All I Can Do Is Pray

“Hi, Mr. Allen, how are you?” I addressed the still form under the covers trying to sound nice without being overly cheerful. I clutched my little black bible in my hand and made sure my hospital ID was visible.

“Who are you?” he said very softly. He lay on his side facing away from the door. The skin on his arm looked like paper that was at least one hundred years old. A knitted cap covered his head and a thin dingy white hospital sheet covered the rest of his body. The room was bare, no cards, no flowers, and nothing on his table with the exception of one picture. It was a picture of a house on a lake.

“I’m Julie, the Chaplain.” I sat down in the chair facing him.

“Well, I don’t believe in God.” He’d pulled the blanket at the end of his bed over his feet. “I’m cold.”

Oh thank God, I thought and started toward the door.

“You don’t have to leave. You can still talk to me.” His voice was strained and he sounded almost breathless.

“Okay.” I said.

I stared at the bible on my lap. I had no idea what to do next. This was my first interaction with a patient and already I was at a loss. I felt totally incompetent. In my “other life” I had been in corporate sales, twenty years of account calls, presentations in boardrooms, and solving customer problems. Now, I was making small talk with a terminal patient. I had taken a leave of absence from my job to complete this unit of Clinical Pastoral Education. The process for Holy Orders in my Diocese required it. Three months of giving pastoral care, working through conflicts brought about by my fellow chaplains, and dealing with all my own stuff that would surface because I lived in a crisis-filled environment. I felt helpless as I looked at the man in the bed. He was dying of cancer, he didn’t believe in God, and he was cold.

“Can I get you another blanket?” The problem solver in me had kicked in.

“Won’t help. It doesn’t matter how many blankets I put on this bed, I just can’t seem to get warm.” His claw like fingers pulled his knitted cap further down over his ears. His bones practically poked through his paper like skin.

“Oh.”

That was it. All I could say was Oh? I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to look and I certainly didn’t know what to say.

I could see my own discomfort reflected in his eyes. He took pity on me. “Since you’re the chaplain, why don’t you just say a little prayer?”

“Okay.” I leaned forward. Should I take his hand?

Again, I was at a total loss. What should I pray for? The man was terminal. It said so on my patient sheet. I resorted to my sales background. Always find out what the customer wants first.

“What would you like me to pray for?” I asked him.

He squinted and glanced at the picture of the house. “Well, I would like to go home to die, but for some reason, the doctor won’t let me. Why don’t you ask your God to let me go home?”

I took his hand, closed my eyes and said “Please God, let Mr. Allen go home. Amen.”

At that moment, the dividing curtain fluttered and a large man appeared at the end of the bed. His white lab coat was peppered with coffee stains and he was holding three thick patient charts that had forms and papers sticking out in all directions. Underneath the embroidered logo of the hospital was the word Oncology in thick black letters. “Bob, I was just walking down the hallway considering the idea of sending you home and I felt compelled to come in here and tell you that I’ve changed my mind. I’ll contact Hospice and we’ll make the arrangements to get you out of here.”

Mr. Robert Allen looked at me and smiled. “Wow, you’re good.”