Sometimes I sing to people as they die. The pager beeps, and I slip on my blazer because it makes me look older. I surprise families. Even in their grief, they expect an older man, not a twenty-six year old woman with short hair and tattoos peeking from under her slacks. The nurses recognize me now, though I surprised them too.
My favorite nurse is on today. Jackie gives me a little smile, jerks her head toward a room. No greeting, not during a page. “Hospice patient; they’re going to remove life support today. Whole family is in there waiting for you. She’s young-- forties. Late stage cancer. Single. Name’s Angela, Angie for short. Brought in here last night when she coded. They intubated. Really, Hillary... she’s gone already. We’re ready when they are.”
Here is the ICU, my unit even when I’m not on call, like I am today. The nurses like it when I’m on call-- they know me. They know I understand when not to ask for miracles.
“Who’s point?”
“Angie’s mom, Louise. We like her.”
“Okay. Let me go in, check things out. I’ll come get you when they’re ready.”
I straighten my blazer, fluff my hair. Breathe. I knock on the door as I open it. I’ve perfected this move; it is polite to knock, but I acknowledge my own authority to enter by coming in as I do so. Because of my age, and at times, my gender, I have to claim my authority in every quiet way.
With one glance, I can tell who is in charge. A wiry black woman with wide eyes and white hair sits at Angie’s right, holding her hand. Her eyes are dry; everyone else in the room is angled to face her.
“My name is Hillary. I am a chaplain here at the hospital. You must be Ms. Louise.” I am Southern, so an elderly woman gets an appellation. She nods, considering me; her fingers stroke her daughter’s hand automatically.
“How is Angie today?” I turn to the younger woman as I ask, listening to the room. Machines are slow and steady along with the hiss of the ventilator. She is still, eyes slightly open, mouth invaded by the respirator tubing. I touch her shoulder.
Louise answers with calm. “We think she is ready to go home to the Lord.”
She may already be home, I think.
Behind her, a woman my age is weeping. Angie’s sister, I imagine. I know I would weep too. I meet her eyes, touch her arm. “It’s so hard to say goodbye,” I whisper to her. “But this goodbye is not forever.”
She nods, sniffs, continues to weep. I step closer, and she does not shy away, so I briefly hug her from the side before turning my attention back to Louise. I speak loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Would you all like to gather and pray with Angie?”
They are hungry for it, reaching for my hands, slamming their eyes shut. I have seen pastors in this moment raise their voice to plead for healing, to call down miracles from heaven. I ask for God’s presence during pain, ask for a warm welcome for Angie. The family echoes my every sentence with “please God” or “yes, Lord” and their weeping.
I let the silence hang for a moment after “amen.” Sniffles shouldn’t be interrupted all the time. “If you all are ready, I will go get the nurses. They will ask you all to step out for a few minutes so that they can remove the breathing tube. Then, you can all come back in and sit with Angie again.”
After a few failed attempts to speak, the sister manages to ask, “Will she suffer?”
No one knows the answer to this for sure, but I know that the nurses administer additional morphine to make it as painless as possible. I have seen this before. “It will be very peaceful for her.” I squeeze Louise’s hand, place my hand on the sister’s shoulder. “I will give you all some privacy. When you’re ready, we’ll get the nurses. I will be right outside.”
“Thank you, Chaplain.”
I don’t go to pages with any plans to sing. I lean against the wall of the nurses station, watching Angie’s monitors as the family says their goodbyes.
“You never know how long these things take,” Jackie says. “But Angie is home already, I think. She’s had no brain activity since she coded. I think it will be quick for the family. How is everyone? Sister has been struggling. Heather’s her name.”
I watch the door. “It’s hard to say goodbye to a sibling. Harder for her than Mom right now; Mom is doing okay because this is her last act of taking care of Angie. Afterwards will be the hard part for Louise.”
Slowly the family shuffles out of Angie’s room, with Mom and Heather coming last. I brought them water, tissues. When nurses exited her room again, Jackie nodded. Angie looked more natural. They’d cleaned her face, arranged her on a pillow. Her lips were parted, her eyes slightly open, but she looked like she was sleeping. I noted no breathing, so I hurried to get the family. As they gathered around her bed, they were quiet, crying. After a moment, I began to hum. I hummed the full first verse of Amazing Grace, listened as sniffles intensified, watched the jumps on the heart monitor get further and further apart. Heather reached for my hand and held it, so I sang aloud.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I’m found.
I was blind but now I see.
As I sang, other voices joined me. Eventually Heather folded into me, holding on and shaking. “Don’t stop,” she said. She held onto my blazer, so I put my arms around her. “Don’t stop.”
Through many dangers, toils, and snares
I have already come
Twas grace that brought me safe thus far
and grace shall lead me home.
By now Jackie is singing, and so is the social worker. The line is flat now, but I catch Louise’s eye over her daughters braids. She scrubs her eyes with the back of her hand, nods to me. This time, my voice shakes, and I sing through my own tears.
When we’ve been there ten thousand years
bright shining as the sun
we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
than when we’ve first begun.
All was silent for a moment. The attending physician watched me. I inclined my head. He softly read the time from the clock to the sniffling room, muttered some condolences, and left. Most doctors do-- their job is over now.
My hand rubs a circle on Heather’s back while I think of my own brother. I don’t think to wipe my own eyes or control my own sniffles.
“My sweet girl,” Louise says. “What happens now?” She directs the question at me, while she strokes her dead daughter’s hand.
I continue the circles. “You can have as much time as you want with her. I have a form for you to sign, releasing her body to the funeral home of your choice. The hospital will take care of calling them. They will take very good care of her.”
Louise shook her head. “She is in God’s hands now.”
“Yes, ma’am, she is. No more pain. No more suffering. She fought the good fight,” I said. “She finished the race.” I heard Heather whisper it along with me. “Now, she has peace and joy, and the rest of you will feel it again soon. I promise.”
When everyone else has filed out, Heather remains. She and I sit on the small bench in the room while Heather studies her sister.
“I wish you had the power to bring her back,” she says, calm now. She is studying her sister’s face.
My throat feels tight. I swallow hard. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I do not have that power.” I grip her hand tighter, covering it with my own.
“Do you really think she’s okay now? That she’s with God?”
I do not think things are as cut and dry as my Sunday School teachers said, and I’m not sure what happens when the beeps stop. But I have my theories.
“I think that God welcomed her just now with open arms. And I think God is with you now, too, and always will be. I know how it sounds, but that really is what I think. What I know.”
She took a shuddering breath. “It doesn’t feel like it. I asked for her to get better so many times. Why didn’t God answer me?”
I pondered that. I did not know the answer, or at least, any answer that would comfort a grieving sister.
“Did you ever go to Sunday School back in the day, Heather?”
She barked out a surprised laugh. “That’s one way to avoid a question. But yeah. Mom took us every week until we were old enough to drive ourselves. Then we could choose.”
“Did you ever hear the story in Daniel about the three guys that got thrown into the fire?”
She pondered. “Yeah. They did a VeggieTales episode on that one. They didn’t bow down, had faith that God would save them and then He did. Gonna tell me my faith wasn’t strong enough? I won’t fight you on that.”
I shook my head. “Absolutely not. Mine wouldn’t be either. Besides, that’s not how I remember the story.”
She turns to look at me, focused now.
“In the story, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego tell the King that they will not bow to his statue. The King vows to see them burn. Then they say, ‘If our God is able to deliver us from the fiery furnace, then let God deliver us. But if not, let it be known that we will not serve your gods nor will we worship the statue.”
“If?” Heather wonders.
“If.” I answer. “They did not know. I think that makes them braver. Where is God in that story? Do you remember?”
She thought, all the while gazing at her sister’s body. “God comes down into the fire with them, and they don’t burn.”
“Is that what they asked for?”
She thought about it.
“They asked for deliverance," I said. "But God didn’t deliver them, exactly. God didn’t even open the door. The King did. Then they walked out themselves. But God is still there in the story.”
Heather nodded slowly. “In the fire. God kept them from burning.”
“I don’t have answers or powers, Heather, but here’s what I think. I think God was with Angie during all her treatments, during all the chemo. I think God cried too when she lost her hair, when the treatments failed, when they told her there was nothing left to try. Maybe God didn’t answer your prayer the way you hoped--didn’t for those guys either. But God was there--- in the fire. Probably felt the heat too. I think God answers by being there, and feeling it with us. And when it’s all over, God is there too.”
Heather studied me, quiet for a while. Then she spoke. “You cried, Chaplain.” She remembered my name. “Hillary. You were sad.”
I swallowed. “Of course. I could tell how much you all loved Angie. I know how hard it is to say goodbye. I thought of my brother.”
Heather returned her gaze to Angie’s body. “I think I’m ready now. I’ll just say goodbye. I think she’ll still hear.”
“Me too,” I said.
She approached her sister’s body and without touching her, whispered something. And then with a little wave, she turned, and we walked out together.
I don’t go to pages planning to hug or not hug, to sing or not sing, to cry or to hold back. I don’t go with planned answers, or stories in my head. I don’t memorize verses or prayers. I just go.
Author’s Note
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