Alms for the Poor

I decided not to ask my parents for money for the street retreat in New York—each participant must come up with five hundred dollars—because that basically means asking my father for money, and he is already incredibly generous with us children. But I did want there to be a bead on my mala for him and my mother, so I telephoned and asked my father for a dollar. He said yes and passed the phone to my mother, who—per a sudden burst of inspiration—I asked for a hundred dollars. She said, “Hold on,” and there was silence for a few moments. When she came back on the line, she said, “You just asked your father for a dollar?”

“Yes.”

“And you asked me for a hundred dollars?”

I agreed this was so. In the mail, I received a check from my father for fifty dollars, with “Alms for the poor” written on the memo line. In the same envelope was a single dollar bill with a post-it note attached to it reading, in my father’s writing, “From your mom.”


(However, let the record reflect that my mother said that if I was stuck when it was closer to retreat time, she would send me the other 99 dollars.)

Early in February, I was looking online for the obituary of my friend Mark, and could not find it, but discovered immediately that he was a registered sex offender. It was hard to know what to make of that. The photo of him was absolutely current and listed his current (well, former) address, though maybe once you get on that list, you have to keep your photo up to date. I know that some people end up listed for ridiculous reasons, such as childhood games of “doctor,” and that once you’re on it, it’s impossible to get off it, but I assume that most people are included for a good reason.

He was the stay-at-home parent for his three daughters. Maybe one of them ended up recollecting something that didn’t seem right to her. Maybe he was an out-and-out child molester. The category he was listed in is for offenses less severe than rape. I can’t ask him and I certainly can’t ask his bereaved wife, so this will probably remain a mystery forever. At first, it didn’t seem to have much effect on my feelings about him, since it was so completely out of context, but now I must admit it has cast a shadow.

Also early in February, I went back for the first time since graduating to the Truly Wonderful Medical Center to have lunch with my palliative care mentor, Delia. I also went to visit the current crop of Clinical Pastoral Education students and to see the faculty members who were around.

A few days later, I went to the San Francisco Zen Center and meditated in the zendo and then heard a dharma talk. Sam met me after the talk and we had lunch together there and then walked downtown.

It feels now as if there are just two kinds of days: if I work, it’s a Monday, and if I don’t, it’s Saturday! Each week there are two or three Mondays and all the other days are Saturdays.

One weekend at work I visited a woman whose baby was threatening to be born way too soon. I led her in a guided meditation that felt very awkward for some reason. I was sure she was thinking that it was terrible and that I had no idea what I was doing, but afterward, she said it had been very relaxing, and when her nurse came in, she said I had nearly put her to sleep. (Which was good. Slumber is not normally a goal of mindfulness meditation, but I consider it a success when a patient falls asleep, because it’s tiring on every level to be in the hospital.)

I also saw a fellow who a year ago was at the Truly Wonderful Medical Center, where he was visited by a wonderful woman chaplain—almost certainly one of my peers—who explained to him that she would be unable to meet for coffee or dinner after he was discharged from the hospital. He was still disgruntled about it, and blamed the hospital rather than the chaplain. He said that happy patients are more likely to make financial contributions to the hospital, and isn’t this desired by the hospital? If so, they would do well not to treat people “like they’re not even human beings.”

I was going to email my cohort and describe this, of course without using the patient’s name. Likely one of my peers would have said, “I remember that guy!” But I decided not to, because it wasn’t necessary—there was no good reason to do it—and because even though the patient wouldn’t knowingly be harmed, he would have indirectly been harmed by unwittingly becoming an object of humor or scorn, however mild and however fleeting. I feel increasingly protective of the patients I see.

I also want to be the very best chaplain I can be. I really love this job and would be devastated if I inadvertently did something that made me lose it. It brings out the best in me, just as going to my meditation group does. Going to work almost feels like going on a one-day meditation retreat. The day beforehand, I have a ritual of washing my glasses and shining my shoes, which are Ecco men’s shoes. They are very comfortable for walking to the hospital and up and down the stairs all day long, and they are very sober looking. When I put them on, I feel like I am the chaplain.

I now recollect, though, that there is also a sad memory associated with these shoes. Once I began CPE at the Truly Wonderful Medical Center, I realized I needed shoes that were more comfortable and planned a trip to a place downtown that specializes in such. It’s not far from where F. lives (or did live), and so I went to visit him, and then I went to the shoe store. With my free time so exceedingly limited, I was glad to be able to do these two important things on one afternoon. F. was irate. It went beyond his feeling that I should have spent every bit of my time with him and no time buying shoes. It was partly that, but he literally felt that I had viciously insulted him by having an errand to do after our visit, and he brought it up over and over and over in the months afterward.