Chaplain Helene Borts on hoping beyond hope

How Do We Look at the Other?

The motel cleaning staff received no response to their knocks. After unlocking the door, they found a woman unconscious. Police and Emergency Services were called. The paramedics immediately intubated her. Upon arrival in hospital it was determined she had no spontaneous respiration, no gag, absolutely no neurological response; she had track marks over her arms and legs – urine cocaine screen was positive; she was thin, her body was dirty, her hair was tangled.

L. was 39 years old. She was someone’s daughter and sister; she had been a wife; she was a mother; she was God’s child. Initially, as she was moved from the ambulance, to the Emergency Room to the ICU, she was called the “39-year-old addict.”

How do we look at the “other”? Why does society need to have the “other”? Who becomes the “other”? Is it the person of different color, the person of different faith? Is it the person with AIDS, or is it the person with drug addiction? In the few hours she spent in our intensive care unit, staff were moved one step closer to care that held no judgment; we were professional as expected. God’s grace allowed us to have compassion for her, for her family and for each other.

Her 14-year-old daughter lay prostrate over her: “Mommy, please don’t die, Mommy, you said you’d get better this time.” Her son sat on a chair, crying, crying, ”It’s just not fair.” Her sister, long estranged, wept over the pretty child and teenager she had once been. Her father spoke about how tired he was. Over the years he had battled in court for custody of the children; each time she had entered treatment he had been filled with hope – maybe this time, maybe this time she’ll be strong enough. “Do you know what my daughter does to pay for her drugs? I’m not naïve; can you understand what she’ll do for drugs? Will you help us pray? Let God have her back, let her finally be at peace.”

“God grant me the strength to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Neibuhr’s words are prayed at the end of all ‘meetings’ but on Monday morning they were the strength this family needed to accept that L. could not recover and that life support measures had to be withdrawn. The family remained with L. as each drug was discontinued; each machine was stilled. The respiratory therapist removed the intubator and, for a moment, all tears stopped. The room was absolutely still.

Hope is one of the twelve steps. We are a people of hope. When we can no longer hope for recovery, we hope for forgiveness; we hope for the life to come.

In my distress I called to the Lord;
I cried to God for help.
From God’s temple, the Lord heard my voice;
My cry came before God and into the Creator’s ears.
Psalm 18:6

Be at peace, L. Your struggles are over. May the Lord’s great name be blessed forever and ever. Amen.

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