It was early.       .       .

right before 8:00 a.m.

and she spotted me right away as I walked off the elevator.

I was covering for him;

he was on vacation

and I had gotten the alert we had a new patient

that needed to be seen before the weekend

so that we would stay compliant.       .       .

I went over to the nurses station where she was standing

and I asked about the new patient and what room he was in;

The Nurse told me that he was in room 2223

and he had a  good night.

When I went to his room he was sleeping,

but not very soundly.     .     .

I gently knocked on the door

and introduced myself.       .        .

 I explained my role of being a Spiritual Care Coordinator

and it really being a fancy name for being a Chaplain.       .       .

“I know that you have just come on to hospice and there’s been a whole wave of folks to come in to see you, even me. But, sir,” I went on to explain further, “You’re so important to all of us that you get your own Nurse, Social Worker, Home Health Aide, Chaplain, and if you would like, a Music or Art Therapist or even a Masseuse.”

I’ve said something like this

in a script-like introduction 1000’s of times before

in my 22 years of hospice work.        .        .

“God Dammit,”   he whispered,

almost like he was just above silently praying the

“O u r   F a t h e r,”

and then he said it louder and one more time

L     O     U     D     E     R      still.

It was then that I saw that his eyes were more than misted,

that they had actually welled up to the point of overflowing their brims.     .     .

“It’s not suppose to be like this, it’s just god damn not suppose to be like this,”

he said, a little more composed tone as he opened up the lid to his oatmeal.

“Shit  balls,”

he said as he stabbed a spoon in the middle of it.

“This’ll   make   it   all   better.”

We both laughed.

“Are you in any pain? Do you hurt anywhere?”

“Not   really?”

“Are, are you afraid? Worried?”

He let his mouthful of Oatmeal do the talking.

S       I       L       E       N       C       E

.        .        .scares people into talking

.      .      .sometimes even shouting loudly

.      .      .or just making noise

—-any sounds

so as to break that highly polished

C r y s t a l      S I L E N C E

into small, jagged pieces

that might cut but not remain Soundless

any longer.     .     .

We feared the SILENCE—–

Neither of us.        .        .

We accepted it.        .        .

Embraced it.        .        .

Let it do our talking

and we L I S T E N E D.         .        .

More.          .          .we heard!

He stared down into his coffee cup

as if it was a magic mirror

waiting to tell him the secret of Life and,

.       .       .and of Death

He was really looking for the Answer

even while wanting to ask the

Ultimate     Question.          .          .

“Yeah, uhh, yeah, I’m a little afraid,”

he coughed, cleared his throat and then affirmed,

“But not of dying, but more of the how, the when, the hurt of it all.”

He didn’t look up from his coffee.

He did look up,

and without blinking, asked,

“Is that normal?”

“Yes, I believe it is because so many others have told me so.”

“That   they’re   afraid   of   what   happens   before   they   die   and   not   after?”

“Yes.”

“What,  what   do   you   tell   them?”

“I ask them what has helped them in the past when they were going through something so hard and difficult.”

S            I            L            E            N            C            E

“And now, now I am asking you.      .     . What helps you?     What do you need just right now,   not then,   just right here,   right now?”

“I   think   a   prayer   would   really   help.”

“Would  you  like  me  to  pray  with  you  or  would  you  like  to  pray  with  me?”

“I  think  I’d  like  you  to  pray  with  me.   .   .Would  you?”

“Yes sir.     .     .Yes,  I  would  be  honored.  Would  you  like  me  to  include  anything  in  the  prayer?”

“Whatever   comes   to   your   mouth.”

“God, we call you by many names and one of them happens to be ‘Our Father.’ It makes us all of your children. You have never lied to us, you told us there was a time to be born and a time to die; but you’ve promised no eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mouth has told, no mind has ever imagined what you have planned for those you’ve enduringly loved. The truest and sincerest gift we have is our Fear and we wholeheartedly give it to you. If you can’t take it all away, please share it with us.       .       .”

“Thank you.        .       .This was great.       .       . I  really  appreciated  you  coming  by  even  when  I  didn’t know  how  bad  I  needed  it.”

“You gave me the gift, this morning, sir.       .       . Thank you.”

We shook hands without much shaking.         .        .

I held his hands in mine.      .     .

We locked eyes.        .       .

We didn’t blink.        .        .

Universal    language

spoken/heard-  -implicitly.       .       .

When I went out to the nurses station,

the Nurse was flustered.        .        .

“I’m   so   sorry.        .        .”

“What   for?”

“I   sent   you   into   see   the   wrong   patient.     .     . He’s   not   with   your   hospice,  he’s   with   another one.      .      . I’m   so   sorry!”

“Don’t  you  take  that  from  me,”

I said smiling at her.        .        .

“We  just  had  an  awesome  visit.          .          .

I don’t care if he was with our hospice or not…it was a great visit, for both of us.”

And then I laughed.      .      .

“Besides,  I  don’t  have  to  document  on  him  now!”

She laughed too, with a redness covering her face.          .          .

“But   you   do   have   to   go   see   your   real   hospice   patient   now.”

He       was       sleeping.          .          .

I      was      a        l  o  t        more      awake.          .          .