I offer my hand. She squeezes it. I say, "that feels good." She looks up, then blinks as more tears come.

I stay with her, breathing deeply to steady myself. I say, "you did good." She nods her head, moving it slowly up then down and with quiet fervor says, "you keep doing what you do." Now I join her, tears in my eyes, my head nodding yes as we shift together into a shared smile.

Puccini Stop

Briskly walking, I hear a male voice shout, "Puccini! Puccini!!" As if it’s a Siri command on my Iphone, an aria from Tosca plays in my head. "Vissi d'arte", Tosca sings passionately, "I lived for art, I lived for love ..."

The music builds. My heart beats faster. Some part of me is pushing, “gotta get to work…” Just then, I hear, "Puccini! STOP!!"

The interior music sharply ceases. I stop. The silence opens as my breath settles. I hear birds chirping nearby. A man reaches down to pick up his panting dog. We stand still for a moment. Then, I quickly move on.

Morning 4 Steps

My nephew Eli puts up this list on the frig as 3 cats race to the kitchen for feeding time. He and I are the only humans up in the house. We move in silence.

Curious, I get closer. I read it and say quietly, "I like how step 4 is optional." Turning to face Eli, I can't help but smile. He's grinning in the way only a Cheshire Cat can...

We're Not Here to Eat Steak

"We're Not Here to Eat Steak," says an elderly woman I'm visiting bedside.

Minutes earlier, she asks how I became a chaplain. I pause then say, "As years go by, it feels more and more like I was led to it." "What did you do before?," she asks. I tell her and connect the dots of how one journey flowed into another linked by questions beginning with "why?" and later, "how?" She nods her head knowingly, then pauses in silence. I ask her, "and you?" She looks up and directly meets my gaze. Not quite smiling, still her eyes shine with piercing clarity.

"I was a child in a concentration camp, lost my parents, saw children suffering." Now I meet her gaze, gentle and direct. She continues with a sigh, "I wasn't one of those who asks, 'why?' Some questions you don't ask because there are no answers. Instead, I asked, "what can I do?" Our eyes lock in shared recognition. "I have worked with children all my life. Children suffering. Every day I was happy to work, seeing them." She pauses again. I say, "Sounds like you've been happy to do something for those children."

She smiles and with a tone resounding of conviction says, "I'll tell you something. It fell into my lap. There are no coincidences. We're not here to eat steak." She adds, "I rarely criticize. When I see a group of people complaining, I say I cannot stay here. I cannot go down there. I need to look up and ask, 'what can I do?' I respond, "Thank you for all that you have done and continue to do." She replies, "thank you for visiting me."