By Dr. Johan Tredoux – Uncommon Community

Over the last month, several ordinary rhythms have been disrupted in my everyday routine. I now set my alarm 30 minutes later, even though my body clock still wakes me up at the same old time. I still do all the normal stuff to get ready in the morning. I usually make a cup of coffee (Starbucks, Pike Roast with soymilk, mind you) and then read for an hour. Presently reading: Pastoral Counseling Across Cultures by David Augsburger.

I then take a shower (yes, I don’t just wash my hands ), brush my teeth, and shave. I have noticed some changes as I look at myself in the mirror. I notice dark puffy pouches under my eyes and the grooves of aging slightly deeper than normal. And then, there is the hair… I wonder what my hair is going to look like a few months from now with no visits to the hair salon. Maybe I should go army style and put the razor to it all, or maybe wear a ponytail like some of those country singers do? However, there is always that splash of cologne that helps you feel better… right now not sure about what. I get dressed, grab two bottles of water and my iPhone, and head for my car.

I open the back door and toss my attaché bag in the backseat. Nothing new here, except for one thing that changed this last week. Inside my bag in addition to my usual laptop and another book I’m reading, is an all-important letter from the CEO of Research Medical Center. The letter states that I am an essential worker and have permission to be on the road.

As I pull my car out of the driveway and drive through my neighborhood, I have different observations and experience emotions different than a few weeks prior. Of course, I notice that spring has sprung upon us with new grass overtaking old grass, which brings a familiar feeling of rebirth deep inside. But I also notice all the cars in the driveways and the absence of kids waiting on the corner for the school bus, and I feel a heaviness for what all that alone means, from possible loss of income to the new trials of homeschooling and cabin fever.

I make my way to K-10 as I begin what is now only a 25-minute drive to RMC via I-435 and Highway 71. I look at the clock, and it is 7:20 am, 20 minutes later than my usual departure time. I put my car on cruise control (77 miles an hour) and open up my Irish Jesuit app “Pray-As-You-Go.” With the Taizé monk voices making echoes in my car, I look in my rearview mirror. Behind me, stretching back a half a mile is only five cars. In front of me, for a quarter mile, ten cars. What is usually a bumper-to-bumper, stop-and-go experience has changed overnight to a 77 mile an hour cruise control ride with my brake pads getting a much-needed rest. Even as I practice breathing and silence as I enter my normal spiritual practice, my uneasiness from this “new normal” is palpable. About five minutes into my 15-minute Lectio Divina prayer podcast I switch to FM 99.7 and listen to some pop songs and three bad “dad jokes.” My mind does not find a resting place. I feel anxious….

I arrive at the parking lot at RMC, gather my stuff, and head to the entrance door. Whereas before I could just walk in, now I have to “scan in”, so, I do, push the handle, and remind myself that I had just touched a surface and must be extra cautious not to bring my hand near my face. I walk up the stairs and am met by a nurse who has to take my temperature. As I bend my head toward her, I feel my body tense up for the verdict. She greets me. She is nice. I notice her name to be sure to thank her. She scans my forehead and gives me a number. She says, “97… you are good to go.” I smile at her as she hands me a yellow mask with a sticker that indicates that I have no fever. Somewhere inside of me, the tension is released. As I put on my mask, I thank her for doing this and call her by name. I walk down a long hallway towards the Pastoral Care quarters. Along the way, I spot a foam dispenser and “foam in.” This will be the first of an average of thirty every day.

I get to our chaplain offices just in time for the morning report. There are only four of us with our supervisor and the pastoral care administrative assistant. I am glad to see everyone. We get briefed on the trauma cases from the night before and the number of COVID-19 cases in isolation throughout the hospital. We spend time in prayer and openly share our fears and anxieties. It is 8:20 am. I switch my yellow mask to an orange mask and make my way to the ICU unit. As I walk, I find that it is hard to breathe through the mask. I wonder how much carbon dioxide I breathe back in.

I arrive at the Surgical ICU, and I make my rounds with the nurses. They are very busy, except for one nurse who wants to talk. He is always jolly, and nothing ever seems to faze him, but this time he wants to linger, not sure how to describe how he feels. I can tell it is a mixture of emotions of someone who is very tired, anxious, and filled with fear. I tell him how anxious I am and that it is okay to share how he really feels. It is hard for him to say it, but he finally does. Very softly he whispers to me: “Chaplain, I am scared!” A few seconds later, he gets called away. He lingers just enough to say, “Chaplain Johan, let’s talk some more….”

I continue to walk towards the Medical ICU as part of my rotation. This is where the most critical COVID-19 patients are. In front of the double doors is a sign, made by the nurses with a red marker, it says: “District 9.” I smile at their sense of humor and my mind recalls the movie made in South Africa a few years prior called “District 9.” It’s about aliens invading our planet and the main human character contracting a mysterious virus that begins to alter his DNA. Of course, there is only one place he can hide: District 9.

I open the door of the Medical ICU and immediately step into a war zone. Doctors and nurses come and go into patients’ rooms looking like they have just landed on the moon. They all have full PPE gear – gloves, gowns, and the coveted N95 respirators, and the stress is at a level I’ve not seen before.

I’m there to make my rounds with the nurses, but I feel very uneasy – everyone is very busy. I look through the glass into the patients’ rooms and I think how suddenly this invisible alien has landed into their ordinary lives, and how, overnight, we have all entered a brand-new world. It is a place of abandonment, isolation, and loneliness. Overwhelmed with the massive need and the anticipation of grief coming to so many families, I linger with one nurse to encourage her. She listens but she is distracted. I eventually find my way back to the double doors of “District 9” and foam out.

As I leave the COVID 19 area, I can’t shake how I am feeling. I feel guilty for not wanting to be there and at the same time relieved in the thought that I should not unnecessarily put myself in harm’s way.  My body takes me away from the COVID -19 area, while my mind stays behind, mysteriously interlocking with Jesus’ words on the Cross: “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me.” I think about the patients who have already died this week, and how their families couldn’t be with them – it is as if Jesus’s lamenting cry bounces off the walls in this ICU. Over and over again, I hear in my head, “My God, My God, My God” echoing in the cries of homes here in KC and throughout the world….

As I walk down the long hallway, back to the chaplain quarters, I wonder what I would say to families on the phone who have loved ones afflicted with the COVID-19 virus. Words are so inadequate. Even words of lament can’t carry the weight of the loss all around us. Somewhere deep inside, my core emotions are pushing and shoving to break free and come to the surface, to give voice to the immense tragedy that is unfolding right in front of my eyes. As I make my way down back to the chaplain quarters, a deep sadness wells up within me. (I make a note to myself to focus on feelings when I talk to the families who are walking through this valley of death).

I think about my childhood faith and how much of that theology is hardwired into my body, showing up especially in times of crisis.

In a fleeting moment, I think how Jesus’s childhood faith must have been hardwired in his body, too- how it showed up in the severest test of his life – as he was nailed to a cross, facing certain death.

I have this “aha moment” about Jesus’ words on the cross. Jesus probably learned those words as a young boy when he had to memorize the Torah and the Psalms as part of his training in the School of Prayer, just like the training orthodox Jewish boys and girls today receive leading up to their Bar & Bat Mitzvah rites of passage. These words were hardwired into his body.

It was Mary who taught Jesus the Psalms. And there she was, at the foot of the cross and she heard the first verse of Psalm 22 coming from Jesus’ lips, “My God My God why have you forsaken me?” I wonder if she heard Jesus mumble the rest of the Psalm, especially verse 24, “For he has not despised or scorned the suffering of the afflicted one; he has not hidden his face from him but has listened to his cry for help.” I wonder if Jesus felt the verse 1 abandonment by God or if he experienced the verse 24 presence of God in his affliction? I wonder which of these experiences of God the COVID-19 patients have in their crises.

Then there are Jesus’ last words on the cross “Into your hands a commend my spirit,” which are found in Psalm 31. In the midst of his affliction, with death knocking on his door, Jesus must have prayed all the Psalms from 22 to 31. It appears that early practices learned as a young boy became a lifeline in Jesus’ most desperate hour.  

As I thought these thoughts, my phone rings. I didn’t make it back to the chaplain quarters. It is the Surgical ICU nurse who wants me to come back to see a patient in Surgical ICU. This is a patient who was under investigation for the coronavirus but tested negative. She left District 9 and yet still needed medical care. Standing in front of the glass door, while putting on my PPE gear, I wonder about her lived theology growing up. Can her beliefs carry the weight of her crisis? I wonder what spiritual practices she had to support her in this crisis.

I foam in and enter the room. This patient was barely 40 years old with two kids and a husband waiting for her at home. By the time I leave, 30 minutes later, I had baptized her by pouring water over her head. This was what she wanted. Her anxiety, cutting deep grooves into her face, had shifted to a countenance of peace. My legs carry me away from her room, while my mind stays behind. I realize that I had just witnessed something beautiful and mysterious. This time it was not verse 1 of Psalm 22 but verse 24, “… he has not hidden his face from her but has listened to her cry for help.”