The War on COVID from a Chaplain’s View, July 2020

I gazed into the room enclosed by glass sliding doors to view a white blanket draped over a body on a hospital bed. No other person was in the room. This image will be forever etched in my mind, for he was the first COVID death I witnessed. I did not know anything about this man except his name and his age, 86 years.  I learned that he died of complications with Coronavirus.   He lost his heartbeat a few times that morning and his heart could not rebound. 

The man’s family could not come in because they were not permitted in the COVID Intensive Care Unit. I am not sure that they would want to be exposed anyway. As a chaplain called to the death, I prayed for his family – for comfort and strength.  “God, have mercy!” His family will grieve that they were not able to be with their loved one when he died, they will grieve that he is gone permanently, they will grieve for what was, and they will grieve for what they no longer have now that he is gone, being left with memories that I hope are sweet. The patient did not die alone, however; a nurse was with him when he passed.   

God, have mercy!  

During the first wave of Coronavirus in April 2020, our hospital peaked at 11 patients in Intensive Care Unit with the virus. The unit was separated from the rest of the hospital.    Conversely, the second wave started in the middle of June and swept through our city, ripping through entire families. Now in July, the numbers of COVID patients in our hospital was pushing 100. Thankfully, not all occupied beds in Intensive Care or required ventilators.

The hospital now seems like a war zone to me, with healthcare workers suited in protective gear much like armor, put on for war.  Everyone wears masks, face shields and protective gowns.  As patients fight for their breath, the hospital staff fight to breathe in this COVID storm.

Let me chronicle to you that particular day in July, on which I witnessed my first COVID death.

Hardly stepping inside my office that morning, I received a call concerning a Code Blue before 7 am.  Code Blue indicates that a patient’s heart has stopped beating.   Chaplains are called to codes because they are considered necessary in case the family needs consolation or the staff needs emotional support.  Since my boss was out that Monday morning, I answered the page.  What alarmed me was that the page emanated from a COVID unit. I put on the battle gear – the precautionary two masks and face shield.

I did not feel comfortable going to the COVID Intensive Care Unit, but I thought rationally that the masks and shield safeguarded me. Emotionally, my feelings gave way to great deal of apprehension.  I responded to the code, which consummated in the death of an elderly man. The staff looked like something from a science fiction movie with all their protective attire. Some even wore gas masks.

 I did not know this gentleman.   I grieved his loss. I did not know what his favorite ball team was or how many children he had or what his occupation had been.  I reached out to the nurses who attended the death; they showed sadness on their faces but had no time to process their remorse due to the need to focus on immediate tasks. I prayed silently for God to give them grace. Death is challenging on nurses; their job is to save lives, and they put in enormous effort to do so. But death is even harsher now because of the many frequent COVID deaths.

I never get accustomed to death, even though I witness  many deaths in the hospital.  Each death is a life who God loves – an image bearer of God.  Each life is someone who had lived with loved ones and who was important to someone. 

I walked by units with closed doors and red lettered signs, “Enhanced Precautions.”   I phoned the patients in these COVID units that day. Many patients were on oxygen and it was arduous for them to talk.   Patients told of family members ravished by this ugly virus but who were recovering at home.  Patients told of other family members hospitalized, and other patients shared that a family member had died of the devastating Coronavirus.  They talked of intense fears and grief. One lady cried as she told me that she was alone in her hospital room.  She missed her family, missed someone being with her and missed someone with whom she could converse.  It seemed that this pandemic intensifies and amplifies every emotion. 

This pandemic intensifies and amplifies every emotion.

  I acknowledged and named each one’s grief, fears, sadness and aloneness; acknowledging is the beginning of healing. I prayed with those who wanted prayer both for God’s presence and his healing. I read Scripture to others (such as Psalm 121). It surprised me how many patients wanted prayer, even if they stated no religious affiliation.

 For elderly patients, I called their families.  My heart went out to the patients in their 80’s and 90’s because they were alone. Many patients that age were not able to hear what the doctor said, many became confused and many were too sick to ask questions.  They are the most vulnerable.  As a side note, we do have many patients in that age group who recover from COVID and go home.

Naming and acknowledging feelings is the beginning of healing.

Later that day, I visited patients who did not have the virus.  One man, in his early 30’s asked for prayer as soon as I introduced myself.   This man, with a cross tattooed on his chest, and with desperation in his voice requested, “Pray for me.  Something is attacking and talking to me.”   After I prayed with him,  I reassured him that God was with him and that the staff was going to get him medical help. My heart broke deeply that he felt tortured and in anguish.  

A mother of a baby in Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU), commented that I helped her talk through some of her struggle with her own health and with her baby being in NICU.  She recognized that it helped to discuss all that happened.  She did not have anyone to talk to with the “No Visitor Policy.”  Faith did not come up in my conversation with her.

A young couple lost a pregnancy of 38 weeks, almost full term.  A death so far along in pregnancy seemed unfathomable to me.  When I entered the room, the father of the baby was leaning over the bed rail, teary eyed, with the mother in bed weeping. The shock and despair overwhelmed them.   No words could salve this incredible grief – grief of the loss of a precious life they created, grief of a loss of dreams and hopes, grief of what could have been. All I could do was come alongside these parents.  All I could say was, “I hear you. There are no words at a time like this.”  I prayed a short prayer, asking God to come close to them, for peace and comfort.  Another chaplain would we see them the next day to help them process and mourn after the baby was delivered. I thought of how God comes to those in pain, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; he saves those whose spirits are crushed.” (Psalm 34:18)

“There are no words at a time like this,”

Somewhere during the day, I began to feel numb and battle weary.  So much sorrow, so much agony, so much heartache.  My own heart could not contain it. I felt like my heart was a cup overflowing with sadness. I had heard and had seen so much that was hard.  I wanted to put my head in the sand to stop  the burden I felt in the losses of others.  I would process all the events later with other chaplains and then at home.  I would cry, lament, journal and grapple with doubt.  I would question God, I would ask “why”.  I would wrestle with the reality of humanity – living in a broken world. Afterwards, I would rest in the assurance that the light of faith, hope and peace would peak through windows of the hearts of the patients I saw. “God provides what we need from the moment we enter grief until slowly, gradually, we discover we have made it through the dark valley  without being destroyed.” (James Mayfield, Grace in the Midst of Grief)  God would bring light in the hopelessness of night and give kernels of hope in the depth of grief.

Still later, an Army chaplain called, informing me that Army nurses were on their way to help alleviate the strain on the medical team.  He mentioned that our Governor had requested help for our hospital.  The news brought a sigh of relief in me, “Help is on the way!”

God would bring light.

The highlight of the day came when I visited a Neonatal Intensive Care room. I observed a mother holding her twins.  She shared with me that this was the second time in their two weeks of life that the twins had been next to each other.   What a glorious picture to see the twins out of cribs, with fewer wires attached to them and peacefully sleeping on their mother’s chest together!  Mom shed many tears prior to this moment for all the bumps of their premature entrance into the world.  They were tiny miracles under five pounds each who were beginning to learn to live in the world, no longer needing  oxygen and learning to eat. This was a tender vision of serenity that brought tears to my eyes – a glimpse of God’s goodness.

Twins on their mother’s chest – a vision of serenity

Before I left for the day, I silently prayed for our battle weary nurses and wondered how they  felt if  I felt exhausted and drained.  As I was stepping out the door, my boss called to inform me that he tested positive for COVID. 

God will give me grace and new energy to serve another day.

To be continued. . .

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