Cradling The Baby

I spent a key period in my life working as a hospital chaplain in a suburb of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Even before the experience began, I knew it would be a challenge. I was the only person of color in my counseling group, and the only full-time Black person on staff at one of the largest hospitals in the Twin Cities. I had braced myself for an interesting summer, but I got much more than that. We'd spent a week in orientation learning about the joys and challenges of chaplaincy, including the myriad of experiences we might have. I was prepared for everything from the joy of celebrating the birth of a new born baby to the heartbreak of grave illness and death. It was everything else in between that I was blindsided by - arrogant doctors, fighting families, a continual struggle with the staff of the psych ward, pressure to conduct myself as a man in the presence of grieving men. (Did you know that men stand up to greet other men, and tend to continue standing for the entire time an emotional situation is transpiring? They sort of stand in a circle and talk to one another while looking at the ground. The conversation will be occasionally punctuated by a joke or off-hand comment, but there is NEVER crying and NEVER any sitting down!) As a chaplain, whether you're a man or a woman, you're expected to comprehend, speak, and interpret the male language (if there is such a thing).

There were so many expectations that summer, but none greater than during my first week of work. I was scheduled to go to the labor and delivery ward to pray with a family in celebration of the birth of their child. By the time I got there, things had already gone terribly wrong. A healthy, happy, intelligent, economically sound, married woman (all the things attributed to a healthy birth environment) had given birth to a dead baby. They called it a "fetal demise" - a term that is so innocuous in its recitation - like a bag of microwave popcorn that failed to fully pop. Family, balloons, flowers, flashbulbs, and video cameras had been in place to welcome the newly born. By the time I got there the room was clear, and I sat alone with the mother and father. "I'm sorry," I said. What else could I say?!! "This is devastating." They looked down at the sheets and nodded. "Is there anything I can do for you? Would you like to pray, or have me read from the Bible?" They said they'd like for me to pray. We held hands, and I prayed. The mother kept my hand clutched in one hand, and her husband's in the other. For the next 2 hours we cried. I dared not move. Didn't want to move. Probably would have run or tried to fly away if I did. I just knew I'd be fired - for crying, or for not making my scheduled rounds that hour. But I sat, and at the end of 2 hours, the mother patted my hand and thanked me. She asked about baptism. I talked to her about a naming ceremony for the baby. Explained that it would be an opportunity to gather the family together in celebration of the community that welcomed this child, and honor the baby with a name.

That's when the bomb was dropped. I was informed that it was my role as a chaplain to bring the baby's body up from the morgue for the ceremony, if the parents so chose. They did. I went down and met the coroner for the first time. She was kind, smart, quirky, and sensitive to my position. She pulled the small body from a basin of liquid and dried it off. She wrapped it tightly in a blanket, cradled it while she gave me instructions on holding it close to me in the hallways, with the face toward my chest. She said to continue holding it this way throughout the ceremony unless the parents requested otherwise. She explained what a wonderful role I was playing in the life of the family, and how it was part of circle of life. I took it all in. She handed the baby over to me, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting up against the wall on the floor of the morgue. Apparently my knees had buckled, and I'd passed out for a few seconds. To my surprise, the doctor acted as if that was the next step in her instructions. She only smiled, helped me up, and re-placed the baby in my arms. From there things were OK. I rode the elevator up. People on the elevator smiled down at my bundle, as I fought the urge to rock it back and forth. The family was there when I walked in, looking more relieved by our arrival than upset. I performed the short ceremony (still holding the bundle), gave each member of the family the opportunity to share their feelings, and presented the parents with the naming certificate. No one asked to see the baby's face. (I think the parents went down to the morgue later.) Everyone thanked me, and I returned the baby to more experienced hands.

In the years following this event, I would lose several pregnancies myself - thankfully not late enough to experience a tragedy like this. But it hasn't left me saddened. I've been sad some - sure. But with each loss, something unexpected happened. I became most acutely aware - not of what I'd lost - but of what remained...my wonderful husband, the love of family and friends, my community, my career, the endless opportunities in front of me. At times like I'm facing now, when I'm uncertain about my future, and whether or not the fruits of my labor will manifest, I look back on my loss, and cradling that baby - and I can envision all that remains.