Going Home (Alone)

As a hospital chaplain, death is a regular part of my job. More times than I care to remember, I have sat by a bedside, and watched someone die. More times than I care to remember, I have held sobbing family members in my arms as they grieved the loss of a loved one. More times than I care to remember, I have given the "after death" spiel; "Take all the time you need. Is there any one I can call for you? Which funeral home have you chosen?"

It is hard to sit with families and watch someone die, but that is not the hardest part of my job. Sitting and watching and waiting is a contained experience, and everyone knows what to do. The only question at this point is, "When?" This is a communal activity. Everyone in the room is tied to each other by the same thing--the death of the person on the bed.

The really hard parts come after the death. From the last breath onward, nothing is well defined. The story writes itself during the death. Everyone has to continue the story in their own way after the death, and each story is going to be different, so you cannot look over your neighbor's shoulder, figure out what they are doing, and copy them, even if the "neighbor" is your spouse.

Usually after a death, I stay with the family for a while, then I go upstairs and chart the death. I don’t have to do this part. Once they are dead, they are no longer a patient, but I want there to be a record, even if only a few sentences, of their passing. If I have been called in for a late night emergency, I head downstairs, and out to my car after charting.

Nine times out of ten I run into the family, who is also leaving the hospital at this point. I am going home to a family, my warm bed, and usually a few more hours sleep. I am heading back to the familiar.

The family of the deceased does not have that luxury. They are heading into entirely new territory. Husband and wives go home to empty beds, parents go home to empty chairs at the dinner table, children go home to an empty house. Everyone goes home with a hole in their lives. And there is no book to tell them how to fill that hole. There are no tapes they can buy which will unexcavated the emptiness. Even God, for many people, appears now primarily by absence, and not by presence.

I watch them go out to their cars, and then I grieve for them, for they know not what manner of storm will sweep over them in the form of unrequited loss. I grieve for them, for they go alone; even when they go in groups, they go alone, for grieving is a uniquely isolating experience, and it brooks no cohorts. I grieve for them, for they will face a new tomorrow that is defined now by what they have lost, and what they will never have again.