The Waiting Room
Pope Francis once compared the Church to a field hospital. Behind the fancy vestments, ornate cathedrals, and books of rules and teachings are suffering pilgrims seeking healing and an encounter with God and one another.
“I see clearly that the church needs most today is the ability to heal wounds and to warm the hearts of the faithful; it needs nearness, proximity,” Pope Francis said in 2013. “I see the church as a field hospital after battle.”
After working with college students for almost two decades, I understand this field hospital analogy quite well. I was blessed to accompany countless students on their journey, thankful to be a support and guide during the joys and challenges of their young lives.
Three years ago, my professional career (by God’s grace) led me to the Sisters of Charity Federation and the United Nations where I came to understand even more the suffering of humanity, no longer in the face of an 18-year-old sitting across from me, but in the incomprehensible statistics of the lack of human rights and human dignity across the globe.
Since late summer, this idea of a field hospital again brought a new perspective as I have been spending a “few” hours every other week in an infusion center’s waiting room. It is a vulnerable space where patients, caretakers, nurses and staff accompany one another with a quiet dignity that if replicated outside of these walls, could benefit our world.
To be honest, being on the receiving end of this care is still uncomfortable for me. I much rather be the helper or the healer; it changes you when your limitations outweigh your ability to do. To borrow a familiar scriptural reference, I must rather be a busy Martha instead of the resting Mary (Luke 10:38-42).
When I enter the waiting room, I don’t always have the energy or desire to talk as I wait my turn, but in the silence, I witness the vulnerability that Pope Francis is pointing us too. We don’t always see each other’s wounds, but here, where hundreds each day are filled with a medicinal poison in the hope for better days, humanity is present in all its messiness and beauty.
I wish to share with you some of what my eyes have seen and my heart has felt over the past few months.
I immediately recall a young girl, roughly the same age as my Shea, who lit up the waiting room as she waited her turn one early morning. She misplaced her sweater as kids do, but what she is facing no kid should.
There was also a younger boy, who on Halloween morning managed to smile and skip in the parking lot, while at the same time, his peers dressed in costumes and ate sugary treats at school. I thought to myself, “if he could smile, certainly I can too.”
There was the college student who could play linebacker for most University football teams. With his hair lost, and skin pale, he continues to show up for a chance for more tomorrows.
There was the older woman crying in the corner room as chemo enters her body, the older man who was disoriented, unsure of where he left his wife, and the many who stare into space waiting for their name to be called.
When it is finally your turn, a nurse takes over. Offering a warm blanket, she provides a rare comfort for what the next few hours and days will lack. The nurses share their expertise, not rushing from patient to patient. They are present, answering every question, and anticipating every need.
A few weeks ago, I went into anaphylactic shock as my body started to reject one of the chemotherapy drugs. In almost an instant, a small army of nurses filled the room. In about 20 minutes, I was stabilized and a trip to the hospital was avoided. They explained this happens often and I marveled at how they minister to patients every day.
There are then the caretakers, like my Suzie who is responding to my every movement. The caretakers experience a different version of losing control, all while providing a love that falls under the “for worse” category of the vows.
My understanding of a wartime field hospital is limited to the big screen, but this recent experience has deepened my own understanding of what it means to be wounded. So often, we do our best to hide it, caught up in the daily tasks that life presents to us.
I wonder if the better path forward is to embrace both the visible and invisible woundedness of ourselves and of others. As Pope Francis notes, it is this “nearness” that deepens us to one another and to our healing and loving God.
