Hospital Chaplain
In 1984, while serving as an adjunct chaplain at a local hospital, I met a man of rare quality. I was working the Saturday rotation and received a call to go to the emergency room. As I made my way to the Emergency Room, I prayed that God would remove me from the site and yet use my voice for His purpose. When I arrived at the nurses’ station, I asked about the need.
“We have a man who was brought in here drunk. He has a blood alcohol level of 32%, which is very high. The police brought him in and said they found him sitting in the middle of the road. He isn’t injured, but we can’t let him leave until we can determine his blood alcohol level is dropping instead of continuing to rise. We are swamped tonight and can’t use a treatment room for him. The problem is that he is bothering the people in the waiting room, the nurse said emphatically, as if to show her disgust with the situation.
“What is his name, and does he have family?” I asked.
“His name is John, and he has a niece named Kathy,” the nurse replied. We have tried to call her but haven’t received an answer. "
“How will I recognize him from the others in the waiting room?” I asked.
“He is in a wheelchair and only has one leg,” the nurse replied as she turned to attend to the needs of other patients.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked the nurse, who had already turned away.
“Whatever you want to, just keep him out of our hair and away from the other folks in the waiting room!” she said disgustedly.
A hospital chaplain must minister to the spiritual needs of the patients and their families to help them along with their life’s journey. We are also on duty to help the hospital staff as they deal with issues of death and dying daily. This was an unusual request, but somehow, I knew this request was going to be very different.
“Are you John?” I asked the only man sitting in a wheelchair. Even at first glance, I knew this man was feeling no pain.
“Do you know me?” the man replied, looking up at me with eyes that began to reach inside me.
“Have you heard from Kathy?” I asked, not answering his question but trying to show him I knew his name and other things. I was having a little fun with him because he was drunk and because I was having to babysit him.
“You do know me!” he exclaimed. You do know me!” he said again with a smile that seemed to reach from ear to ear.
“Do you see what is written on my coat?” I said as I pointed to the word Chaplain.
“You’re the Chaplain,” he replied.
“Yes, I am the Chaplain, and I would like to talk to you if you don’t mind,” I said with as much interest as possible.
“Do you mind if I roll you to another location where we can talk in private?” I asked John.
“No, I don’t mind at all,” replied John, who now had someone to talk to and perhaps someone who would help him find enough money for cab fare back home.
I rolled John to the doctor’s lounge, a small room with a couch and a television. Doctors had the use of the room but seldom ever used it. This room had served me well in the past with other patients who awaited bitter news. In this room, we could talk without disturbing the crowd in the waiting room. I informed the nursing staff of our new location and received a curt smile for my thoughtfulness.
“John, how long have you been drunk?” I asked after getting him settled into the lounge.
“Well, I guess about three years,” he replied without waiting for a better answer to come to his mind.
“That’s a long time,” I said while thinking it must have been a much longer time than that.
John had the appearance of a man who lived in the bottle, who did not work for a living but instead spent his time in the throes of drunkenness. I had seen his kind many times before. Unshaven, unclean, and uncaring, John was an outcast in society. That is why no one wanted to talk to him in the waiting room, and that was why the nursing staff just wanted to be rid of him. I had made my quick assessment, but I was to learn that my judgment was in error.
“I am going to quit drinking,” said John. “I have some at home, and when I get home, I am going to pour it all out,” he said as if he thought I was preparing to preach a sermon to him on the evils of drinking.
I knew he was not ready to make such a commitment. His statement was typical of things a drunk might say. He was probably praying that I would not preach to him like some preachers do and condemn him for his actions. While John presented a typical view of a classical drunk, there was something different about him. Intrigued, I wanted to know more.
“How did you lose that leg?” I asked.
This time, John looked into my eyes and was silent. Tears began falling from his eyes, and I watched him and waited for his reply. His head and body shook as his tears fell onto his shoes.
“It happened in Nam. We were going through a vile, and I saw this baby lying on the ground crying. Man, I always hated to see a baby cry, so I picked it up, hoping to make it stop crying. Man, the baby was booby-trapped! Those Goddamned Gooks killed that baby! I don’t know what kind of people would do something like that just to kill an American. The mine took my leg and nearly got the other one, too! I keep seeing that baby lying on the ground. That baby is in all of my dreams, and I hate sleeping because that baby is always there! If Doc hadn’t tied me off and helped me right then, I wouldn’t have the dreams I have been having. I wish to God Doc would have left me alone that day.
I had a new and profound understanding of John. I placed my hand on John’s shoulder as the pain racked his body and the tears flowed freely, hoping my touch might be of some comfort to him. I now saw John not as a typical drunk but as a man tortured by the pain of combat. I was ashamed of having put him so neatly in a class of misfits.
John had answered the call to military service. He had been a young man when he learned the fine art of killing the enemy, but he was never taught how to handle a tiny baby who was being used as a booby trap. I was ashamed of all who had met John and had turned their heads away from him. I was ashamed of myself and my quick judgment.
John and I talked for a couple of hours. We talked about places we had both seen in Vietnam and our fears of coming home. Though John was in the Army and I was a Marine, our experiences were similar. In those two hours, I found a new friend, a brother.
The hospital maintained a small fund that was to be used by the Chaplain when he deemed it necessary. John would have his ride home in a cab, and our fund would pay for it. I helped John get into the cab, yet he was insistent that he could do it all himself. I gave the driver the required money and warmly shook this hero's hand. I wished him well, and I welcomed him home.
Two months passed, and one night, as I was making my rounds in the ER, I saw the same nurse who had been there the night John came in.
“I haven’t seen you around here lately, but I guess you heard,” she said.
“Heard what?” I asked.
“That fellow, the one they brought in drunk, and you talked with him, well, he died a couple of weeks ago,” she replied. “They brought him back here, but he was already gone,” she said.
I was shocked. Yes, I remembered John and the night we had become friends. I had hoped, no, I had prayed that John would find another way to deal with his pain and that he would leave the alcohol behind. The news of John’s death greatly saddened me. I wondered if there was more I could or should have done.
I didn’t cry then, but later, when I was alone, I let loose with tears equal to the tears he shed that night I was with him. I didn’t know where he lived, but knew I would miss him. I prayed that God would be generous to this soldier who had endured so much and at such a cost. I prayed that God would forgive me for failing to see a hero who needed peace.