Sometimes a little comic relief shows up when you
least expect it. Right on time.
Rob would have loved this story. He was there when it
happened, but like so many things lately, we never got to talk about it. Or chuckle over it together. But we will. Someday. I’d bet my last laugh on it.
Katy and I spent a sleepless night after that call
from the doctor. We all did. It came down to this—we knew we had to let Rob go.
And that meant a four-hour drive up to Show Low the next day, back to the
hospital where everything went wrong. I still needed oxygen at that elevation,
we both arrived wearing N-95 masks, and after gowning up and putting on gloves,
we immediately we went to Rob’s room to tell him how much we loved him and say
goodbye for now.
It was the hardest thing we’ve ever done.
Lee was on the phone the entire time while we sat at
Rob’s bedside, listening to us talk to his dad, a witness to the long silences,
praying over the phone for his father, sending his love. For several hours, in
person and by phone, we all sat with Rob in that hospital room. Our family. Waiting.
Listening. Watching. And weeping.
We’d never done anything like this before. And with
the mantra Katy and I adopted ever since she brought me home from that same
hospital four weeks earlier, we reminded each other that even though “we don’t
know what we’re doing,” we just keep doing it anyway.
Rubbing our necks and changing positions in the chairs
where we sat on each side of Rob’s bed, our attention turned in the direction
of a hospital employee who suddenly appeared. Neither a doctor or a nurse, the
man leaned in through the door he held open, brushed aside our curiosity, and got
right to the point.
“Would you like a chaplain to come in and pray with
you?” he asked.
I never turn down prayer.
Katy and I nodded, and the man quickly disappeared. A
few minutes later, a second man arrived.
“Are you looking for someone to pray with you?” he
inquired.
“Sure,” I said, a little confused. “Are you the
chaplain?”
“No, but I can get you one. What kind would you like?”
What kind would I like? Katy and I exchanged glances
while we thought about the strange question. I don’t know, I wanted to answer.
Do you have any with whipped cream and a cherry on top? I never knew you could
order a special variety of chaplain. No one had even offered us a menu to peruse.
Then again, COVID had done away with actual menus. Maybe I should have scanned
a code when we came in the hospital, so I’d have been better prepared with an
answer. The man looked a little impatient.
“I don’t know how to respond to that,” I finally told
him.
“Well, what denomination are you?”
Now, there’s a tricky question. Almost trickier than
suggesting I could order a chaplain with a side of fries. I haven’t really
claimed a religious denomination since churches started hiding their
affiliation behind the catchy names on their signs outside.
Katy rescued me from my moral dilemma. “Non-denominational,”
she interjected.
The man appeared relieved. “Fine. I’ll get you one of
those,” he said, and shut the door behind him.
This place could stand to brush up on their communication
skills, I thought. “I’ll get you one of those.” I pictured an assembly
line of Build-A-Bear chaplains right down the hall. Cute, dressed in exciting
colors, and pre-loaded with fun. I wasn’t far off.
The door flew open and a firecracker in a clerical
collar burst into the room.
“Hi!” she announced loudly. “I’m the chaplain!” Short
and spunky, I expected her to jump into the air and click her heels together, ready
to wish us a “top o’ the mornin’!” It wasn’t out of the question, even though she
appeared to be about eighty, but I’ll admit I was jealous. I haven’t had energy
like hers since I was twelve.
Taking in the scene, she straightened her uniform and
got right down to business. She crossed the room in a quick stride, took her
place at the head of the bed, pressed one hand down hard on Rob’s chest, and
leaned in close to his face. Katy and I reacted to the assault by scooting to
the edge of our chairs, ready to tackle the tiny chaplain, but the woman was on
a mission and never hesitated. Or noticed.
“ROBERT!” she yelled, as though Rob was deaf. “I HAVE
WONDERFUL NEWS FOR YOU! DID YOU KNOW THAT JESUS CHRIST LIVED A PERFECT LIFE,
DIED FOR YOUR SINS, AND WANTS TO TAKE YOU TO HEAVEN WITH HIM TODAY?”
My eyes glued to Rob’s monitors, I watched his heart
rate begin to rise in direct proportion to his agitated blood pressure and respirations.
I knew how sensitive his body had been for weeks to even slight noise. What he
was experiencing now was on the scale of an F-4 tornado. I’m not a doctor but
even I knew this had to stop. Prayer shouldn’t hurt.
“He’s a believer!” I said quickly to the kind of
chaplain we’d ordered. “He loves Jesus!”
She broke out in a big smile, and I breathed half a
sigh of relief before she started in again, her volume now set to supersonic.
“ROBERT! THAT’S WONDERFUL NEWS!”
If Rob wasn’t deaf before, her evangelistic approach
was about to do him in now. I always thought Jesus restored the five
senses, not injured them.
“WHY DON’T I PRAY FOR YOU, ROBERT?” she yelled again, jolting
me off the edge of my seat.
I was already praying for Rob—that the wind-up
munchkin would wind down ASAP. Kicking myself for inviting her in, I wished I’d
realized that Katy and Lee and
I had the prayer angle covered for hours. God heard us just fine and we weren’t
even yelling. Thankfully, she ended the monologue before Rob’s rising vitals short-circuited
the monitors over his bed. I heard a satisfied “Amen” from the energizer bunny before
she turned with a smile toward Katy and me.
“And can I do anything else for you while I’m here?”
she asked. Yup. Please go away. Out loud I said, “No, thank you, you’ve done enough.”
Missing my sarcasm, the non-denominational kind of
chaplain looked pleased with herself and shook our hands. Then she escaped
through the door where I couldn’t press charges. Katy and I sank back in our
chairs, exhausted, looking at each other wide-eyed. I watched in relief as Rob’s
heartrate returned to normal, his blood pressure stabilized, and his
respirations slowed. I checked mine, too, and turned up the oxygen on my tank.
Then I looked at my shell-shocked daughter.
“What was that?”
Worn out, we rolled our eyes, both of us swallowing
our laughter.
“What kind would you like?” the man had asked.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty, they say. With a sigh of
relief in the now peaceful room, I told my daughter—out of an abundance of newly
gained wisdom—the lesson I’d just learned.
“We should’ve ordered a Catholic.”
With many thanks to Steve Snodgrass for permission to use the great photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following the link below:
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