Hospital Chaplain

When I was a hospital chaplain, I had an uncomfortable familiarity with death. I say uncomfortable because I was 35 years old and far from that significant threshold for myself. I say familiarity because I officiated at more than 60 funerals during those years and I sat by the bedside of many people who were about to die. I responded to the nurses who called every time an infant died. I don’t think any of us ever get comfortable with that. I sat at the bedside of many people who were facing their own deaths. Some of them talked about everything but death. However I distinctly remember some, who on the doorstep to eternity, could speak openly about what they thought and how they felt.

Take for example Rosemary, who was in the hospital for many weeks. She was battling cancer and always appreciated a visit from the chaplain. In my first visit at her bedside she said to me ‘I’m going to die soon.’ As matter-of-factly as if she had said I’m going to have my hair done tomorrow. I admired that kind of confidence, and I spent some time every day for three weeks with her. Rosemary had an easy laugh and liked telling funny stories. She had some worries about how her family would react to her death. But she herself wasn’t worried. I admired her tremendously and tried to carry her confidence with me.

I spent some time visiting the woman with emphysema. This was in the days when a patient could still smoke in the hospital. So wouldn’t you know it -there she was smoking a cigarette. The skin on her face was dry and leathery; she could only speak a few words before coughing. She said to me, “thank you for dropping by Rev. ‘cough cough’ no need for you to stay ‘cough cough’ I’m way past redemption ‘cough cough’.”

A 60-year-old woman was brought into the emergency room bleeding from her femoral artery as the result of an auto accident. She was able to instruct her doctors that she didn’t want any blood transfusions. She was a Jehovah's Witness, and her religion prohibited the use of blood products. This drove the hospital staff crazy. In their eyes it would have been so easy to save this woman’s life. But to refuse blood products seemed to them like sure suicide. I explained to her doctors that she had the right to refuse medical procedures, even when her rationale didn’t make sense to them. They kept her alive longer using a hyperbaric chamber and oxygenating what blood she had left. Eventually she died. Her family was relieved knowing that without blood transfusions she could go straight to heaven. Her doctors were flummoxed.

Throughout those years I considered my parishioners to be the hospital staff. Nurses who were on their feet all day and all night; respiratory therapists who went from lung to lung extending the breath of life where they could; social workers and discharge planners trying to find adequate arrangements for the discharge of very sick people. They were a dedicated and hard-working group, and I was privileged to be held in their loving embrace.

Osso Bucco

Tom made Osso Bucco for dinner a couple of weeks ago. Italian for a ‘bone with a hole’, this recipe calls for a slice of veal shank that gets simmered in broth and rosemary, thyme, bay leaves, clove and vegetables for 60 to 90 minutes. When it is served the Osso Bucco is falling-off-the-bone tender and delicious. The other advantage of this recipe is that when the meal is complete, a beautiful bone is left for the dog. We finished the meal in 40 minutes. Flash has worked on the bone for days. Tom and I sit and watch him try to chew on the inside of the circle. It provides hours of entertainment for all three of us. I know what you’re thinking: “these two are easily entertained.” Yes, we are.

There is something “old world” about this recipe. It takes time to cook, it makes the whole house smell delicious and you can’t eat it while standing over the sink. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the modern day shortcuts in the kitchen. Without them I’d weigh 80 pounds. But there is also a benefit from the

old recipes. Isn’t there? Am I just being sentimental? At one point in my past, when I had two legs to stand on, I made apple pies from scratch. Piecrust is a tricky endeavor, but when done well it’s a delight.

Flash just showed up to remind me that this piece is not about recipes, it’s about bones. The kind your dog will love.

Band Uniform

I did all four years of my secondary education at Coachella Valley High School, where the mascot was the C.V. Arab. Therefore our band uniforms were appropriate to the Arab culture. I'm not sure it was a uniform that any authentic Arab would recognize; they were more like your Hollywood version of an Arab. The uniform began at the top with a dark green felt fez. In Arabic it's known as a tarboosh. With a tassel attached to the top and hanging down the side, picture Matt Groening’s Akbar and Jeff. (That's probably why I turned out gay-- I was made to dress like Akbar and Jeff during my formative years.) Our shirts were made of gold satin with full sleeves and over that we wore a green felt vest. We wore green wool pants that were gathered in at the ankle. Picture Barbara Eden in I dream of Jeannie. The gold satin cummerbund helped tie the outfit together. My feet were big enough that the toes curled up of their own accord without any help from the costume designer.

The real miracle here was that they dressed three dozen of us in these costumes and put us on a hot street in the Coachella Valley carrying drums and tubas… and most of us survived. I suppose that all of this was good preparation for my years in the theater. I could say to the director in any given play ‘you want me to wear that?’ Sure, no problem.