My cohort at school has a number of things to do before jukai—Zen ceremony for receiving the precepts—next March. Besides the two lineage charts that I finished while I was at school in August and sewing our rakusus, we have to write about each of ten precepts, each of the Three Refuges, each of the Four Commitments, and each of the three Zen Peacemaker Tenets. We decided to do the writing as a group, taking three days for each item: one to read about whatever it is, one day for contemplation, and one for writing. It’s nice to know we’re all focused on the same thing, in all our various locations.
The final task is to make a piece of art or writing representing our own lineage, which doesn’t have to be literal. That is, mine won’t be a PowerPoint with Howie appearing right above me and Howie’s main teacher, whoever that is, appearing right above him. Rather, this is something that honors all of the people who guided or inspired us on our spiritual path. Mine will probably start with the first dharma book I ever read, which was Who Dies? An Investigation of Conscious Living and Conscious Dying, by Stephen Levine.
Early in September, I went to the first session of a class on palliative care at the Truly Wonderful Medical Center that will meet once a month for about a year. Our teachers are an interdisciplinary team of four women: a chaplain, a physician, a nurse and a social worker. One of my peers from Clinical Pastoral Education is in the class, along with two of my co-workers. The day was utterly superb, including a wonderful talk by a pioneering palliative care physician. Even lunch was wonderful. I figured it would be a sandwich and small bag of potato chips apiece, but it was a lavish spread of chicken, lasagna, brown rice and vegetables, along with two kinds of salad and three dressing choices, with cookies for dessert. I still don’t eat sugar, but I stuffed myself with salad and lasagna.
While reviewing charts at work one day, I read earlier chaplain notes saying that a certain patient had sneered and been rude and answered questions in a “sarcastic” manner. While thus engaged, I could hear a patient shrieking loudly from his room that he needed help, help! The fact that no one rose to assist him immediately suggested that he might have been shrieking off and on for hours. Then I realized that the shrieking and sneering, sarcastic patients were one and the same: now I was definitely going to visit this person.
I entered the room to find the patient staring at me with a forbidding, even angry expression. He looked as if he didn’t intend to say a word, or if he did, it was going to be a discouraging word. I said cheerfully, “I know you don’t enjoy chatting with chaplains, but I just thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.” At this, his expression changed completely. He smiled and looked me in the eye and said, “Actually, I do enjoy chatting with chaplains, but I’m [outrageous religion guaranteed to offend any chaplain]!” At this, I raised and extended my hands, palms up, as if to say, “Go figure! Fine with me,” and then he told me that he expects to die soon and that he’s at peace with that. It was quite a powerful visit. I was impressed by his equanimity, and also suspect that this kind of acceptance can come and go, so I asked who will be with him on this journey and was glad he has company.
This was on an oncology ward that I normally rarely visit. I now go to various campuses and various units per what my boss thinks needs covering, and can end up almost anywhere. That day I ran into a meditation friend of mine who is an oncology nurse. It was the first time I’ve ever seen her in the hospital. Three observations about the oncology ward: care team members are much more often in patients’ rooms than they are on other units. Ditto family members and friends. And that people facing the end of life are more likely to get right to the point. When I approached one woman’s bed, she immediately stuck out her hand to take mine.
The first day of the palliative care class awakened a desire in me to be part of a palliative care interdisciplinary team, as our teachers are, or like my oncology nurse friend and her co-workers, and it kind of threw into relief how much that seemed to be lacking at my paying job.
A few days later, I was thinking about this and got more and more aggrieved as I mentally detailed how poorly we’re being treated by our boss, how much we’re being excluded, how little we’re being valued, etc. That’s why the palliative care class is so great: it’s a chance to spend a whole day with a like-minded bunch of people. It’s also why serving at County Hospital is so wonderful. There almost always are two or more chaplains there—sometimes six or seven—and our supervisor is usually there. In between visiting patients, we hang out with each other and it’s fun.
As I told myself my victim story over and over, I felt worse and worse. Finally, I remembered who is responsible for my feeling like part of the team: me. I had vowed never to attend a team meeting now that we per diems weren’t being paid to join in, in order to show my boss how terrible her new plan was. However, if it’s important for me to feel like I’m part of a team, and if I’m entirely responsible for that, what actions could I take? There are many. I could schedule lunches with my co-workers. I could periodically send an email to the group. And I could go to the meetings, even if I’m not paid for doing it, and even if it causes my boss to think her plan is perfectly fine.
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