The Voices We Carry by J. S. Park

Author:J. S. Park [Park, J. S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Moody Publishers
Published: 2020-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

2. ELECTRIFIED CURRENT

“Chaplain,” Rietta told me, “I need you to see this.”

For our second visit, we had scheduled a family meeting. What that meant was, the palliative care team would step in—physician, social worker, nurse, and chaplain—and the patient and her family would be informed of what was happening.

Rietta had asked me to come a few minutes early. She told me she wanted to change from a Full Code to DNR, Do Not Resuscitate. She leaned in and said, “If I code, I want to go. But I want my family to be on board. I won’t decide this without them. It sounds silly, maybe, but I would rather go through the horror of resuscitation than the heartache of choosing against family.”

I asked, “How can I be of help for you?”

Rietta wanted me to referee, to manage the tension. “You’ll see us go at it, all of us a bunch of live wires in the room,” she said, “and you’ll see the current. I need you to advocate for me. It’ll be like rerouting a river from north to south. I know it’s a big request. They don’t trust doctors and family won’t hear it from family. They got to hear it from someone else. For you, a man of God, they’ll get out the fine china.”

Rietta’s family was there, about three dozen of them in the room. Rietta’s mother, Norma, was towering over her daughter, practically vibrating at the joints. Rietta’s stepdad, Henry, was near the edge of the bed, a large man hiding in a cap and thick glasses, unmoving. Behind his dark wet eyes, I could see a mile of worry. Rietta had told me that her mother Norma was an overfunctioner: “She gets into take-charge mode and fixes everything without feeling anything.” Rietta’s stepdad was an underfunctioner: “He shuts down because he feels too much and gets overwhelmed.”3 All around Norma and Henry were siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles, elbow to chin with hardly a space between them.

The palliative team managed to squeeze around the bed. Usually, the physician would give updates and be the first to leave; the chaplain would pick up the fallout and be the last to leave.

As soon as the palliative team left, Rietta’s mother Norma got into it. Like Rietta had asked me, I watched.

“Henrietta,” Norma said, “you need to think about us too, baby.”

“Momma, I’m doing that. I’m doing just that.”

“You need to fight, baby. Can’t you do that?”

“That’s all I’ve been doing, Momma. That’s all I’m doing. I’m running out of fight.”

“Rietta, you want to just give up? You’re going to give up on all of us?”

“Momma, do you hear what the doctors are saying?”

“I don’t trust these people, they don’t know the doctor of all doctors, they haven’t seen what the Lord can do.”

“Momma, I believe that too, but I don’t want to—”

Then a lot of people started talking at once. Groups of twos and threes turned at each other. Alliances formed. I could see triangles, the two sides of the room discussing Rietta’s wishes, both for and against.

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