The Simple Secret

“I know you before you are born. I know you after you die. My plans for you are not defined by this world. Beginnings and endings are earthly ideas. I go on. And because I go on, you go on with me. Feeling loss is part of why you are on Earth. Through it, you appreciate the brief gift of human existence, and you learn to cherish the world I created for you. But the human form is not permanent. It was never meant to be. That gift belongs to the soul.”

~ The Stranger in the Lifeboat, Mitch Albom

He seizes violently in his bed- neck stiff, wrists clenched, arms and legs rhythmically oscillating as if desperately trying to unleash themselves from the chains attached to his static torso. Two doses of anti-seizure medicine are pushed through his veins- two failed attempts to halt the uncontrollable movements sparked by an unknown culprit hidden in the complex labyrinth of his brain. A different anti-seizure medicine finally abates the seizure and a sudden calm descends after the passing of the precarious storm. Though the convulsions have certainly stopped for the moment, his future remains uncertain. I think to myself, “this could be the end.”

A few weeks ago he was admitted to the hospital with the feared and unwelcome cohabitation of HIV and tuberculosis progressively and silently consuming his body. Daily conversations and routine examinations dimly point us to an inconclusive cause for his symptoms: warming fever, bubbling depression, simmering confusion, and slow-brewing neurological signs finally culminating in the boiling point of his sudden, uncontrollable seizures. Finally, the addition of more antibiotics, steroids, and nutritional rehabilitation steadily cool things down. And as the temperature drops I notice the feelings of fear, abandonment, failure, and despair dissipate into the seemingly empty air. I think to myself, “this is a new beginning.”

The days following his recovery, his face is marked with a generous smile. His depression turned to joy, he tells me, “I want to continue getting better.” And as I contemplate the fragility of the human body and his near death experience, I realize we are both grateful for the gift of his continued existence. I realize, ultimately, that he goes on because He goes on.

***

I am called to the labor and delivery room to help with a delivery that is taking longer than expected. She is laboring with her first child, each contraction a new and painful experience, each coordinated push through trial and error an attempt to bring her child into the world. Her legs are drawn back and she is coached through the final remaining pushes that will give rise to the long-anticipated end to her pregnancy and the beginning of the child’s earthly life. A few moments later, the child slowly emerges from her mother’s birth canal. With her arrival we see a new beginning.

It does not take long to realize the child’s transition into the world is not progressing as expected. The cord is cut with urgency in response to her notable lack of movement, gray skin, and absent cry. After vigorously drying and stimulating the baby there is still no response, and suctioning the mouth and nose proves equally futile. The baby is carried to the warmer and a mask is placed over her small, fragile face. My body’s adrenaline immediately jumpstarts the rarely used and long-forgotten protocol for newborn resuscitation buried deep in my mind. “Breathe, two, three…breathe, two, three…” plays over and over in my head, intertwined with prayers and pleas for divine intervention to grant this apparently lifeless baby an opportunity to grow. A trembling hand places a stethoscope on her chest and finds no heartbeat. I instinctively begin chest compressions on the newborn, a practice I’ve only employed in theoretical simulations on plastic mannequins. The difference between make-believe and reality is palpable as I sense the pounding vessels in my neck and chest hovering over a pulseless child. My prayers and pleas increase as we exhaust the number of available treatment options available to human hands. Then, the increasing levels of adrenaline in my body remind me to give her some as well. I insert a breathing tube down her throat followed by a dose of adrenaline- this is our final effort. The natural passing of time and the artificial passing of each breath bring with them the passing of my hope. And as we remove the breathing tube from her body a short time later, I realize it is the end.

There are no words or gestures that can soothe a grieving mother suffering the loss of a child. We remind the mother she did everything she needed to do for her child to give and sustain her life. Together we look at her daughter’s motionless handprints and footprints pressed in dark ink on the paper in front of us, her daughter’s name written heavily across the page. And I am reminded that all is not still, lifeless. I am reminded that “beginnings and endings are earthly ideas.” Instead, bathed in His everlasting light and with her name written on our hearts, her daughter goes on because He goes on.

“No matter how great or how small my sufferings are, I have a choice. I can either let them make me bitter, or I can meet them with the confidence that God will not abandon me. That’s the choice…that’s the simple secret.”

~ Fr. Walter Ciszek, SJ