A name and a room number. That’s all I know as I enter the patient’s room. It is Sunday afternoon, and I’m visiting patients as a volunteer for the Jewish Chaplaincy Program of Milwaukee.
There’s really nothing more that I can do to prepare for what lies ahead. The person might be young, old, or somewhere in between; married, single, divorced, or widowed; with a supportive family or without; with a spiritual foundation to give them strength, or perhaps not; newly admitted or having already been seen by an endless string of doctors, nurses, technicians, and therapists. Given all of these possibilities, any human emotion might be on display: joy, grief, worry, relief, surprise or resignation.
There are only two things that I can predict with confidence.
First, this situation that I’m about to step into will be unlike any I’ve encountered. As every person is different, so, too, is every hospital chaplaincy call.
And second, to make this a “good” visit, I will need to think on my feet, continually evaluating just how I can be of value to the patient and to the family, friends, and medical staff who might be at the bedside.
Often the best contribution I can make is simply to listen. I learned this lesson on one of my first visits. It was early evening, and as I entered the room, I saw an elderly man resting in bed.
Not sure if he was asleep, I whispered his name. His eyelids fluttered in recognition and opened, and then he welcomed me. Within minutes of making introductions and sitting down, he began telling me about himself, and of the many twists and turns of his personal and professional lives.
His tone then became more intense and his words more measured. He reflected on the fact that he had always felt confident that he could handle whatever lay ahead, but that this was no longer the case.
He knew that his family assumed that he would be able to face any challenge with equanimity. This caused him great pain, as he knew that he was no longer the tower of strength that they’d come to expect.
Just then his children arrived for a visit. Their entrance brought with it a drastic change in his tone and demeanor. Demonstrating the skills of a trained actor, he presented his family with an upbeat image that glossed-over his true physical and emotional state. It was hard to believe this was the same person I had just been talking to.
At first I was surprised by what I’d seen, but it actually made perfect sense. Always the parent, he had subverted his own needs for the comfort of his children. He might not be able to do much about his own condition, but it was still within his power to shield them from his pain.
I’m sure that the children’s visit was of immeasurable importance, both for them and for their father. But a patient has many needs, some of which may be extremely private or potentially troubling to the listener.
He may be very reluctant to burden a loved one by expressing them. But I have the advantage of being a stranger; I do not need to be “protected.” My visit provided the father with a way to express those needs.
As with most visits, I’ll never know whether I actually said or did anything particularly helpful.
‘Being there’
My sense is that most of what I contribute is due to my simply having shown up. “Being there” is a strong component of Judaism’s tradition of bikkur cholim, the Jewish practice (and obligation) of visiting the sick. It is said that one-sixtieth of a person’s illness is removed by simply visiting, and my experience suggests that this is true.
When I first began visiting patients, I had one particular “hang-up”: I was very uncomfortable with the idea of saying a “Mi Sheberach” (prayer of healing) for the patient.
It was not a matter of knowing what to say, since it was permissible for me to read the prayer. Rather, it was my thinking, “Who am I to be saying this prayer?”
I knew that one didn’t have to be a rabbi in order to offer a prayer, but I had never seen a layperson do so, and therefore was not comfortable with the idea.
Fortunately our chaplain, Rabbi Leonard Lewy, was in frequent contact with me and repeatedly asked about my progress in this area. I finally realized that if I continued to wait until I was “ready,” it might never happen, and so I plunged ahead.
At my next visit, I asked whether I could say a prayer of healing. The patient agreed, so I took her hand, and began to read the prayer aloud.
She closed her eyes, and as I began to speak, the expression on her face told me that she was concentrating intensely on my words. Soon I saw tears streaming down her cheeks. At the prayer’s conclusion, she slowly opened her eyes and softly thanked me for coming.
This scene was to be replayed again and again on later visits with patients of all backgrounds and conditions. I had not realized the immediate power of prayer to reassure, to strengthen, and to provide hope.
With this new understanding, saying a “Mi Sheberach” was not only easier to do, but became the most important part of my visit. In fact, I soon decided to stop using the written text, preferring to speak impromptu, so that I could incorporate the patient’s needs into the words of the prayer.
Visiting patients has been among the most challenging and intense experiences of my life. It has also been indescribably rewarding and fulfilling.
Stu Dolnick, who recently moved to Appleton, is a volunteer chaplain with the Jewish Chaplaincy Program, now serving St. Luke’s Medical Center and Seven Oaks on weekends. The Jewish Chaplaincy Program is a program of the Milwaukee Jewish Federation in cooperation with Jewish Family Services To contact chaplaincy about a visit, call 414-219-6083.
Loading ...