One Resident’s Friday

My afternoon was completely unforeseeable although predictable… predictable because I was scheduled to spend time with the chaplain at Round Rock Medical Center. “Father Amy” is unique. She was a nun turned Episcopalian minister, and she deeply cares for all of the hurting souls at the hospital. She ministers to patients, their families, and the staff in emotional times of need. For some naïve reason, I thought spending time with her would entail sitting in an office to discuss her typical day or visiting the multi-faith chapel.

Instead, Father Amy called me from the nursery and said to come meet her, but only if I wanted. My curiosity was piqued, and I walked down the corridor completely unaware of the situation and ceremony I would participate in.

We met outside of the nursery, and she whisked me back into an exam room. There, on top of a mini refrigerator, was a small bundle. Immediately I knew a deceased child was wrapped carefully inside. She explained the situation to me…

Baby Jordan was only 23 weeks old with significant life-debilitating conditions. He was born dead, and his parents were heartbroken to say the least. Father Amy makes it her mission to take care of deceased babies more than 14 weeks old ensuring that they have a peaceful and proper burial or cremation. By “taking care of” I mean devoting attention to all the sensitive details that are heightened in an extreme period of loss. This afternoon she loved and cared for Baby Jordan in a remarkable way.

Last night, our CEO Deb Ryle stayed and spoke to me about her leadership style. Deb believes in investing in people and treating others as she would like her mother, her child, or herself to be treated. Her example and generous spirit have permeated the organization in such a way that a compassionate and caring culture has developed.

Deb and I discussed some situations in Labor and Delivery and the Emergency Room that had left the staff feeling emotionally-drained. Last night a mother came in with a significant medical condition, threatening her child’s life and her own. The staff and physicians acted swiftly and smartly. At the same time, another mother came into the hospital with a dead child in her womb. One mother would embrace life while the other would encounter death. Deb had told me about the first mother/child situation that had stirred the staff. What she and I didn’t know of was the second mother’s struggle.

Father Amy enlisted my help as I attempted to calm my emotions and act logically. Are not grief and shock logical reactions to death? She began to unwrap the delicate bundle, so that I could look at this baby. I inhaled sharply, and all at once, I saw a precious little body warped by disease. From the shoulders up, the child appeared fairly normal, but normalcy stopped there. He had an organ protruding from his back; an organ that clearly did not make it to its proper internal position. His legs were curled to one side, almost fish-like, with one foot completely turned backwards.

Father Amy arranged him just so in his blanket bought by his parents, and she gave me the camera. Suddenly, I had become the official photographer of this child, so that the parents could have a lasting image of the life they created. As I took pictures, I felt like I was participating in some bizarre ritual. Why would parents want a picture of their dead baby? Amy replied that they may not want it at the immediate time of loss, but after some time has passed, they are always thankful for those tangible mementos of their baby. It’s one of the few remembrances they have of a brief life.

We positioned Baby Jordan, not more than the size of a man’s hand, in such a way as to hide his deformities and emphasize his sweet, shut eyes and lips. I took picture after picture wondering where my courage and strength had come from. If I was doing this family a service, then I wanted to help.

I still did not fully comprehend this act. Why were pictures so important? Round Rock Medical Center gives memory boxes to parents experiencing a loss. Inside the box are tiny, black-stamped footprints, perhaps a lock of hair, notes from the staff, and pictures of their child. I read the notes the nurses and doctor had written to the parents, and I felt tears starting to form. Words like “prayers, thoughts, heaven, love, family, sorrow and joy” graced the pages; it was immediately apparent that no matter how many times this happens in L&D, it hurts just the same for the staff. Feelings of grief and disappointment are never banished or disguised.

After our pictures, we bundled Baby Jordan, first in a white silk blanket and then in a blue blanket, tying each with a blue ribbon bow. Our last act was to place his body in that refrigerator—his resting place until the funeral home came to get him.

It was gut wrenching, terrifying and heartbreaking to see a tiny life extinguished. The essence of the moment was a reminder that life is a miraculous, precious gift.

After our ceremony with Baby Jordan, we then walked back into the nursery and placed an angel medallion on another baby’s isolette. Baby Brooklyn had made it last night. She and her mother had conquered an extremely difficult delivery. An eight-pounder with a full head of dark hair, Brooklyn opened her eyes to gaze out the window at her grandparents and cousins. She was victorious.

The pieces of the puzzle started to connect in my mind. You cannot come to work everyday and experience this as a casual and common occurrence. But it happens. Nurses, physicians, and other staff courageously and compassionately take care of patients and their loved ones. It’s their job, but it becomes so much more. Their role defines who they are: passionate people providing compassionate care. Day in and day out, they give their love, their concern, and their lives to everyone whom they encounter.

Being a healthcare professional is no easy vocation, and it is certainly about more than technical skills.

You have to have heart.