Plaid

I walked in the door from work, after a long day, gladly removed my shoes and threw down my purse and work papers. I was greeted by my youngest daughter with a delighted, “Mom, you’re home!” About the time she hugged me, my pager began to beep. My daughter let out a “Oh no!” as I headed to the telephone to call the hospital.

I am on-call for two hospitals at the same time. The hospital nearest my home was calling. The Emergency Department’s unit secretary was on the line and breathlessly uttered, “Chaplain, we need you NOW.” I asked what was happening. “14 year old, suicide attempt. Parents aren’t here yet, but they WILL need you.”

I hugged my ten year old and slipped shoes back onto my feet. I walked out the door uttering a prayer.

I arrived at the hospital and walked into the trauma room to see my patient. The ED physician and two nurses and a respiratory therapist were working feverishly. Her parents had not yet arrived. The Doctor gave me a report and thanked me for coming.

The patient was intubated with iv. lines everywhere. The doctor explained the situation. “This is a 14 year old girl who was found at home hanging from the ceiling fan. We don't know how long she was down. Her mother found her and had to cut her down and call for help. She’s most likely brain dead.”

I felt like I was going to vomit. A flash of horror swept over me as I imagined the scene. Can there be anything worse for a mother to witness?

The doctor walked away and I walked to the bedside. There she lay, brown hair, mottled skin, machines whirring and pumping. God, How? Why? I leaned down and whispered a prayer into her ear. I had no idea if she heard me, but I needed to be mindful of God’s presence.

I turned toward the door to search for the family, when I saw it: her plaid school skirt and white blouse. When your life is one the line in the ED, they cut your clothes off, scissors right down the front. Doesn’t matter if you’re wearing Chanel or rags. Labels are not respected.

But the skirt… it lay on top of the heap on the floor; shoes, blouse, socks, and skirt. The sight of the skirt sliced right through me. The nausea returned as did a horrible realization. This could be my daughter.

One one of my children struggles mightily with anxiety and depression. She is fourteen. She goes to a private school. She wears a plaid skirt.

This is when it sucks to be a chaplain. When the chaos you enter hits too close to home.