Pastoral learning at Bellevue Hospital

Christian Century, August 30, 2000 by Chloe Breyer

After all, despite Adam's degrees and accomplishments, he is at Bellevue recovering from what I assume (with no proof) has been a suicide attempt. At the very least, Adam has behaved in a reckless fashion that, I believe, points to serious emotional problems. Although he has told me and everyone else in the hospital that he won't discuss what happened the night he fell, it seems my duty to make sure that he acknowledges that something is missing from his life. I feel responsible for urging Adam to attend to his psychic wounds as well as the physical injury.

This will be my agenda with Adam, although I resolve to disguise it well as I know the dangers of imposing my views on patients. But there has to be something to show for our relationship. I will consider myself successful at chaplaincy if I succeed in leading Adam to admit his confusion.

One afternoon, Adam is explaining how amusing he finds the young residents who try to locate his pulse without success. "They can't find anything because they hold both fingers on my plastic wristband," he chortles. Adam deplores how seriously the psychiatrists underestimate his knowledge of their field and satirizes the transparency of their questions.

"When you have had the background and education that you and I have had, Chloe," Adam confides, "you know a lot about how these things work."

I smile and stay quiet, trying to turn our conversation to the issues on my agenda.

Adam continues talking, almost in a reverie, about his recommendations for improving Bellevue--basic things, like less noise and more courtesy. He understands that a public hospital probably can't offer the amenities of a well-endowed private one. "But I'm really not used to this sort of atmosphere," he explains, adding that when he has to stay home with a cold, an army of retainers is mobilized.

"Usually, I have everything, meals and all, delivered in. My assistant makes sure I have the work I need. This is really a new experience. My friends are amused."

I see an opportunity. "So who are these `friends' you keep talking about? Are they close friends?"

Adam replies vaguely that they are people who understand him--some from Princeton he kept up with over the years, more recent acquaintances from around the city.

Suddenly he is defensive. "If I really wanted to leave here, you know, I could. I would just call up my friends and they would come and get me right away. I know how to get things done. If I really wanted to get out of here, I could fly right out that window."

I nod, and we sit in silence. Later that afternoon I realize the significance of his threat, and I am seriously alarmed.

"I've learned," says Adam, switching subjects, "that I'm being prayed for from all over the map. People in all 50 states are praying for me, according to my aunt. A group of 40 women I don't even know is praying for me. It's very sweet, I think, don't you? Endearing."

I remember how worried his aunt was when she and her husband visited Adam in the ICU. She had asked me to anoint him with holy water, even though I wasn't Roman Catholic. Suddenly Adam's condescension angers me. "Why are you glad they're praying for you if don't even believe in God?"