Chaplain Alan Bagnall on a day in a Chaplain’s life

"Who takes care of you, Chaplain?"

I recently came upon something I had written shortly after becoming the chaplain here at Driscoll Children’s Hospital. I decided that I wanted to share it with my fellow chaplains because here I am, 13 years later, and some of the same feelings still arise. I am hopeful that those who read this will find it helpful to them and remind them to ask themselves the question, “Who takes care of you, Chaplain?”

First, some background information: I am the first Chaplain this 200 bed children’s hospital ever had. That is a huge honor, but also a gigantic responsibility. At the time, I was doing this ministry solo in-house. I had a wonderful Catholic priest that was willing to be here when the need arose; but he was one of the two priests at a large parish and his time was well spent also. This hospital covers the pediatric needs of all of South Texas, or a total of about 30 counties (the size of the state of South Carolina). Some patients come from as far as four hours away for the sub-specialties that our hospital offers. We have a large PICU and an even larger NICU. The heart patients alone could usually keep me busy full-time.

September 29 – in another century

I do not think that I am very different from most pastoral care givers. I do not think that I take very good care of myself. That is not a great revelation; it is just a statement of fact. I go and go and go, always caring for others, but many times just forget to do much for me.

I was thinking about that last night while I was working out at the local YMCA. That is one of the few things I do for myself; I workout at least three times per week. Without that, I know I would quickly fall into depression. While I was working out, I began to think back to the previous 18 hours or so. Even I could not believe all that I had been a part of. Then I began thinking about what the whole month of September had been like and I was reeling!

This is some of what had led up to the previous 18 hours. During September, I ministered at one death in our NICU that led to organ donation; I did that child’s graveside service. I ministered at four deaths in the PICU; one post-death conference with a family of another child whose funeral I had done the month before. A nurse died of natural causes here at the hospital; that was the first time anyone could remember that happening. We did a memorial service for this nurse; it included some of the nurse’s family and the staff from two floors that had worked with this nurse in the short time that she had been here.

Many people reading this right now might say that is just a part of their normal ministry. So why take the time to hash over this? That is what led up to yesterday.

Last week a very beloved doctor in the hospital died of cancer. She affected many lives because not only was she a brilliant clinician, she was also one of the teachers in the pediatric resident training program here. We had just concluded a memorial service for her. A person from human resources came by and said they had appreciated the service. They knew some of what the previous days had held for me; they asked something about how I handled it all. I made the comment that, “Whenever I feel like crawling into a hole, I know I have had just about all I can handle.” I said I was going to look for the hole. We left it at that.

Late that night, I was paged to the ER. I was told that there had been a stabbing and could I get to the ER as quickly as possible. It was a 17-year-old that had been stabbed. What a senseless tragedy. They were not able to save him because of the wound in his heart. That piercing of his heart pierced the hearts of his entire family. How could that family deal with the loss of such a vibrantly healthy child/young man?

I sat with the family. How do you minister to a family that may be about to lose a child? There is nothing to say that could possibly make it any better. We prayed. Cried. They grieved the possible loss of their youngest child; he had his entire life out in front of him. How senseless. He and his friends had just come from a “YoungLife” event. They wanted to have a little more fun before they turned in for the night and school the next day.

It had been like a scene from M*A*S*H. Everyone was doing everything within their power to save this boy. In the end they could not. I heard the quivering in the voices of usually strong and in-control doctors. They wanted this boy to live. He did not make it. When I finally went home, it was the next day.

I thought about not going to the hospital that next day. I thought about just doing something for myself and taking care of me. But I pushed ahead.

The story was on the news the next morning. I listened to the details they had and wondered how the family was coping with the tragedy. I was trying to deal with that when I arrived at the hospital early to attend a conference on organ donation. We were finally seated for the conference when someone came in hurriedly and let the ER staff know that a “CPR in progress” was due in the ER in the next few minutes. I left with half of the audience.

The child that came in had “fallen out of bed”; unfortunately, that usually turns out to be abuse. It took another 15 minutes or so for the police to arrive with the mother. She had been at work when all this had taken place. All she wanted to do was be with her child. That was not to happen until several hours later.

How do you minister to this mother? There was a long line of people that had hundreds of questions for this poor young woman. She was barely old enough to be called a young woman. What would happen if the father showed up? What kind of animal could do this to another human being, much less to their own child? Would I be able to “be” with him? It was much easier to be with the mother; she was “appropriate” – whatever that means.

I never had to be with the father. He went immediately to jail. But I was with this mother and her family. And I was with the staff. Abuse always affects the staff in ways that not much else does. They had the same questions I was asking: How could someone do this to their own child? I was there to minister to them also.

This patient did not make it either. I spent the entire day with the family. The group grew as did their anger when they got more of the details of the entire trauma this child had endured. At one point, the mom leaned over her now brain-dead child and whispered, “You don’t have to suffer anymore. I’m sorry you went through this. Rest now.” I heard the doctor’s voice quiver as he broke the news to the mother about the brain death and about the possibility of organ donation. Later the family told me, the doctor “had a big heart!” As horrible as it was, they were very appreciative of what the hospital had done and what the social worker and I had specifically done.

Sometimes it is hard to walk around the hospital and be called “holy man”, “preacher”, and words that usually set me apart. I do not normally mind them. But this day, I felt all too human, all too “not”-set apart. I wanted to be mad; I wanted to scream. There was too much senseless loss and too much death. I just wanted to be like everyone else. I was talking to some of the nurses at one point and repeated something a doctor had said. One nurse remarked, “And that’s coming from our pastor.” I wished that I could have pulled that last sentence back into my mouth, but it was too late. I do not think that ruined my image or anything like that. I was just too tired to think about what the words had meant. I was just “too human.” (Maybe they will not remember what I said. I hope not!)

The question of some of my Social Worker friends kept coming back to me, “Who takes care of you Alan?” I tell people that if they do not take care of themselves, no one else will. I usually forget that message when it comes to me. Some people I have talked with the last month “self-medicate.” I do not drink, so that would never have worked for me. I do not “medicate,” but I do try to meditate. That helps me. I also pray. I read what God has said to me in the Bible.

I needed to write this down, for my own sanity. I have felt so “torn apart;” I needed to “re-member.” It has put things into some sort of perspective for me. I believe that God was with me; even though it did not feel like it all the time. I have seen another very important thing: I need to call my chaplain friend at another hospital here in town. I need someone else to talk to, to share with. I do not do that enough!

And so, my question to you who are reading this is: who takes care of you, chaplain?

Do you have thoughts about long view you’d like to share with your colleagues? Send an e-mail of any length to info@PlainViews.org.