The hospital where I volunteer has multiple buildings. They are connected by a bridge that has windows looking out over the street below. It gives me a chance to prepare, and pray, as I walk from the office to the emergency room. 

 

Hospitals are places of transition. From poor health to recovery, from a failing heart to a robust one, from a life with full mobility to one with limitations. In the case of death, there is the bridge to the afterlife. 

 

This week I was thrust into a room with nine people keening over the death of the man in the bed. They wailed, held each other, kissed the lifeless body, stroked his legs, and called still more people who loved this person. They did not speak English, so I was handed a phone with a translator on speaker. I ached for them, and marveled at the depth of their attachment. He was young, as were most of the people in the room, and I could not figure out their relationships. No matter. Eventually a nurse came in and gently went through the explanation that they had done everything they could, and she was sorry for their loss. I took my leave. 

 

There were other patients that night that could talk with me. One was suffering terrible burns, and described the pain of changing her dressings as being many times worse than childbirth. Yet she believes that God is with her. We prayed, until my pager went off and I skittered away. 

 

Another woman had come into the trauma bay with a neck brace. At first she was surrounded by the team. But later I was able to approach her to listen. It turns out that it is hard to cry flat on your back with a collar. Tears well up and flood your vision. Yet she, too, believes that God will shepherd her through this catastrophe. 

 

As it happened the chaplain scheduled to replace me was sick, and someone else was called. But she would be late. I knew I would not catch the first train. Then the later train was half an hour late too, piling on to an already long shift. 

 

And yet I was not resentful. Having been at the bedsides of those people whose names I recorded but now forget, the inconvenience seemed irrelevant. Perhaps I am making my way across the bridge to a place of acceptance.