A Dark and Stormy Night

 “It was a dark and stormy night” is the introductory line from a novel written by Victorian author Sir Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton.  It is now widely regarded as the epitome of the worst way to begin a novel or short story. But it really was a dark and stormy night before my first day at Parrish Medical Center.

I had finished my five and a half year tenure at Cape Canaveral Hospital on Thursday, September 2nd as the hospital evacuated in advance of Frances, the second hurricane of the season. At Parrish Medical Center, the hospital was preparing as well and the staff hunkered down to ride out the storm, locked in for the duration. Frances would prove to be a slow mover and the lockdown a long one.

September 6, 2004, my wife and I were shopping for a few things at CVS on the corner Wickham Road and Parkway in Melbourne, FL. Hurricane Frances, had just passed, leaving most of the area without power and some of the area devastated by the damage. A tornado, spawned by the storm, had swept through Wickham Park, destroying a quarter of a large apartment complex next to our neighborhood. We were spared any significant damage, but like most everyone else, we had no power. CVS had power and AC! We were taking our time looking around, cooling off, getting a few things we needed, and again my phone rang.

“Hi, Jerald. This is Roberta Chaildin from Parrish. Listen, we have been on lockdown because of the hurricane for 92 hours and the strain is showing. I know you’re not supposed to start until tomorrow, but could you come in today?”

I arrived early afternoon, dressed in khakis and a polo shirt that had the Association of Professional Chaplains logo on it. I chose it because the word “Chaplains”was easily readable on it, and since most everyone I would meet that day would have no idea who I was.

There wasn’t a whole lot I could do, other than “Presence Ministry.” There was no way to fix the stress felt by 90+ hours of lockdown or the stress of not knowing the condition of their homes or the stress of a second blow on top of the one two-weeks prior that had already left the area covered in blue tarps.

Ten years have passed and I’m still convinced that presence, “being consciously and compassionately in the present moment,” (Miller, The Art of Being a Healing Presence, p 12) is one of the most powerful things we can bring to our work with patients, their families and just as importantly, to each other.

Jerald

 

All opinions expressed herein are strictly my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center.

Time Flies

Sept. 15, 2014

Ten years is a long time. And yet what happened ten years ago can seem like it happened yesterday. Having just celebrated ten years here at Parrish Medical Center, I have been remembering and reflecting on how it began and what has happened since.

It all started with a phone call. I was sitting in my office in a portable building on the backside of Cape Canaveral Hospital one sunny afternoon in June of 2004. On the phone was the familiar voice of a friend, who was also my former boss, Laurie Smirl. The conversation quickly shifted from pleasantries to serious business. “Parrish Medical Center is looking for a chaplain and I told them they needed to talk to you. Would you be interested?” I thought briefly about a line from the book I had just read “Rich Dad, Poor Dad” about how I was in business whether I knew it or not and that my business was me. The point being that I needed to “mind my business” in such a way that the investment of “me” was also good for me. Those of you who know me know that I tend to play it kind of safe and since I had a very good position already at Cape Canaveral Hospital, that quote was just the push I needed to consider another opportunity.

Shortly thereafter, I had a day filled with interviews at PMC that left me mentally exhausted, and hopeful. I had been quite impressed with the people I had met, the beautiful facility, the vision of the organization and how they thought my role could complement their mission of “healing experiences for everyone, all the time.” Leaving a safe, good position felt risky to me, and it was in many respects, but I have never regretted it. What is the quote? “No risk, no reward.” Indeed.

I will have some additional reflections on these ten years in future Glimmers.

Blessing to you all!

Jerald

All opinions expressed herein are strictly my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center.

Dust to Dust

February 22, 2013 

Dust to Dust

Wednesday, February, 13th was Ash Wednesday. Some of our Care Partners have a hard time getting to Ash Wednesday services because of their work schedules, so we made it available to them this year with an assist from the priest and deacon from St. Gabriel’s Episcopal Church. It is a sobering reminder of our mortality when the priest puts the ashes on our foreheads and says “Remember, man/woman, that you are dust and to dust you will return.” I had less trouble remembering that this Ash Wednesday than usual. The day before, it became quite clear to me that I am decidedly mortal.

As I was walking in from the parking lot that morning, my chest tightened, my heart began to race and I felt lightheaded. I stopped and leaned on the trunk of a car, tried to reign in my rising anxiety and then continued to the door. As and aside, my father died at age 40 of a heart attack and I have sometimes experienced mild anxiety about the same thing happening to me, especially as I approached the same age. This time, the anxiety did not subside as usual and the pressure in my chest increased.

As I entered the South doorway of the hospital, I stopped and sat on the corner of the desk there. The two auxiliary women greeted me and I told them how I was feeling. They offered to take me in a wheelchair to the Emergency department. I told them about my sometime anxiety and that it would pass soon. Again, it didn’t. After some encouragement from them, I agreed to go to the Emergency Department, but I insisted on walking.

When I arrived there, I told Martin, the charge nurse, that I was having some chest discomfort. Always the kidder, Martin told me to go back outside and sign in at the desk. “Okay,” I said, and I started to do that. “You’re not kidding, are you?” he said and then he instructed me to go and sit in room 13.

So began a day filled with reminders that I am indeed mortal. I had sticky tabs stuck to my chest that were then attached to wires for an EKG. I had an IV placed in my right arm and blood work drawn- twice. My cardiologist came in and I told him I felt a little silly being here and God bless him, he said what I always say to other people; “You don’t ignore pain in the chest-you did the right thing.”

So, after a stress test and a nuclear scan, I’m happy to say that all the results were negative. I have no idea what caused the chest discomfort or why I felt the way I did. But I will tell you some of the things I saw, felt and heard.

I felt anxious and vulnerable. On most days, I am in the Emergency Department a couple of times a day even if nothing tragic is going on. I cruise through to chat with the nurses, EMTs and physicians and sometimes find things that need my attention. I feel comfortable there. I did not feel comfortable as a patient there. I wondered if my EKG would be normal, would I end up in the Cardiac Catheterization Lab, would I die. Really, I suspected the dying part was only a remote possibility, but I did think about it.

I was not allowed to go the bathroom. My nurse, Traci, handed me one of those bottles with the flip-top lids and said with a smile, “You’ll have to use one of these.” I felt out of control, vulnerable and embarrassed. My bladder helped me get over that.

A few other observations about my experience that I hope will continue to inform my interaction with patients and their families- and maybe yours as well.

• Voices carry into the room more than you think. I could hear conversations between people 20 feet away clearly even with the glass door closed and the curtain drawn. Be careful about your speech.
• No matter how you say it, calling spouse or family to tell them you are in the Emergency Room frightens them. I was reluctant to call my wife, but I was sure happy to see her face.
• I was anxious. That is why I was listening so closely to what was being said outside my room. I was listening for clues to what was going on, what would happen next, what the test results had shown, would I be admitted or would I go home.
• I craved information. The more information was shared with me about what was happening to me, the less anxiety I felt.
• I felt safe. I knew I was among friends. What about people who don’t know us as friends? What can we do to help them feel safe?
• I asked for and received a numbing shot prior to the insertion of the IV. When Traci had a bit of a time getting my vein to cooperate and fill up the tube, I felt no discomfort at all. Maybe that should be standard procedure.
• Allowing me to choose something, anything, helped me feel a little less helpless. I asked if I had to go on the stretcher to the Diagnostic Imaging department for my stress test. I was allowed (do you hear the language…I was “allowed”) to go in a wheelchair. A small thing, perhaps, but I felt less like an invalid in the wheelchair.
• I was treated with care and professionalism. I’m not at all surprised. Do we treat all our patients the way I was treated as a member of our Care Partner family? If we do, we’ll never have any problems with patient satisfaction scores.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

3 Seconds

3 seconds. That’s all it took to change Chris Hubbard’s life. 3 seconds is how much time he says elapsed between noticing the car crossing the median and being violently thrown from his motorcycle. 3 seconds.

Seated in a wheelchair, his right arm bandaged and bound in a sling, Chris Hubbard used his left arm and left leg to position himself in the front of the room. He had come to speak to us about United Way and the difference it has made in his life. He took out a few pieces of lined notebook paper and began to read. “I’m Chris Hubbard.” “ I used to live in Brevard County. I had moved to Alabama a few years ago, but I still had some business interests here.” “Last year, I had come to take care of some business concerns and having finished with those, I was riding my bike on 528. I remember seeing the car coming toward me. The next thing I remember is waking up in Holmes Regional Medical Center.” He went on to tell how when he was able to comprehend what had happened, he discovered his right leg was no longer there. His right arm was badly crushed and the medical team was not certain it could be saved. Though his right arm is not back to full functioning, he credits the excellent care he received for having a right arm at all.

“Every day I was in that hospital, I dreamed of the day I would be able to get out,” he said. “As soon as I could get out, I planned to kill myself.” His sense of loss was overwhelming. He had lost his leg, his family, his businesses, his home and his sense of who he was as a person. All as a result of those 3 seconds.

As his condition improved, the case management team helped him connect with Joe Robinson and the staff at North Brevard Charities. “They didn’t just give me a place to live.” “They saved my life.” North Brevard Charities, a local United Way affiliated agency, is helping Chris rebuild his life. A nurse by profession, he is back in school at age 47, training for a new career. With their help and support, he is looking forward to the day he again has his own home. “After my accident, I wanted to die.” “Now, I ‘m really glad I didn’t.”

3 seconds. That’s all it took to change Chris Hubbard’s life. 120 seconds is all it took to fill out my United Way pledge card.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Fwd: Glimmers, Feb. 5, 2010

Wait patiently for the Lord. Be brave and courageous .Yes, wait patiently for the Lord. (Psalm 27:14, NLT)

For some things, there are no shortcuts. How I wish it wasn't so. There are Cliff notes for major literary works, instant potatoes and pre-fabricated buildings that can be erected in a few hours, but taking shortcuts on some things just don't work out.

Dr. Pat Manning, Parrish Medical Center board member and retired educator, has loved butterflies for as long as she can remember. Throughout her teaching career, she would adorn her student's papers with am image of a butterfly. As time went on, she refined the image into her own personal "Coat of Arms." Dr. John Manning, her husband, loved her much and came to love her butterflies as much as she did. He made their yard a haven for butterflies and he became a student of their ways. As it turns out, butterflies have much to teach us.

Butterflies go through some dramatic changes during their life span. They begin as a tiny egg and emerge as a caterpillar. The caterpillar will eat almost constantly and grow considerably, shedding its skin multiple times in the process. After a few weeks, the caterpillar will attach itself to some branch or twig and begin a remarkable metamorphosis. Hidden inside the protective covering of the chrysalis, the worm-like caterpillar transforms into thing of delicate beauty. When the time is right, the chrysalis splits and the adult butterfly struggles to emerge.

Once free of the chrysalis, the butterfly must wait. It takes time to pump the blood into the fragile wings so they become fully deployed and rigid enough to catch the breeze. An impatient observer may wish to rush the process and assist the butterfly by pulling on the wings to extend them. Rushing the process will most likely result in damaging the wings and the butterfly will never be able to take flight.

During the course of our lives, we go through some dramatic changes too. It is easy to get impatient with some of the stages of our own lives, or sometimes with the life of someone else. Why can't we take off? Why is she just sitting there? Why am I still stuck on this branch? Why is it taking so long? What is God waiting for?

Butterflies know. Some things just can't be rushed.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald