Alison and the Assessment Test

I met Alison during my Clinical Pastoral Education. We have stayed in touch now and again, like you do when you live in different neighborhoods and run busy lives - yet have been through life transforming experiences together.

Recently, Alison let me know about postings for a chaplaincy position in a nearby hospital. She was going to apply – was I interested too? I appreciated her generous spirit; after all if I applied, we would become competitors. But I declined – God led me to another path and I now work in this awesome church, UPPC.

Alison contacted me again after she applied. She was troubled.

“They sent me this link and that led me to a test, she said. There were at least 50 questions and they were all the kind of problems we had to solve at school. You know, Jane lives in A, and Bob lives in B, and John lives near Jane, what is the distance between Bob and John… Rhetorical questions of logic. I was bewildered. None of the questions were related to chaplaincy or even human relations!”

Alison was concerned. She was so taken aback by the test (which took her about an hour to take) that she was pretty sure she had not done very well. She wondered how it would impact her application.

I tried to reassure her. Her application was strong, with very positive evaluations and her previous supervisor, a noted senior chaplain, as a reference.

A few days ago, late in the evening, I heard from Alison again. I could tell she had been crying. “I just received an email from Human Relations, she said. My application has been rejected. And they asked me not to apply again for any chaplain position for a year.”

I could not believe it. I was so stunned that I thought she had misunderstood. I had her read me the email she received. An unsuccessful application is always a possibility, but a one-year ban? What was that? Did a chaplain even look at her application? Who decided that her resume and experience were so unworthy that she was vetoed out for a year?

Alison told me she felt humiliated when she read this email. She did not say anything to her husband, who was in the same room and looking at his own lap top. She went upstairs and cried. “Worthless”. “That’s the word that kept flashing through my mind, she said. That I was worthless. That they had to get rid of me for a year because I was so bad.” 

She breathed in silence for a while. “Then I called you.” I was feeling bad for her. My guess is that I would have received the same email if I had applied myself.  “You must feel awful, I said. I feel awful too actually – and mad ! Where does this come from? I never heard of such a reply to an application.”

“I guess I need to know, said Alison with a sigh. Of course, I know in my mind that I am not worthless. I am not going to let anyone define me – especially anyone who does not even know me. I just don’t understand. Why would you want to humiliate applicants? I wonder if this comes from this test…"

Well, it came from this test, Alison found out. Human Resources had created this “assessment tool” a month before. About half of the chaplains who applied for the position failed the test – probably due to the same state of disbelief she was in. Their applications were then simply discarded and never sent to the manager of the hiring department. A one-year prohibition to apply was emailed to them.

“I heard there are talks in process to review ‘this assessment tool’ for the Pastoral care department, she said. Because it does not assess anything chaplains need… But that will be too late for me.”

Fortunately, this was not the end of the story. Another position opened up, and Alison was offered the possibility to appeal the ban. The appeal was received, and Alison has applied for the new position. Her new application is being processed. She allowed me to share her story – as long as I did not use her real name.

I thought I had seen lots of bizarre situations through my chaplaincy education. This one is definitely off the chart. 

Moving On with Life

Looking back at my recent posts, I realized cancer has been front and central in my thoughts and life this year. Obviously, this was a trying time with lots of dread involved as well as curiosity. I learned a lot.

Life went on outside the area of illness though. My year-long residency did not get interrupted thanks to the support of my supervisors. Garrett, who is also the manager of the department, told me when I was diagnosed, “Tell us what you need. We will do it.” He meant it. This support allowed me to continue and work during the treatment. I remember this victorious feeling when I was able to visit patients again after my first chemo.

The residency ended at the end of the month of August. It was a sad time – the end of a deep and intense experience. I would have liked to get to work longer with Patty, who was our last supervisor. She jumped on board merely two months before the residency ended. I had a glimpse, under her direction, of new fields of self-exploration.

One of our peers was accepted for a new residency, starting immediately in September. I envied her. In the same time, I enjoyed being able to rest as I was still undergoing radiation treatment.

As for Irvin, he became in June the new “Associate for Native American Congregational Support”, a national position that allows him to support the native churches of the Presbyterian Church. 

It is a deployed position, which means that he works from home but travels a lot, as he visits Native churches throughout the USA. 

He continues to be the pastor of the Church of the Indian Fellowship for a quarter time. Feel free to visit his page on the PC(USA) web site here or the facebook page “Native Ministries in the PCUSA” to find out more about his encounters and travels.

In December, I got hired! Not as a chaplain, as positions are rare and none were available in the Tacoma area. But a big congregation was looking for an “associate director of spiritual formation”, a part-time position for 6 months. 

This will allow me to work in a completely different setting : a 1,400 members church. I jumped right into a whirlwind of activities. Advent, those 4 weeks before Christmas, provides a time of spiritual preparation before celebrating the birth of Christ. It is also the busiest time of the life of the church. From January to December, 2013 has been an intense year. 

Ending the Third Round with Richard Parker

Here we are, this third cycle of chemo is almost over. On Tuesday, I will get Chemo#4 and the second half of this journey will start. The last two chemos will take place in May.

This round turned out to be more challenging than I expected. I realized that feeling OK is the result of a fragile balance. If swelling and itching happen, and I need steroids to calm everything down, all this add up and leave me exhausted.

However, after this week that ended at the Hospice House (where I work weekends in April) I feel serene. First of all, my diverse body parts are back to their normal size - an encouraging circumstance. And sitting with patients and family at the Hospice house gives meaning to this journey…

Tonight, Irvin and I watched the movie «Life of Pi» where the hero struggled not to die of hunger on his raft – and not to be devoured by the other shipwrecked passenger, the tiger named Richard Parker. “Richard Parker is saving my life, realizes Pi, he scares me, I stay awake and on edge thanks to him… He makes me survive.”

This chemo is a little like Richard Parker, ferocious and unselective assailant of my growth cells but able to save me from cancer. This is not a bad way to conclude this week – and this year of my life. Tomorrow, I will be one year older.  

Minor side-effects

They look like soft-shell crabs, plump and bright red as if coming out of hot water. They are firmly fastened to my forearms so no doubts are allowed: those are my hands. They have been swelling during my shift at the Hospice house yesterday – I work weekends this month. I showed them to my friends Nurses. “Edema” said one. The fact is, I had been warned that my feet could swell, a classic side-effect of chemo. I did not expect it would strike – not my feet – but my hands, and all of sudden, at work.

“What should I do?”  One of my friends said that keeping hands elevated would help. But when you start a conversation with a patient or her family, holding your arms up in the air as if threatened by a gun is not exactly an option.

Eventually I called the hotline of my oncologist – it is reassuring to be able to describe symptoms to a medical person whatever the time and days. She prescribed steroids. After work I went to the pharmacy with Irvin– so tired that the thing I wanted most was my bed. As soon as we were home, I disappeared under the blankets, and in spite of my usual insomniac self and the addition of steroids, I slept through the night.

Today, my hands were still swollen and red, and itchy – I kept rubbing them together like a fly meditating on its next move. I called back the oncologist office when I felt a twitching in my lips. I looked in a mirror and was startled to see I looked like a starlet after an unfortunate encounter with a Botox injection. My lips had doubled in volume.  This was probably an allergic reaction, I was told. But reaction to what? It could be the chemo, something I ate or… the steroids. I got Benadryl, as prescribed. It has helped with the itching, I must say, but progress otherwise is slow to come.

This is weird: my lips feel alien to me; holding stuff (or typing) with those chubby fingers is awkward. And I am supposed to be more connected than ever to my complex psyche: I must complete my midterm papers tonight and present them to my peer group and supervisor tomorrow. My pastoral functioning, which I am supposed to describe, has reached a new level of conceptual sophistication…

Back to the Hospice house

At the end of the first round of chemo, I waited for the verdict: and it was good. My white cells did not get decimated. The oncologist made me swear I would be cautious and wash my hands at length and frequently. And she gave me the green light. I was allowed to go back to the hospice house and visit patients again. I was relieved – and apprehensive. I had spent three weeks away. With chemo, my most fundamental insights had been altered. Maybe my mind was too.

In March, I am scheduled to work from 6 to 10 PM. When I arrived that first night, I was feeling as vulnerable and exposed as I did on my very first day in September. I thought of the verse of the Bible, from Exodus (33:14) where the Lord promised to Moses, “My Presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.”

On this first night, I was talking with Felicia*, at the bedside of her mother who would pass on a few hours later. She shared about their lives and I realized that she was offering me, not only her trust, but also the opportunity for me to feel I was a chaplain again. She allowed me to walk with her through those essential and painful moments. 

Her sons went to pick up pizzas that we ate altogether. We talked about France and Germany where her family lived for a few years, of the grave illness that almost took her life the year before, and of the breast cancer that killed her aunt two years earlier. I mentioned the chemo. Felicia asked me many specific questions that maybe she never dared ask her aunt then. 
When I left, Felicia gave me a big hug, looking at me with warmth and compassion. She did not hug the chaplain. She hugged the sister who, just like her, was sailing in the midst of storms.

* not her real name. 

Apprehension and Holy Spirit

How will that day go? Who will I meet ? Will a patient die? Which one? Will I be up to it? When I drive to the Hospice house, those questions turn in my mind. On the first days, they were like upset bees, fast and restless. After three months, the bees have slowed down. It is winter time; they go from one place to another, chilled and quiet. In other words I am calmer.

Apprehension is still here but only as a feature in the landscape of my mind, not an overwhelming emotion. I cannot foresee the meetings to come, or get ready for difficult question or unexpected situations. Serenity comes with accepting myself and trusting that I will face whatever is on my way – and that I will not be alone.  

In the heavy binder that we received during orientation, I found this before-visit prayer, written by Chaplain Ray Kelleher:

“Something  important is about to happen to me. Somebody important is waiting for me. I am walking onto Holy Ground, stepping into Sacred Space, going to meet, in a vulnerable human being, the beloved of God. I will be receptive. I do not know what words to say, what thoughts to think, or what actions might be necessary, so I trust in the Holy Spirit, who will guide me from the inside. In that mood of confidence I open the door, to offer my truest and best self in the time that I have.”

There is no other way. I notice that I find myself regularly at the right place at the right moment. I see a patient’s loved one in tears in the hallway just when I come up so I am able to suggest we talk in the little chapel. Another day, I sit down with a husband by the patient’s bedside and he suddenly realizes with a scream that she just passed. Later on, he will tell me “Fortunately, I was not alone in the room when she died…”

I recommend a blanket to a patient whose sadness is perceptible. His cancer is spreading and at any time so this older emaciated gentleman can fall and get hurt. He would like to go home. His wife and doctors have a hard time explaining this can’t happen. He is sitting in an armchair in the semidarkness of the room – he refuses to lay down in the bed – and he can’t get warm. He is pleased to receive the blanket which was heated in a special oven. He does not like to talk about his feelings nor religion. I lay the blanket on his laps and put my hands on his – they are so cold. We spend long minutes that way, without talking. He is the beloved of God. 

A bridge to the unknown.

The hospice house is a homey place that receives patients whose life expectancy does not exceed 6 months.

Usually patients are close to their last days when they are admitted. They need intensive care so they can be as comfortable as possible: getting their pain under control, helping with their breathing… Most patients expire in the days following their admission.

There are many things I cannot accomplish here – and realizing it has been instrumental to lighten the initial apprehension.  

What I cannot do: I cannot cure those patients. I cannot dissipate the sorrow of their loved ones. What I can do: be with them. Listen to their stories, if they want to share it. Reflect with them on the meaning of their journey. Pray with them if they so wish. And be there for those two most important moments there is, two moments mentioned in the “Hail Mary” prayer that I learned as a Catholic child: “pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death”.  This is not much – and yet it is essential.

Sometimes, I am reminded of an airport when I think of the hospice house. “the passenger for the destination to beyond is expected for immediate departure…”

Sometimes, I think of a bridge. A bridge toward a place so often imagined and yet totally unfamiliar. We help the travelers to cross the bridge, we support their families.   

One afternoon, I was helping the son of a patient who had passed in our presence a few hours earlier – we were carrying his belonging to his car. He had slept in his father’s room for the few last nights. While walking by him, I suddenly realized that this was like the work I was doing here: accompany the patients and their loved ones and help them carry their baggage.

This is not much – and yet essential. 

Thanksgiving – already ??

The fourth Thursday of November is a special day in the US : a day where everyone traditionally gather with family around a turkey meal. I had the opportunity to mention this unparalleled tradition before.

This break in the middle of the very rainy Fall season happens right at the end of the first unit of the residency. The whole residency will actually be 4 units back to back. It is time to evaluate the weeks that went by with such disconcerting speed. Yesterday it seems, I was being oriented like any new employee of Franciscan Health. And here we are, November is here.

Weeks went by fast : 24 hours of the week take place at the Hospice house. I also have classes (“didactics” actually) at St Joe. I am also on call at St Joe one night every 10 days.

I was apprehensive when I got to the Hospice house on that first Monday. I was thinking of the hours to come. One of patients was probably going to die… Would I be able to face those situations?

I parked on the employees parking lot, on the side and under the trees. I was not alone: a deer was standing by the cars. She allowed me to look at her and even take pictures, before jumping out of sight. On that first day, this welcoming deer uplifted my spirit…

AC gets oriented

Once my identity and my non-addiction established, I received a badge that will prove who I am when I will be going from one place to another in the hospital and the hospice house.

The security person who took my (very unflattering) picture stumbled when she tried to say my name. This happens often – my name is not very easy to pronounce (Annacicill? Anncelice?) and I suggested to only list my initials. Many friends and my in-laws already call me AC.

AC, pronounced by French people sounds like “assez” which means “enough”. Not very welcoming. But the American way is much more opened.

The next step was the orientation day. I was with Su, my Korean friend, also selected for this residency, as well as 60 others new employees from all departments.

The orientation was taking place from 8 to 4. Most of those hours were dedicated to describe the values of the new employer. I confess I sometimes dozed off… Some of the new employees had to try some isolating suits, which suddenly created an impression of science-fiction. This energized me.

On the afternoon, it was all about patients safety. We were taught to handle a fire extinguisher and to carry out patients in emergency situations. In an earthquake prone area shadowed by a volcano, this can be handy.

Good, I am not a felon!

Not a single drop of rain fell the month of August! It’s a record beaten and in our region, known for it’s humidity, everyone tends to look up at the sky, disoriented and almost worried.

If the change is in the air, it is not the weather, but in the work department. It’s time for me to get ready and begin my residency— for one year,  in the department of Pastoral Care of the Franciscans Group Health Hospital . I will be Chaplain Resident from September 2012 until August, 2013.

As the internship is a paid position, I follow the requirements of any new employee. At the beginning of the week, I was called to St. Joseph Hospital of Tacoma by the Department of Human Resources to show my identity papers, which  they copied, and give my consent to verify my background.

The hospital resembles a beehive, a large while building with windows like ovals, and the view of Puget Sound is beautiful.

I also promised that I do not smoke cigarettes. I was surprised to learn that my new employer won’t hire any smoker anymore. If you smoke, they offer you a class to help you stop. If you are not ready, resubmit your application when you are.

Next stop the same day, a drug test. Producing urine in a narrow plastic cup is anatomically acrobatic. “Above all, do not flush .” said the technician. “Why?” I asked with the innocence of never having undertaken the Tour de France. “We do not want anyone to use the water from the toilet to dilute the contents of the cup.”

Some days later, the results reached me. Good! I am not a felon. I do not smoke. Nicotine is absent from my system.

And what relief that caffeine and chocolate do not appear on the list of illegal substances...

(thank you, Phyllis Smith, for the great translation! J)