The Rev. Rob A. Ruff on the weight of a burden

“…two pastors from the hospital…”

My pager went off one morning
the numbers it displayed directed me to call my office
The message I received was that
Helen needs you stat
Why would my colleague need me
so urgently?
I wondered as I walked to her office
(and why do we non-medical types
so enjoy talking like doctors?)

Something terrible has happened Helen told me
her voice quivering,
breaking,
with emotion
There’s been a death
A young man
The son of a doctor here

The Medical Examiner had paged Helen
who was on-call
to ask if the chaplain would
break the bad news to the doctor (and
break his heart in the process I thought)

I know them Helen told me
This doctor and his son
I met the son years ago when he was a patient here
and also then met the father, the doctor

How strange it is, I said,
that you, who know them, are the one called
on this day of the young man’s demise
to share the awful news with the father, the doctor
whom you’d met those many years back

Would you go with me? Helen asked
The pleading look in her eyes described that there was no other answer except
Yes, absolutely, I will

So off we went the two of us to the doctor’s office
Off we went as if like children hand in hand to keep each other safe
As if Someone Dear having fastened a belt around us
was taking us where we did not expect
did not want
to go that morning.

We reached the office and announced to the doctor’s secretary
that we needed to speak with him urgently
When two chaplains need to speak with you urgently
they are not brining good news
I thought ruefully to myself
He’s seeing a patient, said the secretary,
then he’ll be right here

We stood in the hallway
waiting nervously
the burden of the bad news not yet shared
not yet broken
weighing on our hearts

At last he appeared
in white lab coat of course
Older than I’d imagined

Helen spoke first
as we’d arranged
I’m Helen, a chaplain, here
we met years ago when your son was a patient
I met you too then
we’ve come today with some bad news
I’m sorry to tell you that your son has died

He sat down
The weight of the burden lifted from us -
the awful news having been broken -
and moved to him
pushing him into his office chair
It must have stunned him as well for he asked,
Did you just tell me that my son has died?

Yes, I did, Helen says softly
I’m so sorry for your loss, I said
What else is there to say?

He did not cry, at first
but told us of his son:
his troubles and struggles
his triumphs and joys

He cried a bit as he phoned another son
to share the painful news
and to make plans for meeting at the doctor’s house
where together they would tell his wife, the mother

Helen and I stepped out of the office
as the doctor spoke by phone with his loved ones
He told them how he heard the news:
Two pastors from the hospital came to tell me

I noticed that he didn’t say
two chaplains
but rather
two pastors
from the hospital
came to tell me

That fits, I thought
(Although I generally much prefer the former
to the latter)
for we were
two arms of the church
and of the hospital
come this painful day
to embrace him

I almost went into the ministry
the good doctor told us as we parted from him
but I chose medicine instead
I realized I was too soft-hearted to do what you do

A soft heart is a strength
not a weakness
for what we do
I thought to myself
as we walked back
the two of us
as if like children hand in hand to keep each other safe
wiping away the tears
which help us move beyond such things
our hearts aching for him

His colleague, featured prominently in the poem, is Helen Wells O’Brien, an ordained Mennonite minister and Board Certified Chaplain. Helen is a staff chaplain, specializing in pediatrics, who serves both Regions Hospital and Gillette Children’s Specialty Hospital. Helen is married and is the proud mother of two sons.

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