On Sunday evening, as I went into my hospital room, my parents went out. It wasn’t personal; it was business. They had been invited to dinner with the CEO of M.D. Anderson Hospital. I was left alone to listen to “Godspell” on a cassette tape while my youth group was performing it live.
One nurse sensed my sadness. She sat with me as I told her about my friends, my church, and what I was missing that night. Back then, on a slow Sunday, a nurse had time to be present for over an hour. Back then, I was admitted on Sunday for a surgery on Wednesday. I was 18 and healthy, and I needed something to fill the two days of waiting besides feeling sorry for myself.
On Monday my weekend nurse invited me to her weekday floor. Her patients were teenagers with cancer whose immune systems were compromised by chemotherapy. They lived in “life islands” for 3 months in a germ-free environment. Only sterile food and items could be passed into a plastic bubble that surrounded a bed, a chair, and a table. If I entered their space, I could kill them; if I were a companion through the plastic, I could help to heal their isolation.
Except for a few scheduled tests, I had two days of being teenagers together — strangers in a strange land. I wasn’t another cancer patient, parent, sibling, doctor, or nurse — I was someone new to listen, laugh, share, and care. Centering on their needs dispelled my self-centeredness.
Away from my private prep-school, I was becoming a chaplain without credentials. I visited 8 kids one on one. Soon enough I would ask myself: “Was a preppie preparing for a calling?”
How have you answered the question, “What is mine to do?” When has focusing on another’s needs taken your mind off your own? How have past situations become preparations for your future?
