“Hey Tom! Come meet Jeffrey!”
I had walked onto the unit, and one of the nurses beckoned to me to walk over and meet her patient. “Jeffrey, this is Tom. He’s our chaplain.” Dusky eyes gloamed up at me from beneath cumulus eyebrows. Jeffrey sat tightly swaddled in blankets, making him resemble an ancient pharaoh enthroned there on the wheelchair. His nurse whispered to me, “Jeffrey has dementia, and if we leave him alone in the room, he gets anxious. Can you sit with him for like ten or fifteen minutes while I check on my other patients?”

I agreed and took my seat next to Jeffrey. “So, Mr. Jeffrey, are you from Jacksonville originally?” “No,” Jeffrey replied cheerfully, “Montana. It’s beautiful up there. I don’t know why anyone would ever move.” I asked Jeffrey a few more questions to get him talking about his life, but after a few minutes, he turned to me and asked, “Now what do you do?”

I’ve grown accustomed to simply saying “I’m the chaplain,” but for Jeffrey, it seemed like I needed to give a more thoughtful answer. “Well, Mr. Jeffrey, as a chaplain, I go around the hospital and give people an extra listening ear. I help them reflect on their experiences and also pray with them if they’d like. My whole goal is just to make sure people never feel like they’re facing illness alone.” Jeffrey seemed satisfied with this answer but had a new quandary: “Oh, are we in the hospital?” I decided it might be best to redirect, “Yes, we are, but where are you from originally?” “Montana. It’s beautiful up there. I don’t know why anyone would ever more…”

Jeffrey and I circled back and forth like this at least five times over the next fifteen minutes:
“Now what do you do?”
“I’m the hospital chaplain.”
“Oh, are we in the hospital?”

Finally, on one round, Jeffrey looked around and noticed the rapid pace of the floor. Nurses, doctors, and technicians were darting quickly from room to room, stopping only to enter a few hasty notes in the rolling computer stations. “My, everyone here is so busy,” Jeffrey noticed. “Except you,” he added with what sounded like a note of disdain, “you’re just sitting there.” I couldn’t help but laugh a little. Jeffrey was correct; I really was just sitting there. The conversation continued on, and when the next round arrived, I decided to try a different tack:
“Now what do you do?”
“Oh, I’m just sitting here for a little while.”
Jeffrey’s face shined, and for a moment, his twilight broke into a smile:

“Thank you for sitting with me.”

HIPPA Disclaimer: Due to patient privacy regulations, any stories I share from the hospital will involve changes to protect patients’ identities. Timeframes, diagnoses, and personal identifying information are intentionally changed or left vague.