A Day in the Life

"Get out! Or else I'm calling the police!"

Some days are better than others working for the Visiting Nurse Association. We get used to odd requests or upset patients but this day was something else.

Betty had built up quite an infamous reputation in the last week. In a matter of days she requested five visits from various service technicians regarding issues with her wheelchair. Frustration builds when she has a reoccurring problem with different parts of the chair that could not be resolved on one or two trips. Customer Service now recognizes her voice by the second syllable. And not to mention she told Brad she would call the police if he did not leave immediately.

So you can imagine how I felt when I found Betty's paperwork next to my name tag. I remember whispering to myself, "This will be good experience for the chaplain job you want." I recently received a job offer to work as a part-time chaplain for a small hospice agency in Milwaukee. I chalked this challenge up to some circumstances I might find with hospice care. I also honestly wondered in what manner I would become the next service technician victim. In front of her house I crossed myself to build up the courage to leave the security of my van.

One hour and forty minutes later I returned to the van.

I wish, at times like these, I was given the gift of quick wit or bright insight or uplifting humor. I figured that's what people appreciated most in problematic times. Yet it seems more often than not it is the response I downplay the most that somehow makes a difference. All I'm able to do in the face of violent storms is to nod slowly and to listen hard.

And how often do we hear this, but Betty needed to tell her story. She has so much pent up anger against her daughters for being absent, her caregivers for not giving her excellent service, her husband for leaving this world without her, and her God for allowing this all to happen. Somehow telling her story is therapeutic. I could tell by the tears she cried, the smile that surfaced near the end, and the hug she gave me when we said goodbye. No matter how badly I want to, I cannot give peace. I can only invite it to emerge.

Betty still calls the office every so often. And when I go out to see her I know that it really is not about the complaint concerning the wheelchair I need to focus on, it is allowing and accepting her to be herself. I wish could pick up her spirits with a good joke, or show off some quick wit, or provide deep breakthrough insight. But I am there oversimplified or not, to let her tell her own story.