by Angela Townsend

It’s not that the cats and diabetics will die. It’s just that they are at risk of poor outcomes. 

The elderly cat with eyes like Al Pacino is not a finalist for the Cute Overload calendar. There is a hard kink in his tail from a door that closed too quickly. He is the newest resident of New York Animal Care and Control. 

If you pet him, he will not bite you, only exude shame in all directions. If you pet him, you will feel overripe peaches under his skin, lipomas that will not kill him, although they may contribute to a poor outcome. 

If you show him to potential adopters, they will avert their eyes. They were looking for something younger, more yielding. Look! An orange kitten! They will not think of Al again. They will not ask about his outcome.

It’s not that the weird sanctuary plucks “death row” cats. They hate that term. They bristle like ferals when Facebook shrieks it in all caps. The weird sanctuary simply has an eye for animals at risk of poor outcomes, the old and the uncertain and the unconventionally attractive. The weird sanctuary is addicted to the unreasonable. They leave fishy thumbprints on recipe cards for unauthorized redemption. They overlook the adorable in favor of Al. 

The diabetic volunteer does not understand why the word “diabetic” is passe. Nowadays folks ask if she prefers “person with diabetes,” but Clara doesn’t mind the adjective. She snickers that her pancreas is as good as a potato, while preventing her from properly enjoying potatoes. The bum! Diabetics are more likely to have poor outcomes if they get sick, so Clara takes zinc and gets vaccinated.

Clara came to the weird sanctuary when her cat Bean was diagnosed with diabetes. She says God has a sense of humor, but she doesn’t always “get it.” The weird sanctuary wrapped her in silly spaghetti arms. They taught her how to give insulin injections. They promised Bean would get with the program. They were right. She was hooked. 

It’s not that Clara felt lost before, but she hopes you’ll understand how the weird sanctuary is better than church. If they take a cat like Al, they won’t mind when she has nothing to say, she just needs to sit on the floor in the Senior Cat Room for a while. If they take a cat like Al, they’ll ask how she’s feeling and wait. When they look her in the eye, they won’t twitch off if she doesn’t say “awesome!”

Nobody needs to say what would have happened to Al at the public shelter. The weird sanctuary writes good newsletters. Donors take the staff by the sleeves and make them promise they’ll never sell the sadness, not even if it works. The weird sanctuary is happy to promise. Death does not need a press secretary. When the light is strong, everyone knows it could have been otherwise. They will focus on the revolution. They will spin the sun like a lottery wheel until it lands on life. They will accept all of Al and all the animals he invites to the dance floor.

Nobody needs to ask what Clara would be doing if she wasn’t scraping litter boxes and brushing calicos. Clara is more interested in tomorrow. Her hemoglobin A1c is not great, and her thyroid has been heckling her, but many creatures are besotted with her. She will wear her weird sanctuary T-shirt to the grocery store and testify to what happens when weak things get crowns. Clara tries to explain, but the words get syrupy, and finally she says you just need to come and see for yourself.

It’s not that the cats and diabetics would have died somewhere else, but we don’t need to speculate about other outcomes. There is a weird sanctuary, and it stages many coups.

---

Angela Townsend is the Development Director at a cat sanctuary, where she bears witness to mercy for all beings. She has an M.Div. from Princeton Seminary and B.A. from Vassar College. 

Angie has lived with Type 1 diabetes for 34 years, laughs with her poet mother every morning, and delights in the moon. She lives in Bucks County, Pennsylvania with two shaggy seraphs disguised as cats. 

Angie loves life dearly.

By Holly Taylor

I realized a long time ago that I am not a “normal” mom. Luckily for me, my husband is extremely patient and allows me the opportunity to experiment as a parent. My curiosity and his support led to a special season of decreased stress and anxiety for our family.

To set the stage, my husband and I were both aware that we might receive promotions and increased job responsibilities at the same time. Both of my elementary aged sons were having different struggles in school — one with personal responsibility, the other with social situations. Our life was reaching a significant stress level and we needed a release valve.  

At home, our sons were displaying signs of anxiety: finger tapping, avoiding direct eye contact, and apologizing constantly. They were waiting daily for something “bad” to happen and expected to get in trouble for every minor perceived infraction. My husband and I were easily frustrated and having headaches regularly. When most parents would limit activities, I added one more. We volunteered seven nights at a haunted house this past fall to raise money for community theater. My husband helped with check-in while my elementary aged sons and I were scare actors. Approximately 25 hours changed our family perspective and lightened our collective mental load.

---

When a season of notable change and stress occurs, it is common for anxiety to set in. Fear and anxiety are similar but different. Fear is shorter-lived and associated with an expected threat, while anxiety is a longer-lasting apprehension linked to the “possibility” of something unpleasant occurring. There is evidence supporting many health benefits gained through controlled fear encounters.

Haunted houses are known for loud noises, strobe lighting, eerie music, and jump scares —  all of which can be frightening when you are on the receiving end of the encounter, but what happens when you are the one delivering it?  The following are positive actions to decrease stress and anxiety that occur when you are the one providing the fright to others:

1. Focused responses to change: Controlled fear experiences allow our bodies to mentally and physically prepare for worst-case scenarios and future threats. An individual becomes more psychologically resilient, controls their responses, and adapts quicker to change.
2. Mindfulness or Positive Affirmations: My youngest son convinced himself through affirmation that he was “as scary as the teenagers” and “brave enough to do this.” Both perspectives have helped him try new things and strive to be like positive older role models. For two weeks, he also invited random strangers to visit the haunted house.
3. Patience and Focused Senses: When waiting to deliver a fright, the scarer must remain extremely still, have great reactive timing, or both. This requires engagement of most of the senses through focused listening, perceptive vision, measured breathing, and sometimes feeling for vibrations on floors, walls, or stairs. Quick mental processing and reaction times are also necessary, as each person being frightened reacts differently.
4. Deep Breathing: Of all focused senses, deep breathing has the most documented benefits and is essential to remain calm and still when working in a haunted house. It lowers blood pressure and heart rate, improves the immune system, and reduces lactic acid build up and muscle tension.
5. Connecting with others to form strong social bonds: Communication with various aged people, planning and coordinating actions, and ongoing text or social media friendships are all benefits shared with fellow volunteers. My entire family has forged new friendships with people we may have never encountered in our day-to-day lives. My eldest son developed close relationships with a diverse group of adults and strengthened bonds with other young actors. 
6. High Fives and Hugs: When a particularly spectacular reaction occurs, the person delivering the haunt is often high-fived, hugged, and praised by the rest of the team during the intermission or end of the night recap. High fives take two seconds or less and are proven to increase motivation and decrease cortisol. Hugs result in oxytocin release and buildup of trust. Both help to create camaraderie and form stronger social bonds. The combination of decreased cortisol, increased oxytocin levels, and strong camaraderie leads to significant relaxation. During the haunted house with loud noises and strobe lights, my youngest child displayed this deep relaxation when he fell asleep on three different nights curled up in a chair in his clown costume. He was so relaxed that visitors thought he was a terrifyingly real prop.

Is scare acting for everyone? Definitely not. However, controlled experiences with fear inducing situations may be what is needed to improve coping, reduce stress, and limit growing anxiety.  

• Terrified of the unknown or potentially real-life situations? Go watch a horror movie or true crime documentary but do it with a friend.    
• Afraid of skydiving? Compromise with a wind tunnel. Take someone with you who loves the adrenaline rush. Their joy and bravery can be contagious.
• Do interviews make you uncomfortable? Let people you trust ask mock questions. They care about your well-being and will provide honest and constructive feedback.   

---

Our twenty-five hours of scare acting and volunteerism significantly lessened the stress and anxiety in our daily lives. We laughed, shared stories from our experiences, discussed new friendships, and inspired others to join us. Our struggles did not disappear, but our approaches to overcoming them did. We each gained a different kind of clarity and peace about conquering the “scary” events in our lives.

---

Holly Taylor, DNP, RN, is a Quality Manager at the University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences.  A native Arkansan, Holly lives in a rural community with her husband, Steven Taylor, and two sons, Griffin and Marshall. She enjoys family time, coaching youth sports, travel, trying new things, and attending church.

By John W. Ballantine, Jr.

I. My Bike

My first bike had red-rimmed training wheels as I swerved down Newlin Road at three. They came off in 1953, when I was four, as I pedaled down the street looking back at my father. “Go, John, keep pedaling, look straight ahead.” A slight panic as I slipped off the sidewalk. Then I was off at five, biking around the block to Battle Road—goodbye as I glided into the Institute of Advanced Study and its curvy, long road with smart men thinking about relativity theory, splitting atoms, and bombs. Back then the US did not speak to communists in the light of day but built more and more bombs to keep everyone safe.

My first bike was small to fit me; however, at eight I was pushing five feet when my first real bike—a blue Schwinn—was purchased after many visits to Kopp’s bicycle store on John Street. It had a ribbon around it on my May birthday—a one-speed American model that I pedaled uphill—standing up—on Cleveland Lane to my best friend, Phil Sherwood. We shot baskets until it was so dark that we guessed the whereabouts of the rim.

Back then I biked anywhere I wanted, as long as I stayed off the busy roads, like Bayard Lane. The sidewalks were safe, and cars moved over when I spun a path between the traffic on Nassau Street. No helmets or locks. Almost every kid lived on their bicycle. The cold winter with snowstorms, sledding, and toboggan runs pushed us into school buses. Radiators clanked in the school. Carpools took many to school, the lunches were mushy, but we were hungry—captive kids in grade school with assembly speeches about civics, the Russians, and why Princeton was a model of integration. Every kid in town went to the same school. Why were the adults telling us this?

The days grew longer by the Ides of March as we rode on the sidewalks to Nassau Street School. I was free, even if my sister Chia tagged along. We had to get there before the 8:30 bell. I would drop her when we passed the university library, racing to the playground for ten minutes of running back and forth before we were summoned to class.

My parents bought the Tudor house Woodrow Wilson designed for his extended family when he was president of Princeton. I had a corner room with fireplace, ghosts, soft green rug, and two bears—a teddy bear and a real bear rug with teeth. A room with books. 

My father completed his dissertation—lamenting the greed and meanness of men—and tried to mediate between business owners and workers. Not easy when the men in the factory breathed in asbestos and the owners wanted more profits from their factories where “Trenton makes and the world takes.” My mother took me to the boys’ and girls’ reformatories so I could see that I had it good. 

My bike was a three-speed Cougar with gears on the chrome handlebars and brakes that did not squeak as I sped downhill at fifty miles per hour. Chia could not keep up with me and searched out quieter paths to school. In the morning I would eat my bacon and eggs, ask my father if the Yankees won again—he started with the sports page and then the Cold War and the Dulles brothers advising Ike to push back hard. I just wanted the Yankees to lose, even as I admired the power of Mickey Mantle’s forearms and Yogi Berra’s strong legs behind the plate.

I disappeared after breakfast, biking quickly to town. My head was full of images as I pushed past the governor’s mansion at Morven, George Washington sitting on a horse crossing the Delaware River, and the town newspaper, the Packet, explaining why we needed a new school. I looked at the dark gothic Princeton University dorms and wondered what went on there—school was boring, so why continue learning? Sometimes, if it was early, I detoured through the university and visited the gray chapel—almost a cathedral—with an organ rumbling the foundation and the Scottish minister speaking in a brogue that no one could understand. So, here was the word of God? My bike rested outside, and I stood quietly looking up to the high, arched ceiling—not quite knowing why we gathered in churches to calm our thoughts, soothe our souls. 

II. The World

My blue Schwinn opened the world for me. I am going to school, to Mark’s, to my Little League game. Bye, see you later. I was off at ten and back at thirteen, when I was sent away to boarding school, locked away with no free time and no bike.

My bike was squeezed in the narrow carriage garage, where I lifted it over my father’s green 190 SL convertible, ready—like some ancient charioteer—to take me into the world. I pushed the bike down the gravel driveway, past the libraries of higher learning and the Five and Ten Cents store—a store full of models, glue, soda fountain with round red leather stools, and no adults watching. I paid for my pilfering crime by confessing to less than I stole. This meant I only had to help stack toys at the store on two Saturdays in October, instead of four. My bike took me beyond Nassau Street School—with huge windows, dirt playgrounds, jungle gyms, and turf fights—to Mark’s house near the Princeton Stadium, where the varsity football team persisted in a single wing offense, confounding the brightest on the gridiron. 

Here our day began with pickup games, chess matches, and boys on bikes meandering down yellow brick roads. No one asked where we were going in the morning—out for the day, maybe home by dinner.

We escaped our parents, who were always messing up. Bomb shelters and cold wars, not to mention the failed Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba and missile crises to come. Martin Luther King’s 1963 dream speech stirred many parents—some marched as we sat in integrated schools separated by sections: 7N for the smart kids—professors’ sons and daughters—who were college bound. 

And why did my friend Hartney burn Francis’ hair with a magnifying glass as we practiced set theory—zeroes and ones, a whole new way of counting? Because he wanted to test what they told us in science class—concentrated sunlight is a source of fire. Eureka. The French substitute teacher did not get our cries of delight with smoke rising from our success. Hartney became an engineer. Sam, the chess player, had the magnifying glass. We sat in the back of the room and watched her hair smoke—and then we explained to Mr. Cobb, the principal, that we were just experimenting, nothing mean. Francis had long hair and was smarter in French. Still Mr. Cobb professed an hour in study hall would help us think about what we did. Really, adults believe that stuff.

III. Libraries

At ten things did not add up. Still the library with stacks next to the chapel was a refuge that I was allowed to visit with a pass. I spent afternoons in the sunlit rooms away from everyone, pulling books off the shelves as I wrote my first paper on the history of New Jersey. Not so simple. But the Depression stumped me with all the pictures of starving people in soup lines, stock market crashes, and President Roosevelt trying to assure all on the radio that everything was all right. When it wasn’t. 

I asked my father why, and he did not have an easy explanation. I read books on the Great Crash, gave my first economics lecture at twelve to my eighth-grade class—explaining how things fall apart when the great circle of paying and spending is broken. My arms showing the circle of money and how people’s confidence collapsed back then. Animal spirits it was called. My gangly classmates looked back at me—where did I get these ideas? Books.

Libraries were open to me and my friends—Mark, Carl, and Peter—all professors’ sons, IF we biked to the Firestone Library early on Saturday morning before the university woke. With a pass, some index card numbers, we disappeared into the stacks for hours. Then a milkshake and burger at the Balt before the baseball game near Princeton Country Day (PCD) school, the boys’ private school that none of us knew. Baseball games just happened as we weaved through town.

Later the community pool was built near the PCD ballfields. I ran, hit, and caught the ball, over my head, almost as good as Willie Mays. Life seemed good on those sunlit spring days. I disappeared early in the morning, found a quiet library corner to fall into the history of depressions and wars, and then slid home with the winning run under the catcher’s tag in the afternoon. 

At 6 p.m. the phone rang. “Is John there?” 

“Yes, John and Mark are eating dinner—macaroni, some ham, and salad with ice cream to follow,” explained Mark’s mother with burning red hair, Mrs. Jacobs. Mark’s father, the professor who explained why leaves turned in the fall, joined us for dinner, raising his eyebrows at our questions. Photosynthesis is complicated—and we don’t know why some leaves are red, others orange or yellow. Later during my second dinner conversation, my father explained why unemployment and recessions were hard to break and why workers had to fight to sit at the table. 

Mark and I—future roommates—did not know of the scrouge of racism, stupid wars, the draft, or the riots and assassinations until much later. We listened to the cheap Japanese transistor radios—“Soldier Boy” and “Sherry”—and played chess with Sam Goldberger before Bobby Fischer turned the world upside down. Our bikes weaved past Princeton clubs of Scott Fitzgerald and down the leafy streets where the day was ours—not a Leave It to Beaver world, but certainly not the Depression or World War of our parents where Hitler blitzed Belgian, and Polish spitfire pilots saved London.

We feasted on opportunities and dreamed with President Kennedy of Neil Armstrong’s first step on the moon. When I pedaled very fast, standing up, breathing hard, past Dillon Gym, I saw Bill Bradley practice his jump shots for hours. Twenty minutes back home from Mark’s—three miles uphill as the night closed in. “How was your day, John?” Fine.

I gobbled my second dinner—growing more than twelve inches in a year—and asked my parents why people in India were starving as wheat piled up at my grandfather’s grain elevators across the Midwest. “Can’t we fix these markets, Daddy?” I looked at my mother, declaring that I would write my grandfather—buy the surplus grain cheap and ship it to India for the starving multitudes without disrupting the markets. I wrote that letter and my grandfather said, “Great idea, John.” 

IV. Meditations

My bike was a meditation, the pumping of legs, coasting fast, head tucked in, close to fifty miles per hour with no helmet to escape the adult world. Not safe but exciting. Peter’s ten-speed racing bike was proof of the rewards of caddying on the university golf course, lorded over by men laughing. Mark and I had more utilitarian bikes, not locked up at school like Peter’s. He was faster as his parents left for India for some educational posting. Peter ate dinner with us, sleeping over often, since his house was empty. Parents said this was strange. We did not care. Peter had a ten-speed racing bike, and he was our best friend.

I biked to school debating relativity theory and why Einstein was so upset—the probability of electrons meeting did not satisfy this white-haired man with a violin. Yes, we all knew Einstein was smart and so were the many other bombmakers and mathematicians, but Princeton was not a happy place. Destroying Japanese cities sat heavy. Still Carl and I debated the shape of the universe and the black holes to come. And Sam wanted to become a grand chess master even if he did not speak Russian. Our biking debates were serious. Sometimes God existed, but mostly he stumbled.

We talked about civil rights—racism was not a word that passed our lips—even with the separation of sections by smarts—so the IQ test said but not the differences by neighborhood. I had plenty of food on the table, lots of talk at dinner. The only insults I heard were on the playground, you know, words that we did not repeat. Yes, there were bullies, fights, and switchblades, but West Side Story made it all right. 

My biking buddies were not so innocent. Sometimes we stole an idling police car, dropped cherry bombs down university toilets, and shot out streetlights with paper clips. Spanky and the gang smoked some, stole girly magazines, and snapped brassieres as we danced close at the Y. The cops knew the good and bad kids and who hung out at the bowling alley. No Officer Krupke would rescue all of us. Mark and I were roommates in Ivy halls. Dougie was caught robbing the post office—losing his scholarship. Jeff did not run fast enough to escape trouble. And cousin Paul with bags of bad stuff was lost in a Golden Triangle prison for three years. Boys broken by wrong turns and mistakes.

Nightmares to come—adolescence and drugs, some said. Not listening in class, professed others. Or just bad luck.

V. Other places

My bike powered me to other worlds. Soon I would be hiking Welsh bogs and hearing the pub songs of the 1966 World Cup as Britain celebrated. My eyes caught the skirt of a young lass; I drifted in the evening mist with two girls who did not understand English yet kissed with Norwegian wood as McCartney serenaded us. The knocks of the day, the drink, the struggles, and cold, unturned beds were not real. I escaped on my bike, which carried me onward.

The two-wheel Schwinn was not always waiting for me. Sometimes just a book bag and a walk to school—through arches, some evening song, ringing bells, and sitting round a table talking about Catcher in the Rye, or The Ambassadors. I could write one, two, three and count zeroes and ones, and I knew that a German scientist living nearby would get us to the moon before the Russians.

The spring of 1966 was cold. No heat, rain, and the misery of a dying British port town hit me. The beer was flat. Cassius Clay would whip another White boxer, and Mailer would take us deep into his head as he marched against all that the government stood for. No more napalm in Vietnam and someone screamed, “Burn, baby, burn.” Don’t turn your cheek, fight. The TV turmoil woke me, broke my dream. The world seemed unfixable, and it would get worse with the draft and rising war dead. No escape, no way out.

I tried to explain poverty, why some are poor, why some are locked up, why that is not me behind the bars as I walked the hallways of Rikers Island, the model jail that no one could get to easily. Later I stood in the Tombs of NYC and said this is not where justice happens. But that was my summer job, to wander prison hallways, talk to people behind plexiglass visitor booths, and watch Black men in orange suits switch the TV channels. I started my days on leafy bike rides debating the shape of the universe. Prisons were not the morning dream I spun each day.

The world was not right. I wrote earnest missives to my grandfather about the starving masses. I talked to my parents, my friends. Yes, I came up with plans. No, there was no way to get the truant thief out of jail—if he was returning to a home with no father, street drugs, and gangs at school. A lost soul at sixteen. There was no Maria for him. And those bombs and bullets killing so many in Vietnam. A place my mother said I should not touch. And who will die in my stead?

Still, I biked, walked, ran until my thoughts slowed with the night. A light saxophone or gentle ballad spun on the record player, no weed, just the quiet of the one o’clock bell tower before I drifted off with no answers. The night tunes calmed my heart. Jesters were quiet and Lear did not storm into the night. This college world was more than I bargained for. 

Not the sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Not the glazed eyes, or the “hell no we won’t go,” as the cobblestone streets filled with raised fists, but the billy clubs of cops I knew coming down on my friends. Still the morning bike ride and bird songs stayed with me as psychedelic guitars burned. Jimi Hendrix died before he could explain, and Janis chuckled in her Mercedes-Benz until she went. 

I was lost with my longhaired classmates wanting only love. Music filled the tear gas college streets, and banks burned as we voted for truth and justice in stadium rallies for NO More spring classes. STRIKE. I did not go to war. I saw the snow falling out the window and footsteps leading toward the horizon, like some film.

I heard the sermon that said march. I listened to the thunderous call of preachers to set our world right. I looked each way, astonished at the orange-robed Hare Krishnas chanting as bricks broke bank windows and cities burned. This was my world. I did not want to die, go to war, or work in the dark, satanic mills making bombs.

VI. Naïve

I shook the darkness closing in on dreams of goodness. I continued to bike, turned over leaves. My muscles twitched. I ran faster and forgot why I was here. What was the errand and who stood in the aisle next to me? Was that Lorraine’s mother, or maybe Rick Hagadorn—each putting on a good face as we pushed through adolescence. Lorraine, my seventh-grade girlfriend, would find her calm hands taking care; Rick cried too long into his beer and disappeared with cigarettes into the dark pool halls as his cop family wept. I hit the ball far and stepped aside as my gang friends flicked their switchblades. 

I did not walk across the war-torn blocks flashing on TV each night or hear the cries of hunger in the villages bombed by the B52s. I did not work twelve hours to feed three children or knit thick sweaters to break Siberian winters. That was all in movies—the struggles, the spirit. My bed was warm, stars flickered, dogs barked. Books filled my head. Fear found no home in my imaginings.

John, what happened today? Nothing, I took the punch and did not see the shiv. I stood my ground. My pumping legs, head in the sky, kept the traumas at bay. Parents loved me, sister too, and of course, Henrietta, the Black woman who fed, smacked, and loved me like her own.

But my world exploded—assassinations, trashing, the tearing down of the library pillars that held the vaults of dreams, of almost truths. I did not know the treachery of every day until the deceits, the killing, and the racism filled the screen, with Walter Cronkite’s avuncular voice reminding us, “That’s the way it is.” I did not know the streets I biked, or the stories behind the closed doors until I did. 

This should not be. History told me of tougher times and dark hallways with no smiles. Cynicism closed my eyes; I choked on antiheroes. Yes, those men and women driving off bridges, rolled over in burning cars. Film images and Grace Slick taking us down those rabbit holes. Why the existential questions? I slipped but did not fall.

VII. Out of Here

“There must be some way out of here, said the joker to the thief.” Dylan, too, was lost in the blues. Pinballs ricocheted all night, pages turned, poets raged, and someone said our parents were the enemy. They made the bombs, told the lies, and led us into war. No bike nearby, yet I still walk along the river with lights blinking and late-night jukeboxes calling out to the love that walked out the door. I hold the melody of each day. The tear gas lifts with the morning light.

The Hare Krishnas’ chant, the cigarettes whisper in the West Fourth Street blues, and the prostitute smiles. Come sit with me, John, breathe and slow down. My blue Schwinn stands against the black iron fence. Another day begins with dreams pushing back the night.

---

John W. Ballantine, Jr., Ph.D., is a professor emeritus at Brandeis University. His writing is a longstanding avocation and reflection of being in the world of his family, the equations he discusses in class, the books he reads, and the films he watches.

Ballantine Faculty research page

By Peg Newman 

Because I worked full time and had a long commute to the hospital, the chaplaincy training program allowed me to do all but four of my weekly practicum hours on the Friday night overnight shift, 5 p.m. to 9 a.m. At the end of my training year, Kathy invited me to join the staff as a per diem chaplain working Friday nights.  I was elated. 

Because most chaplains worked during the day, when I worked, I was the only chaplain on duty. During the evening, I visited patients who had asked to see a chaplain, and I responded to emergencies. Later in the evening, when visiting hours were over and many of the patients turned their lights off hoping to sleep, I was only responsible for emergency situations. I was able to sleep when I wasn’t needed anywhere.

Many emergencies involved death or dying – supporting family members when a loved one was dying or had died, baptizing babies at risk of dying, spending time with anxious patients who couldn’t sleep because they had recently received frightening diagnosis, etc. I was always paged to code traumas in the ER. Codes were serious, usually life-threatening cases – anything from a GSW (gunshot wound) or an MVA (motor vehicle accident) to a particularly serious heart attack or stroke.

Most student chaplains didn’t like overnights because they were unpredictable and, at least at first, they weren’t comfortable handling emergencies. I, on the other hand, was very comfortable and liked the unpredictable nature of the work. What I wasn’t good at were the routine daytime visits to people who hadn’t specifically asked to see a chaplain and to people who just wanted to chat. The same way it took time for many student chaplains to be comfortable overnight, I eventually became comfortable with the more routine visits. 

We were trained as interfaith chaplains, which meant learning the beliefs, rituals, and expectations of every religion. Though familiar with the concept and some of the worship practices of interfaith work, I was not familiar with many of the rituals and beliefs of each religion. Most of the other student chaplains had spent time in hospitals and were familiar with the way hospitals work, and the kind of medical situations chaplains encountered. I had a lot to learn. 

I was blessed with a mentor who was a retired M.D. who went back to school and became a minister and a chaplain. Cal taught me about some of the medical situations I would encounter as well as the reasons behind hospital policies and practices. He also helped me to grow by listening and making occasional comments when I told him about challenging encounters. 

I am writing this chapter after 22 years of Friday nights. I could fill a book with stories, but instead, I’ve chosen a few that taught me important lessons.

God’s Presence

I was paged at 5 a.m. to support a woman who had been called to come to the hospital because her husband was dying. Entering the room, before I could say a word, the woman, letting me know I was not the person she wanted to see, said “Where’s the priest?”

Startled, I thought to myself, “Fine. I’ll just call Fr. Peter and go back to sleep.” 

Instead, I said, “I’m the only chaplain in the hospital right now. I’m Catholic but if your husband’s need is for a sacrament, there is a priest on call for emergencies.”

Her face softened a bit as she took in my words. Her puffy eyes told me she had been crying and probably had not gotten much sleep for a few nights running. She looked about 40 and was slim with stylish short brown hair and blue-green eyes. She was wearing jeans and an over-sized white tailored shirt that looked like it could be her husband’s. She seemed much too young for the role of a widow. Ravaged by his illness, her husband looked much older, but in fact, he was only 42.

Walking to the patient’s bedside, I could hear the rattling sound made by his breathing. The phlebotomist came in to check on his I.V. so I took the opportunity to step out of the room to talk to the nurse. She assured me that he had several hours left, maybe even a couple days. When I went back into the room, I pulled a chair next to the woman who was sitting by her husband’s side. I explained that I’d like to let our priest get a bit more sleep if that was okay. Calmer now, she agreed to wait. We exchanged names. Her name was Lori, and her husband was Gary. 

“Tell me about your husband,” I invited. I learned that he was a wonderful man, an amazing father and a loving husband. He had been fighting cancer for over a year, bravely, rarely complaining. In and out of consciousness, Gary mumbled something that Lori took to mean he was asking about their 10-year-old son Trevor. 

As Gary drifted back into his deep sleep, Lori explained, “Today was an important baseball game for his team. Gary has always gone to his games. They’re very close. Gary always said he wanted to be there for games and for everything else because he knows teenagers pull away.  He said he wanted to give Trevor a foundation while he was young.”

Sue paused, with tears rolling down her cheeks she said, “Gary will never again see Trevor up at bat.” Pausing, she added, “There’s so many things he will never see.” 

After a while, I made us each a cup of tea and we pulled our chairs over to a small table across the room. Quietly, we talked about the future – how she might talk to her son about death, how she was going to cope herself, who she could rely on for support and how much time she could take off from work. When I asked if she thought of God as a source of support, she responded, “I’m not much of a church goer.”

I replied, “Church is just church. You don’t have to go to church to believe in God, to know God is here with you.” 

I encountered many people who stopped going to church, each for his or her own reason, but I assumed that seeds were once planted and with some attention, they could easily grow and reconnect a person to God. 

I called Fr. Peter at 7 a.m. and he arrived 20 minutes later. Tall and slender with dark hair, he looked very priestly in his black suit with its white square just below his Adam’s apple. No one administers the Sacrament of the Sick quite the way Fr. Peter does. He calls Jesus, “Our Lord,” and speaks of him with great love and intimacy. He begins by talking about the way Jesus used his hands in healing people and then he invites everyone present to participate in the sacrament by laying their hands upon the patient. Then he talks about Our Lord’s love for those who are sick and Our Lord’s special calling to minister to the sick. He proclaims the forgiveness of sin and anoints patients’ foreheads and hands with chrism (holy oil). All present pray the Our Father. The holiness of the moment often evokes tears.

This particular morning, Fr. Peter administered the sacrament as lovingly as he always does. Afterward I asked Lori, “Would you like me to stay with your husband so you can talk to Fr. Peter?’

They walked over to the other side of the room, a double room that was now used as a single. I could hear her sobbing and asking him, “But why would God do this? Why would God allow this? We have a ten-year-old son who is going to lose his father. Doesn’t God care? Why Father? Why? How can this be? I don’t understand.”

Fr. Peter began to say something, but Gary made some noises that sounded like he might be in distress. Sue quickly pulled herself together and went to his side. She adjusted his bed and put on the call light to summon the nurse who came right away. They discussed his medication. The nurse changed the way he was getting his oxygen. This took several minutes. Finally, Gary looked more comfortable. Lori sat next to him and took his hand. Her shoulders relaxed, and like Gary, she seemed to be breathing more easily.

During all this time, Fr. Peter stood to the side watching. I took a seat next to Sue, offered my reassurance that Gary seemed much more comfortable and then suggested she return to her conversation with the priest. She looked at him with a glower and then said to me angrily, in a voice he was meant to hear, “There’s no point talking to him. He doesn’t know anything anyway. He doesn’t have answers to any of my questions. There’s no point.”

Not knowing what to say, responding only to the pain in her voice, I touched her arm with my hand. She began to cry and said, “Please don’t leave me.”  

“I’m not going anywhere,” I replied. She leaned over and put her head on my shoulder, and I held her while she sobbed.

I could see Fr. Peter still standing off to the side. He looked awkward standing there so after a couple more minutes, I said to Lori, “Should we tell Fr. Peter it’s okay to leave? Or maybe you want to say something else?’

Before she could respond, Fr. Peter said, “That’s okay,” implying that he had no intention of leaving. I wondered how Peter managed to just stand there all that time. If it were me, I’d be shifting my weight from foot to foot, probably fidgeting with something, but he just stood there quietly waiting.  Minutes passed. 

Finally, Lori got up and slowly walked over to where Fr. Peter was standing. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

He replied, “There’s no reason to be sorry. I’m glad you could speak so freely. It’s me who should apologize. I know I should have answers to your questions, but there are some things I do know, and I really want to tell you what they are.”

Lori was listening as he continued, “Just before you went to help your husband, you asked me, ‘Where is God while he is lying there like this?’” Answering the question Peter said, “I could see that God was right there in the love you share, in the love you’ve been sharing in all the years of your marriage.” 

Fr. Peter continued, “And God is even more visible in your son. God will be with your son in his baseball game this morning.” 

Fr. Peter paused a moment and added, “The nurse told me that your sister is coming to be with you this morning. God will be coming here with her. He will be with you whenever you turn to him for help.”

Instead of sobbing, Lori cried quietly, letting her tears roll down her cheeks. I hoped she was feeling God’s love or appreciating the love God gave her through her family. 

I cherish the lesson Fr. Peter taught us that day. There is so much we don’t know, so much we can’t understand, but what is important is what we do know. There are a few things I do know with great certainty. I know that I am deeply and profoundly loved by God. I have felt it. I am certain of it. And I am certain about God’s goodness and generosity and the unconditional nature of God’s love and mercy. The mystery of the things beyond my understanding are far less troubling when I can hold onto the things that I know with certainty. I’ve passed this lesson on to many patients.

The Pink Ribbed Sweater

One night I was paged to a code trauma in the ER. A 15-year-old boy had come in via med flight from an outside hospital. He had gone skiing with his friend and his friend’s family, and he was injured in an accident. I knew it had to be more serious than broken bones for a helicopter to transport him from the small community hospital north of Boston to a city teaching hospital that offered more specialized care.

By the time Paul’s parents, Marilyn and Greg, arrived at the hospital, Paul had died. I met them at the front desk and escorted them to the private waiting area we used for the most serious cases, the ones in which privacy was most important. Even before we introduced ourselves to each other, they wanted to know how their son Paul was doing. I explained that not being a medical provider, I couldn’t give them medical information, but I could let the doctor know they had arrived so that he could come and talk to them.

It wasn’t long before I returned with the doctor. Marilyn and Greg were sitting side by side, so he pulled up a chair across from them.

He began, “I am so sorry, but we couldn’t save your son.”

At first all Marilyn could say was no. “No. It can’t be. No. No.” She began to sob, occasionally saying “no” as she took a breath. 

Looking at Greg, the doctor continued, “We did everything we could. So did the EMT’s. They did CPR in the helicopter, trying everything they could to get him here where they hoped we could save him. And we tried everything.”

Marilyn looked at the doctor, apparently wanting to hear what they tried. He continued, “We inserted a breathing tube, used electric shock, tried medications. Nothing worked. I’m so very sorry.” 

After a pause he asked, “Do you have any questions?”

Greg looked at Marilyn, and saw she had nothing to ask, so he responded by shaking his head no. The doctor said he would be available if they wanted to talk to him again. Once more, he said how sorry he was and left. The whole conversation couldn’t have been longer than a couple of minutes.

Greg tried to fight his tears but then gave in to them. Husband and wife, both were too distraught to offer each other any comfort. The shock was too intense.

These are the moments I find most difficult. I hate feeling helpless. I sat down next to Marilyn, put my hand on her shoulder, and like the doctor, told her how sorry I was.

As if crying was contagious, I was barely able to contain my own tears. Determined to control my emotions, I set my gaze on the mother’s pink ribbed sweater. It was well-worn, a bit pilled from being washed many times. The sweater was fitted but not tight, a casual look that went well with Marilyn’s blue jeans. I noticed that she was slim and attractive. Her gasps for air brought me back into the reality of her grief. As she blew her nose, I pushed the small trash bin toward her. 

I saw that Greg was trying to regain his composure. He looked at his wife but had no words to offer. In this moment of relative calm, I asked Greg and Marilyn if they would like to see their son. They looked at each other and nodded in agreement. I excused myself so I could see if the room had been cleaned and if Paul’s body was free of visible blood and arranged under clean sheets. I saw the nurses had everything ready.

When I returned to the waiting area, I was relieved to see that Marilyn and Greg were quietly talking to each other. When Marilyn saw me in the doorway, she responded with an acknowledging nod and a slight smile and then looked at her husband. She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows with a silent question that he understood. He turned to me and said, “I think we’re ready.”

I escorted them to the room. For a moment, there was silence. The couple stood together, looking at their son in disbelief. Then Marilyn gasped for a breath and said, “No,” just as she had when she first heard that Paul had died. 

Her husband put his hand around his wife’s waist as if she might need him to hold her so she wouldn’t collapse. A moment later, she laid her head on her son’s chest. Her deep sobs returned. Greg had appeared to regain his composure, but the sound of his Marilyn’s sobs seemed more than he could bear. I heard him gasp as if he was trying to swallow his tears and his grief. 

When Marilyn raised her head off her son’s chest, I gently took the boy’s hand from beneath the sheet and laid it at his side. His mother took his hand and said, “It’s still warm.”

“Can you tell me about your son?” I asked.

“He was really kind and smart,” Greg replied.

Marilyn nodded adding, “He’s so good. He’s a really good kid. Everybody likes him. He’s…” She couldn’t finish her sentence. She seemed to know she shouldn’t speak of her son in the present tense, but she wasn’t ready to speak of him in the past tense, the language that acknowledges death.

“He must have been a wonderful son,” I offered, inviting a response.

Greg nodded as his wife agreed, “He was very caring. A sweet kid even when he was a young boy. And a good brother. He has a little sister at home.” Pausing briefly, Marilyn added, “She’s going to be devastated.” 

Marilyn and Greg were sitting at Paul’s bedside. I was standing closer to the door and could hear two nurses talking quietly about what a horrible situation it was. One had the shaky voice of a person trying not to cry. The mother’s cries and the reality of the boy’s death seemed to draw everyone into feeling a portion of the pain. I was moved by the nurse’s tears, and again, rested my eyes on the gentle pink of Marilyn’s sweater. 

Seeing the trauma doctor pacing back and forth in the hallway, I thought perhaps he wanted to help, but didn’t know what to do. 

Then a nurse came into the room and asked the parents if they had any questions for the doctor. They looked at each other and shook their heads. The father looked at the nurse and said, “I don’t think so.”  

I wondered why the doctor didn’t come into the room. Coming in and offering a word or two of condolence seemed like a minimal gesture, the least he could do given the situation. Of course, I kept my critical thoughts to myself.     

I asked the parents if they would like me to say a prayer. The boy’s mother responded, “Please.”

After a more formal prayer, I asked God to welcome home this wonderful young man. I tried to paint a picture of Jesus embracing this couple’s son with love, welcoming him home after a short life beautifully lived. I thanked God for the gift of his life and his love. I acknowledged his kindness and generosity, and his roles as brother, son and friend. And then I asked God for comfort for all those who would be grieving.

When I had the sense that it was the right time to help the parents say goodbye, I told them I would give them some privacy to say goodbye and assured them I’d be right there in the hallway if they needed anything. In a few minutes, leaving their son’s body behind, they emerged from the room.

The nurse brought a bag with Paul’s jacket, wallet, and a couple of other things and walked with us back to the room where they left their coats. In the hallway Greg asked me about making arrangements with a funeral home while the nurse quietly offered her sympathy to Marilyn. We hugged and then they left. 

I headed toward the chapel to sit for a few moments. When I opened the door, I saw the doctor who had been pacing outside Paul’s room. I was deeply moved by the sight of him, sitting bent over with his face in his hands, quietly hiding his feelings. Not wanting to interrupt his solitude, I left as silently as I was able. I felt guilty that I had judged him. I knew I had learned an important lesson. 

The next day, as I sat to write in my journal, I closed my eyes to reflect on the experience. The mother’s pink ribbed sweater came to mind. Obviously worn and washed many times it was nothing special, just a piece of everyday clothing for wintertime in New England. But there were moments when looking at it, it became the unlikely anchor that helped me stay grounded, safe from the emotions that threatened to draw me into the grief and sadness that, in turn, threatened to distance me from the needs of Paul’s parents.  

When I shared my experience with another chaplain, his comment was, “The doctor needed a pink sweater.” 

The Body

Over the years, I’ve trained many students preparing them to be on their own when they rotate through overnight shifts. I like to think that I am passing on to them some of what I’ve learned from others in the hospital as well as at Amory St.

A few summers ago, I worked on a Friday night with Matthew, a chaplaincy intern. Bright, funny and energetic, he was a 30-something seminarian studying to be a Catholic priest. He was a tall African American with a football player’s physique who walked with a confident stride. 

Around midnight, we were paged to the ER where we learned that a 19-year-old man was brought in with a gunshot wound and was unlikely to survive.

The E.R. was the busiest I had ever seen it, so we decided to get out of the way and check back in 30 minutes to see if any family members were coming. When we came back, we learned that the young man had died, and his body was put in a small room on the other side of the ER, a quieter area where less serious cases are treated.  We also learned that his grandmother and maybe some other family members were on their way. 

I told Matthew we should go see how the body looked and make sure the room was prepared. He seemed to be listening carefully as I explained, “It’s good to have tissues, a couple chairs, and a pitcher of ice water. Often a few sips of water can calm people a bit. I also like to make sure the sheets and pillows are arranged nicely, that sort of thing.” 

As we entered the room, I explained, “Usually, the nurses arrange the body and sheets, “but it’s always a good idea to check, especially, when it’s really busy.”

The room had sliding glass doors and a curtain inside that could be drawn for privacy. Entering, we saw that the room was spotless and noted that there were two boxes of tissues on a side table, but the patient’s body was covered in caked blood; he had not been cleaned at all.  When I told one of the nurses that the family was going to be arriving momentarily and that the body hadn’t been cleaned, overwhelmed, she responded, “I’m sorry but I can’t do anything about that right now. It’s just too busy. I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”

I knew it might be a while before she’d have time. We had a choice. We could let the grandmother and anyone who came with her wait for some indefinite period of time. It would be hard for them to wait but we’d explain that it was unavoidable. The only alternative would be to clean up the body ourselves. I had been with dead bodies at Amory Street and often as a hospital chaplain, so I was very comfortable being with dead bodies. I had no idea how Matthew felt about this, and I didn’t want to overwhelm him. However, we didn’t have much time. 

Wanting the decision to be Matthew’s, I gave him the choice. “We can wait for the nurse, or if you’re comfortable, we can clean the body and the room ourselves. I’ve done this sort of thing before, but if you’d rather wait, that would be completely understandable. We can sit with the family and talk to them, prepare them. That’s the choice most chaplains would make.” 

“No,” Matthew said firmly, “If it were me, I wouldn’t want to wait. They’ll want to come in right away. I’ll be fine helping.”   

I found some washcloths and towels that we could use to clean the blood off the body. We used pillows and blankets to hide the multiple gunshot wounds. The tube in his throat had to stay. By law, it couldn’t be removed until the medical examiner saw him. I explained that we always let the family know before they see a body that a breathing tube was used when they were trying to resuscitate their loved one and then we explain why it can’t be removed. 

There wasn’t time for much conversation, but I was impressed as I watched Matthew move quickly, competently and respectfully. We did the best we could, as quickly as we could. When the family arrived, sooner than we would have liked, things looked a lot better.  

The grandmother arrived with three other family members: an aunt, a sister and a cousin. We listened as they told us about the young man, his hopes and dreams, his sense of humor, his challenges and his many strengths. Feeling like we had gotten to know him just a bit, we prayed at the bedside and then waited in silence, giving the family time to say goodbye. Afterward, Matthew spent time alone with the grandmother and the aunt as I talked to the sister and the cousin outside of the room where I could answer their questions about what happens to the body, the role of the funeral home and so forth. I thought that Matthew and I made a good team; we helped the family begin the horrible grieving process with the knowledge that God was with them through it all.

Afterwards, as is commonly the practice, Matthew and I debriefed, sharing our thoughts and reactions, looking at what we said, what worked well and what didn’t.  Matthew was calm, able to reflect on the experience without becoming overwhelmed with emotion. I asked if preparing the body had been hard for him. He said, “It all happened so quickly. I didn’t really have time to think about it. I just did it.” 

It was 3 a.m. and we were both tired. I suggested we get some rest and meet back in the office at 7 a.m. unless we got another emergency page. When I saw Matthew at 7, I asked, “How’d you sleep?’

“I fell asleep right away, but I woke up at 5:30. I had this urge to talk to my brothers, to hear their voices. So, I called Derek, my little brother, first.”

“Yeah?” I asked, encouraging him to tell me about the call.

“He thought something was wrong. When I told him nothing was wrong, he couldn’t believe that I called him at 5:30 in the morning just to chat. But nothing was wrong, not really. I just wanted to talk.”

“You said brothers. More than one?”

“I called my other brother too. It was only a few minutes later. He thought something was wrong, too. It was hard to convince him that I was okay.”

“Did you tell him anything about last night?” I asked.

“A little. I didn’t want him to think I was crazy calling at that time, but I didn’t really want to talk about it. Like I said, I just needed to hear their voices.”

“I’m glad you called them. What made you reach out to them?

“I guess they give me a sense of…” Matthew paused and continued, “It’s like dying is just part of life. I think I wanted to feel more normal about it. My brothers know me better than anyone. I really didn’t think about why I wanted to call them, but being connected to them is being connected to my life. I don’t know if any of this makes sense.”

“It makes a lot of sense,” I replied. I wasn’t sure I knew precisely what he meant but I got the gist of it and admired the way he was grappling with everything the experience brought up for him. I continued, “You were great last night in dealing with both preparing the body and helping the family. And I’m glad you called your brothers.” 

“Me too,” he responded, smiling a bit sheepishly.

I added, “Learning how to take care of ourselves is part of becoming a chaplain.”

Bearing Witness

The things I want to say about my work, though true, can sound like trite, overused phrases. The work is a blessing that enriches my life; it feeds my soul; it’s a privilege. It’s all true, usually. This particular night my pager was relentless in calling me from one situation to another. I was hungry and tired and wanted nothing more than to have my dinner and perhaps even get in a nap before the pager demanded my attention again. As I walked across the lobby to the coffee/sandwich shop, I was aware of the quiet. It settled me a bit.

During the day, the hospital bustles with activity. Elevators are crowded and often demand a long wait. Staff walk from place to place with a quick stride. Visitors add a chaotic dimension to the atmosphere. Some carry flowers or pizza or bundles of clothing and toiletries from home. Others carry heavy emotions you can see on their faces: worry, fear, sometimes grief. But at night, the hours I work, the contrast to daytime hours creates a calm atmosphere.

My only thoughts involved sandwich choices and whether to give in to the temptation to grab a small bag of deliciously crunchy and salty Cape Cod potato chips. Interrupting my thoughts, the pager beeped at me. The cryptic demand read: “Patient-end of life-wants chaplain for prayer. Fl 2, rm 43.” 

I was near the entrance to the shop and could see there was no line where you order sandwiches. I was tempted to get my sandwich and then call the unit to see how urgently I needed to get there. Maybe I could eat first. Afterall, I reasoned, end of life could mean dying in ten minutes or it could mean dying sometime in the next couple weeks. 

I took a deep breath, turned around and headed to the elevator hoping I could shed my hungry, selfish attitude and find my way back to my good-chaplain self.

Checking in with the nurse before going into the room, I asked, “Is she actively dying?” which was a way of asking if she was likely to die within hours rather than days. There are signs that tell us when the body is beginning to shut down.

“Yes. We think so.” The nurse replied. “She’s very weak but she’s still conscious.  She sent her son and his family home. I promised them I’d call them when she passes if it happens tonight.”

“Thanks,” I said as I thought about her family being sent away. I wondered if she was trying to spare her family a long night sitting at her bedside or if she knew she was dying and wanted to be alone. It happens that way sometimes. Some people seem to be able to let go of life more easily when they are alone.    

The nurse continued, “She’s been sick for a while. I think she’s ready to let go. She’s really a lovely woman. I paged you because she asked me if there was someone she could pray with.”

“Thanks,” I said, turning to go into the room.

I walked to the bedside. The lights had been dimmed but I could see that she was a slight woman with porcelain skin and fine white hair pulled back from her face. She looked like she was sleeping. 

“Mary?”

She opened her eyes. “Are you the chaplain?”

“Yes,” I replied, glad I didn’t have to wake her.

“Good. Thank you for coming.”

I could hear that it was taking a lot of effort for her to talk and breathe. I wanted to spare her any unnecessary words. I asked, “The nurse told me you wanted me to pray with you.  Is there anything special you would like me to pray for?”

“No, no, dear. I’m dying.  I want to pray.” 

“Can I take your hand?” I asked.

Mary nodded. Using all her energy, speaking only a few words at a time, gasping for air between the lines, she prayed:

Now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.                      

Amen.

Surprised by Mary’s prayer, a childhood prayer I had prayed often when I was young, I was stunned by its relevance on this particular night. I wanted to ask Mary whether she “got it,” whether she knew this would likely be the night that she would die before she would wake. 

Instead, I said, “That’s a lovely prayer, Mary. I know it well.” 

“Yes.” Still gasping for air between every few words, she continued, “I’ve said that prayer every night, my whole life. I wanted to say it with someone tonight.”

Mary paused to catch her breath before closing her eyes and dismissing me with, “Thank you, dear.” 

I leaned down and kissed Mary’s cheek, and said, “Sleep well.” There seemed little more to say. In the morning, I called the floor, and the nurse told me that Mary never woke up. She died quietly a few hours after I left. I was grateful that I’d had the opportunity to be part of her life’s end, a death as gentle as her spirit.

---

Peg Newman is a board-certified chaplain who lives and works at a large teaching hospital in Boston. She finished her training there in 2003 and has never left. Semi-retired, Peg is currently writing a memoir. When she is not working or writing, she enjoys reading, travel, and photography.