Elder Diane Walker Stocker on companioning those in need

Take My Hand: Reflections of a Resident Chaplain

I recognized him at the far end of the hallway. I was surprised, but I shouldn’t have been, to see him on the Intermediate Care floor. Mr. Jones* and his wife have been faithful companions to their comatose son who has been in the ICU for sometime and has been moved because his immediate crises have been resolved. Some of his caregivers doubt he will awaken; at thirty, he is “nursing home bound.” Mr. and Mrs. Jones believe that God will heal their son. Each time I hear their hope I silently send up a request that it be answered as they envision it. But today Mr. Jones looks tired; his shoulders droop; his countenance is gray. The verse from Tommy Dorsey’s** song drifts in my mind “I am tired, I am weak, I am worn.” . . . We meet. Before I can speak, he begins – “I wish you would come by to see my wife. B had a bad night. I am so tired, so tired.” I place my hand on his shoulder. We walk a ways down the hall together.

I reach my destination and find another “companion” who has been moved from ICU. Traumatic experiences in Vietnam, coupled with many subsequent years of poor life choices, have greatly complicated his health issues. He cannot talk but writes almost undecipherable notes to his step-son – “they are trying to kill me, kill me,” he scribbles. No amount of assurance can assuage his fears. His son questions where his step-father is mentally; we wonder together if the sounds of the helicopters bringing in patients have triggered memories of wartime nightmares. The son is glad to have a listening ear. We go into an empty room to sit. He pours out his fears and frustrations. He is worried – about his step-father, his family, his health. He knows that he needs to rest but feels there is no respite – “Lead me on, let me stand.” I listen. I do something I rarely do; I tell him that he must go home and rest. He finally agrees: “yes that is best.” He wipes his eyes. I offer a blessing as we shake hands.

This dutiful step-son reminds me so much of the mother I spoke with just the day before. R and I sit at the end of a hallway. She unburdens herself of her fears for J, her young adult son who has been hospitalized over a month and has a long road ahead of him. They live out of town. It hurts her that other family members have “deserted” her; she feels alone in her faithfulness to him and she fears for his recovery. “Through the storm, through the night lead me on to the light.” Eventually, I turn the conversation to her needs. “Just pray for me,” she says. “How shall I pray?” I ask. Tears cascade down her cheeks. She asks for strength to carry on – physical strength; her greatest fear is that she will get sick and there will be no one to care for her son. We hold hands and call upon the Lord and Giver of Life to sustain her.

My heart goes out to my companions. I feel the tiredness that seeps out of them. Perhaps I am attuned to it because I feel it in my own life. I am just completing the third unit of my residency. The long hours and intense situations coupled with the grief over the recent death of my own mother are taxing my physical, emotional, and spiritual resources. Some days I wonder what I have to give. I have found the place that I cannot navigate by myself – I, too, walk through a valley of the shadow of death. Yet I am comforted by the sure and firm assurance that God is my companion and calls me to be a companion to others along the sometimes rocky way. I hear the words again – “Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home” – and I realize – I am home – here in this holy space some call a hospital – walking the halls, entering a room, extending my hand to a “companion.”

*The family name has been changed.
** “Precious Lord” was written in 1932 by Tommy Dorsey, a black gospel composer, after the death of his wife and infant son.

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