Breathe.
When I first arrived to M's room, she was laying in bed and one of the nurses was kneeling at her bedside, adjusting the wires attached to M's legs. I introduce myself by name and position. M and I lock eyes. She begins to weep. I softly ask M if I can pull up a chair and she nods in agreement. So, I do.
Breathe.
For the next half hour, M tells me in detail about her life. She tells me about feeling unloved, feeling unloveable. She tells me that her children found her unconscious after drinking four bottles of wine and taking "enough prescription pills to kill a horse". M says that she has been in the hospital for over a week and that not a single person from her family has come to visit her. M would like her children to feel sorry for her... she would like them to say, "Mom, we didn't realize that you were that unhappy. We love you. We're here for you." But, M says, "I'm not that lucky. I'm not that lovable."
Breathe.
M tells me that she is supposed to go home today, but that she is terrified. She says that it would be easier for her to jump in front of the El, than it would be for her to face her family. She tells me that she is considering it.
Breathe.
I tell M that I hear her pain. I tell her that I hear her anger, her hurt. I ask M what her experience is like. I ask M what she believes would come after life. I ask M who she is angry at.
Breathe.
"God."
--
M's story is not unfamiliar to me. M is just one person in a sea of people who walk around suffering, unable to put their finger on the who, what, where, when and why of their pain. But, the pain is not imaginary. The pain should not be ignored. As a person of faith, I can wind words in order to shame those who have a desire to self-harm. Or, I can be present with them in the midst of their reality. I chose to be present with M. I did not tell her that what she did was wrong. I did not tell her not to kill herself when she left the hospital. [[ Not an easy task.]] Instead, I reflected back to M the pain that she was expressing. I heard her. I held her in the midst of the pain, right where she was. I attempted to communicate to this "unlucky, unloveable" woman, that I love her and God loves her.
When people ask me why I do this work, I often tell them that when I was growing up, I collected bells. For me, each bell represented a different time, place and person. As an adult, I realize that the collection was never about the bells, it was about the stories attached to the bell. The bell was a simple, concrete reminder of where I've been, what I've done and who in my life was there to love me. I have since moved on from collecting bells, but I have never stopped collecting stories. Chaplaincy provides an excellent medium for collecting stories. Of course, there are other Divine inspired reasons for my involvement in this work. However, I believe that God uses my love of stories in order to keep me in love with what I do.
The hardest part of being a chaplain is that I am only allowed to read excerpts of people's stories. Often, I get the brief intro or the conclusion of their story. However, sometimes I am lucky enough to get the climax, or the epilogue.
M's story for me, is an epilogue. She shared with me the conclusion of her story -- drinking the wine, taking the pills, awaiting death to take her over. But, then she woke up. I asked M, "Why do you think you were woken up?" M replied, "Because it wasn't my time to go. God still has plans for me."
M's story is not over. This new normal, post-suicide attempt, is simply an epilogue, an act two, a sequel to what she had previously known. And, if there's anything that this story lover knows about epilogues, it's that they almost always set the ground work necessary for a peaceful resolution. I hope to not read the end of M's new story. But, if I do, I will continue to love this "unlucky, unloveable" character.
In the Grip of God's Grace,
Pastor Anitta +♡
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