Last Day At The Hospital

I saw her as I sat in the reception. She was moving toward the door with all the speed of someone who needed to escape, as she got closer her speed increased as if she was afraid someone was going to stop her. Her face was flushed and her mouth made an "O" shape as she sucked in air. Her eyes were filled with tears. She fanned her face with her hand as if this small action could waft away what was engulfing her. I was reminded of someone who had just escaped from a collapsed building.

I had stood beside this woman in a room for the previous half hour, she wasn't introduced and we never made eye contact. She stared straight ahead. She like me was a bit player in a drama. However the enormity of what we shared was written all over her face and body. When she got to the door she sagged, but she kept moving. I doubt I will ever see her again, but I will remember her for a long time.

The day had started well enough. I could sense a certain undefined tension in the chaplaincy, as the Chaplains went over their lists, all reporting a larger than normal intake. The big news of the day was that a young boy had been struck by a speed boat of Cranfield beach and he was now in the high dependency unit of the children's hospital. Derek and Brenda were discussing a visit and there was also a lighter discussion about coffee before we started.
I decided to get started right away as I wanted to call in on a friend who was in ward seven at the top of the hospital. When I got there she was asleep and looking very ill. I suspect that she will not be with us for much longer.

The day progressed well and encompassed a varied list of patients male and female young and old some with behavioural difficulties, some with learning difficulties and some who were really, really angry. The really, really angry ones were the most entertaining. One older man was threatening the staff with violence because they were hurting him. The Occupational Therapists were attempting to make him stand and walk and he wasn't pleased. One young doctor intervened and spoke to the man with all the authority of school boy. The response he got was straight from the ‘Shipyard school of direct speech! The funny thing was that the man was now on his feet threatening to take on all comers and the staff were trying to get him to sit down. The man wasn't on my list but his raised voice dominated a visit I had with an 82 year old lady from Larne. She rolled her eyes when she commented about the commotion, but I suspect she was as amused as I was. Another lady denied she was who I was looking for. I asked at the nurses’ station for Mary and they pointed at her. I said she had just denied her name, they smiled and said good luck. When I went to see her I said Mary, you are who I am looking for to which she replied very loudly and very sternly My Name Is Not MARY! It is MOLLY! WHY DO PEOPLE KEEP CALLING ME MARY? I said I was sorry and explained someone must have written her name incorrectly at admission. My name is Mary she then explained, but I only use it in an official capacity. By this stage the entire ward was watching this drama unfold. I asked if it would be alright if I called her Molly? She shouted why do you think I'm explaining all this to you young man? I WANT YOU TO CALL ME MOLLY! I left her when the doctor arrived after a short but difficult time with her. She did tell me however that she liked the Methodists, although giving the impression that she may review her opinion at any moment!

The day had been good and I had, had some interesting conversations with people from various walks of life. It occurred to me that I hadn't prayed with anyone the whole day, but it had never seemed appropriate on any of the visits. I got back to the office and had a chat with some nuns who were having lunch. When Derek came in he reported he had seen the young Cranfield boy and his family. The outlook wasn't good!

What he said next sent the day to hell in a hand cart. He said that he had to carry out a naming ceremony for a baby boy who had been still born. Over lunch and a bit of “shadow boxing” around the subject it was decided I should accompany him to the ceremony. I didn't want to go and he didn't want to force me to go. He was aware how upset I was the last time we were in an end of life situation with a baby. I didn’t want to go, but I was prepared to go if he asked me, but I wasn't going to volunteer. I left the decision to him and he suggested it would be a good learning experience.

Nothing can prepare you for the horror of walking into the room with a cot in the middle of it that contains a dead baby. The horror is in the ordinariness of what you see. There was a strange dynamic in the room. The baby's mother was telling two dark haired women about the events that led her and them to this point. There was talk about blood pressures rising and falling and bleeding, all delivered in a very detached way as if it had happened to someone else. The grandmother and her partner who had been waiting outside split up when we went in, the grandmother to sit beside her daughter. On the other side of the mother was a young blond girl who was either a close friend or sister. When the grandmother went to hold her daughter's hand she recoiled and gave her hand to the younger woman. The two dark haired women stared straight ahead never speaking, or showing any emotion. The baby's father never showed. Derek explained he would read some scripture and pray, he would then ask the mother to name the child. When he got to this bit I watched as this young girl was overcome by grief. I was reminded of when I was a child how passing ferryboats on Belfast Lough used to send waves to the shore and how they could sometimes overwhelm you. This young woman was overcome by a wave of grief. As the service progressed she stroked her baby's head and smiled lovingly at him. When it came to the naming she was overcome once more and she howled in pain. Her mother encouraged her to say his name but she was so swamped nothing would come out. Eventually in a strangled voice she named him Jack. I couldn't make out the second name.

I have never experienced such grief as I witnessed in that room. As Derek signed the documentation a new pain emerged, the realization that baby Jack would soon be taken away and would never again be seen and would never again be stroked by his mother. I watched as another wave of grief accompanied that thought.

Through the whole process I had felt detached and removed, but inside I knew that this event would haunt me even more than the first baby in ICU.
I went down stairs while Derek went upstairs to inform the nursing staff that the naming ceremony was over and Jack could be removed from the room.

I saw her as I sat in reception......