The Problem with Dying

This week another patient died. I am a chaplain intern at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. Patients are going to die. That is, for many, what they go there to do. And yet, I am startled. A man, an old man (93, I believe). Died. He did not suffer, he was healthy and more active than I am until two weeks ago. Then a stroke, I think, and this week, we terminally extubated him. I watched as the doctors did what they do. And then we ushered in the family so they could be with him while waiting for him to die.

I can't imagine sitting in a room with someone I love and waiting for them to die.

And I went home that night, just completely thrown. And, to make matters worse, I was thrown by the fact that this man's death threw me! I wrote my sermon on death and dying. I have now delivered it twice. I know we all die, I know it is normal and natural. I know it happens whenever it happens. And I know I have no control over that. I have made my mental peace with Death.

But my heart refuses the whole endeavor.

Somewhere in me, I cannot seem to defeat the inner five year old who folds her arms over her chest, stamps a black-pattened-leather, mary-jane clad foot on the floor and cries, "this is not fair! I do not deserve this."

And I know neither how to explain to her that yes, it is unfair and that she might as well just learn to live with it not do I know how to best Death and make it succumb to MY rules of life and living.

And I am angry because Death is a problem which cannot be solved, nor can I, at this point in my life, reframe it so that it is not a problem, but more of a challenge to navigate or-quite simply-just one of life's many truths.

Recently, in a my class Visions of Reform Judaism, I read an article by Rabbi Lawrence Hoffman (my hero). In it, he pointed out that one underlying metaphor within Judaism is "the journey." If life is a journey, then, like corss-country road trips, there are requisite stops along the way. When you drive America, you have to go to the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, The White House, Lincoln Memorial etc. On our life road trip, we must stop by at "sickness" "health" "joy" "sadness" and so on. We must also stop by at "death."

And I both long for and dread the day when not only do I know this in my head, but I also know this in my heart. When the death of another does not so startle me. When I can get through a day at Mount Sinai and not consider the day which will one day come when I am in a hospital somewhere wrestling with the life and death, sickness and health of my self, my parents, my brother and his family, my friends, my neighbors, my congregants...the list goes on.

But when the day comes that I am inured to death and no longer traumatized by its surprise, I will sleep through the night, I will walk out and just go on with my day, I will not think about the loss to the world and to those who loved the person, and I...I will be just a little less human, a little less soft, a little less warm.

Chaplaincy in the land of Social Justice

Recently, during a coffee break with Rabbi Brent Spodek from American Jewish World Service, we began chatting about the overlap of social justice and being a chaplain. Rabbi Spodek's essential question, as I recall, is how can being a chaplain be an act of social justice.

Here is my vision, I can see chaplaincy as an opportunity to do more than just social action (as in direct service work like going to a soup kitchen and serving a meal)but to create true social change.

But what is this thing, chaplaincy in the first place? I am a chaplain at Mount Sinai hospital in New York City. My job is to sit with people and bear witness to their experiences, especially bearing witness to people's suffering. Here is the hope, like any heavy load one carries, it is easier when two people are shouldering the burden than just one. The goal of sitting with someone is not to solve problems, but to make their portage less burdensome.

In social justice/social change world...well, I think being a chaplain opens up a space for some true social change. Beyond just helping those who are burdened (and PS, we are ALL burdened by something) to carry the load, there is something which acknowledges the humanity of another human being, which validates someone else's sense of self worth just by asking, are you ok?

My assumption and understanding, there are people in the world who are in pretty terrible life circumstances. People do not wake up in the morning and think, I want a really hard, miserable life full of suffering and travail. No, what happens is if you hear enough messages from your family, your community, the media, strangers on the street and other subtle sources of input that you, are worthless or even just worth LESS, eventually you will believe it.

At the soup kitchen, we teach the kids, imagine the homeless person on the street who is not only in a place to need help, is not only asking for help, but is spending the day being ignored by almost everyone who walks by while in the middle of doing one of the hardest things people ever have to do (which is admitting we cannot do it all alone and HAVE to ask others for assistance). Imagine how fundamentally invisible-ing that feels, how profoundly terrible it feels go through a day, let alone a life of being unseen by all other people in the world. (Imagine going through a day without anyone even saying hello to you...) Now what would happen for that person to just simply be acknowledged?

People out there say, well why don't those who are in need just pull themselves up by their boot straps and change, make their situation in life better? Well, what if you do not even know that you deserve better? What if you cannot even imagine better? What if you do not even know that your boots have straps to pull?

This is the power of being a chaplain in creating social change, as I can see it.

And it feels like an appropriate and powerful role for those who are the "haves" to play in the lives of those who are the "have nots."

Imagine if that tv show where the really sexy host from Home and Garden TV built a new house not for the most deserving but for the seemingly LEAST deserving. What if we assume that the hardest, meanest people are the ones who hurt and suffer the most? What if that show validated THEIR humanity, their suffering and misery? Can you imagine, in a certain supported social context, how an act that that (the giving of a home to someone who is constantly told by the world you deserve nothing and so we give you nothing!)would change that person's life and the lives of others around him or her? Assume for a moment, our symbol least deserving person, consumed with his/her own pain takes it out on those around him/her through various kinds of violence (emotional, spiritual, physical) what would happen to our crime rate our abuse rate or jobless-ness rates if people everywhere who formally felt like nobodies suddenly knew that really truly they are somebodies? Somebodies who deserve better.

Somebodies with boot straps to pull up...

Vulnerability-Getting to OK

I wonder, sometimes, if anyone is actually ok.

It seems to me that everyone is walking around carrying a whole heck of a lot of secret baggage. As far as I can tell, the rules of the grown up game are carry as much as you can stoically, and then pretend as hard as possible that you are not weighed down by it all.

Why is it so hard, so non-normative, to be less than totally ok. I think we all look at people who are "having a tough time" with pity and sympathy. But secretly, perhaps, we envy those who finally get to publicly declare, damn, I have had enough and just for this moment I cannot carry it all alone. I can't do this right now!!

As if doing this secret portering of our own mishugas were a laudable achievement.

And while we stand there and offering comfort to the fallen soldiers amongst us, those unable to carry the weight, we part-pity, part-envy them. Envy that they are strong enough to admit the difficulty, strong enough, brave enough to throw in the towel, even if it is just for a moment.

Recently, one of my Rabbi mentors said to me, being vulnerable is hard. We test the waters with people-let the guard down a little, see if it is ok, let a little more of the secret baggage (my language not hers) show, and little by little, we let people in as we see that they are safe. But the trouble is, the more vulnerable we are to another human being, the more frightening the relationship is because the more vulnerable we are to the pain that can happen when there is a mis-step (and the mis-steps in REAL relationships will come), when someone leaves, when someone dies.

There is no conclusion here, no wisdom I have to offer. Just these thoughts on the absurdity of it all. The pretense of "everything is fine," the posturing of having it "all together." This need to look perfect-it drives our economy (beauty industry, fad diets, clothing, products, fashionable coffees and various home goods which communicate an air of "I am ok, see, I have an especco machine). It is the reason we have tv-to watch other people fall apart and to live vicariously through them, to watch other people juggle and be in awe and wonder, and from them we learn-keep going, keep making it look good.

What would happen if as a world we said HELP!! This is too hard!! What would happen if we decided that really, panty hose are uncomfortable no matter how nice your legs look in them and so we just are not wearing them anymore. What would happen if we said, truly, the stuff which is weighing me down has so much power over me BECAUSE I pretend it is not there. What would happen?

Maybe just maybe we really would then be ok...

(PS, Mom, I TRULY am fine, I just am thinking about all of this after a tough day at the chaplaining at the hospital and hearing all about the things that people hold as secrets...When people ask, why me?? As if they are being singled out when truly, it is all of us. We all suffer, we all are burdened and we all...well, most everyone at least, feel like we are the only ones. When really, look to your left, look to your right. That person, they too are sloppily, precariously, and tee-totteringly carrying their own mangled, tangled set of stuff often refered to as "my life")