I had a friend ask recently how things were going for me at the hospital. For those of you who don’t know, I am almost done with a unite of CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) that began right as everything shut down because of COVID-19. That means I started a full-time unpaid job at a hospital in the final weeks of my master’s program in the middle of a global pandemic. I’m weird. My kids’ first day home from school was my first day at work at the hospital. My graduate degree is done now (Yea!) and I’m closing in on my final weeks of CPE. It’s weird to think about what it will be like when all of this is done as the job I planned to return to for the summer at the Y probably won’t be up and running still. Eh, if anything COVID-19 has taught me is to just plan on today. I’ll think about that later.
Everyone I talked to before starting CPE who had done it themselves described it as “intense.”* I thought I was well-suited for the work because I’ve done a lot of personal work and therapy and have a disposition for connecting with strangers. Turns out, that’s all true. AND my work is ongoing. Like, some of it is just beginning. The difference between chaplaincy and other spiritual or counseling work is that the chaplain’s presence IS the intervention, which means the chaplain must connect to their own emotions and story in order to engage the person at their point of need (rather than meeting their needs). We do not provide guidance and information. We go into the valley where the patient is and engage the feelings of what that’s like. We do not escort people out of their valley nor do we skirt around the valleys we’d rather avoid. This means my story is regularly activated and I have to care for myself as I stay present with people in sometimes the hardest moments of their lives. I’ve seen some real shit, you guys. So. Many. Hard. Things. This means I cry at work. This means I’m sometimes triggered by interactions. There is no “fixing” things or experiences for others. I cannot and will not rob others of their work to do. It is their story. Our stories just cross paths for a moment. I am an enneagram 2 called to witness the human experience and not fix it. I’m called to engage the pain and tragedy of what it is to be a human being.
In this process, I have experienced a beautiful unraveling. I’m shedding narratives about myself that are no longer serving me and I’m realizing what I can and cannot do. It’s an experience in exploring my own spiritual authority and allowing my intuition to participate actively while keeping my personal curiosity in check. It’s an experience in examining all my relational and emotional patterns. It’s unblocking certain feelings and experiences I haven’t attended to or receiving feedback from my peers about things I don’t know about how I come across to others. It’s bringing myself to the table of engagement without making the moment about me. My story becomes in service to theirs. I’m discovering the types of encounters I really enjoy (post-partum moms with their babies) and the ones that require a shit ton of care after (turns out, code blues aren’t as sexy as I’d anticipated).
It’s coming into a patient’s life for just a moment in the hopes of providing transitional care and shoring up their support systems for their long-term work. In some ways, my scope of practice is small. Most patients I only see one time. But I like to think that just having someone hold space for your reality in the midst of a traumatic experience can help lessen the work leftover when the trauma has passed. It also means that my role can be as a conduit for someone to practice their faith the way they prefer, which can be totally different from the way I practice mine. So sometimes I get to be a part of someone connecting to their spiritual leader or to words and methods of prayer or meditation I’ve never experienced in my tradition or even my religion. It’s an incredible honor to be that link. I really love it when I get to do that. One time I got to stand in for a Catholic priest (visitation for them is limited to end of life circumstances) and rather than activating my semi-regularly present impostor’s syndrome, I felt ELATED by it. My Catholic grandparents were with me with my arm raised above my precious friend who requested a blessing.
I don’t know what’s next for me. I feel like I have so many emotional internet browser “tabs” open right now, so many things I need to work on within myself. And plenty of shifts to cover and Zoom meetings to attend. But in the midst of this tornado, I’m being reborn. I’m growing. I’m coming into my calling. I’m being integrated into a more mature, authoritative version of myself.
* In case you’re unfamiliar with the process, CPE is done in units of 12 weeks of work. If you’re lucky enough to get a residency (my long-term goal), you can do 4 units consecutively and get paid. I’ve almost completed an internship at Legacy Emanuel in Portland, which will give me one unit. I can’t do a ton with one unit, though many places hire someone with 2. CPE involves shift work, classes, supervision, reading/writing, group work, and mentoring. I’ve got mainly 12 hour overnight shifts where I’m the only chaplain there for an adult hospital, children’s hospital and the Oregon Burn Center. It’s over 550 beds. I go to all the codes, deaths, attend to requests for spiritual care, and round on all our trauma admits. I pray with people pre-surgery, assist patients and their families with naming feelings, sifting through their experience in the hospital and what brought them to us. I attend to families who have lost a family member. I help people fill out an Advance Directive (including things like a DNR). I’ve sat with a lot of people who were on the brink of death, including infants. I help people pick out funeral homes and figure out how to honor their dead in the midst of a pandemic. The work is varied. I never know what’s on the other side of that door. The 12 hour overnight shifts are covered by interns every night for the whole 12 weeks, so on the days we have class, one of us was always on the night before and one of us is always on the night after. It’s a fascinating experiment in what the human body and heart can handle.