Guest post: O chaplain! My chaplain! Poetry in pastoral care
by Betty Morningstar, clinical social worker in private practice in Newton, Massachusetts, former pastoral care associate at Hebrew SeniorLife, and former Continuing Education Faculty at the Smith College School for Social Work.
Meet Kay
A gold “chai,” the Hebrew letter that represents life, lay flat on Kay’s mottled chest, held there by a thin gold chain. I stood in the doorway of her small, tidy corner room in the long-term care facility. Books and neatly folded newspapers perched atop the bedside table that was about the size of an airplane pull-out tray. On top of the pile sat a book of Mary Oliver’s poetry that I had left there. Kay sat in a vinyl chair, clad in her characteristic blue and green flowered blouse and navy leggings. As always, her eyes and face were made up as though she was about to go out to dinner. She smiled at me just like she did on any other day. But this day was different.
I was the “Poetry Lady” at this facility. With no experience—and not even a love of poetry—I’d been recruited to fill the slot left by a previous chaplain. On Thursday mornings I wandered the corridors, cajoling residents to come to the lounge, listen to me recite a poem, and then discuss it. I felt like some boring high school teacher trying to get kids to take an elective course in Greek during their free period. “No thanks, we play Mah Jongg at 11:00” or “No, I hate poetry. It doesn’t make any sense.” But then there were the regulars who arrived early and watched me scramble to make room at the table for all the motorized wheel chairs and walkers.
Coming together
Over the months, a core group coalesced. Kay always arrived first. As the room filled, Kay would hold court, focusing her attention on any newcomer, especially the ones who came from the old Jewish neighborhoods north of Boston. A round of “Jewish Geography” became the opening act for my weekly performance.
The other group members might either read the poem that I had placed in front of each seat at the table, stare into space, or just sit, maintaining a combination of patience and resignation that comes from the constant waiting known to all long-term care residents.
“Hello everyone!” I practically had to scream to be heard. “HELLO. Welcome to poetry. I’m happy to see so many of you today.” I’d introduce any newcomers, update the group on the wellbeing of those not present, and say a silent prayer that I could keep at least some of them engaged for the next forty minutes.
I imagined Kay asking me to choose a happy poem for once and then informing us for the umpteenth time that she hated sad poems.
On the day that I appeared at Kay’s door, I waited for her to finish a phone call. I paced around the cluster of closed doors in her “neighborhood.” Visions of Kay and the group drifted in and out of my mind’s eye. I imagined Kay asking me to choose a happy poem for once and then informing us for the umpteenth time that she hated sad poems. She didn’t mind if they were “deep,” as long as I explained some of the more obscure references—as if I really knew what I was talking about.
I read poems that balanced love and loss, that contained seeds of hope. Poems about places often prompted members to reminisce. One woman shared childhood memories of her immigrant grandmother when I read a Joyce Kilmer poem about the New York subway. Another woman mentioned visiting the home of Robert Frost in New Hampshire every time we read one of his poems. On a good day, some of the memories that were conveyed would mingle, and I would be moved to comment about the beauty of their recollections. Murmurs of some sort of acknowledgment would spread around the table, like the last words of a group prayer that ends at two or three separate moments.
“I stopped eating yesterday. You heard I’ve got lung cancer?”
Kay motioned for me to come in and apologized for keeping me waiting. I sat on her extra chair, which she had borrowed from the lounge. The chair was crammed into the corner, as she had been having visitors almost around the clock since her cancer diagnosis a few days earlier. She sat up straight, her posture and general demeanor suggesting that she felt in charge of her small dominion.
In a strong voice Kay said, “I stopped eating yesterday. You heard I’ve got lung cancer?” I nodded. She shrugged “I’m 96 and I’ve had a great life. I feel good and I’m calm.”
I cleared my throat. “The rabbi told me about the cancer and about your decision. You sound very clear about what you want,” I said.
“I’m sad but I’m happy at the same time.” My mind registered the message of loss and hope that I had tried to impart to the poetry group. Kay continued: “Everybody here is being so kind, always popping in and asking if I need anything. You’d think I was the only one on this floor.”
“I’m so glad to hear that, Kay. Everyone here is very supportive of your decision, and they all really care about you.” Silence followed, which was unusual for Kay. I decided to break the quiet by asking about her family.
Peace to the end
“My kids understand my decision and they want my last weeks to be peaceful.” We both smiled wistfully. All of my kids are local, and my daughters-in-law are as close as real daughters, so I don’t ever have to be alone.” Her face was soft where her make-up usually got stuck in some of the cracks on her cheeks. “I kind of like to be alone sometimes too. That must sound weird to you, since you know how social I am. I guess I’m comfortable with myself.”
“So something is changing now that you are anticipating the end.”
“Yes. And you know what I do when I’m alone?” I cocked my head to indicate I was listening. “I’ve been reading poetry. I love the book you left for me over the weekend.” She pointed to the Mary Oliver book.
“That’s great. Are there certain poems you keep getting drawn back to?”
Kay thought a minute. “I love the one about the caterpillar or the grasshopper, you know the one. I love how she uses nature in her poems. You know, I always wanted to be a veterinarian. My dad was a vet, and he used to take me to work sometimes when I didn’t have school.” She was on a roll, so I didn’t interrupt. “I never realized that you could talk about animals and insects when you’re trying to say something about people. I thought a poem had to be about people or about nature, but both at the same time? Who knew?”
I’d lost track of time and even of a vague sensation of hunger, until I noticed the sounds of my empty stomach. I ignored them. “Isn’t it something,” I said, “that you came to the poetry group with one idea about poetry, and now that has expanded.”
Kay smiled, then asked, “Can you do me a favor? Would you bring me copies of some of the poems we’ve read in the group?”
“Of course,” I said. “Anything in particular?”
“Let’s see.” Kay’s eyes closed for a moment. “I love the one where the poet talks about the ‘Florida’ room. We had one of those rooms when we lived in Florida. He described it so well in the poem. You could just see it.”
An old image came into my mind. “My grandmother had one in her house too,” I said. “I can still see the orange tree outside the window in that room.”
Kay nodded. “I miss Florida. Those were some of our best years. And then I had the stroke, and my husband died, so I moved back here to be near my kids.”
“So many things come to mind when you reach this point in life,” I said.
She sighed. “Yes. Some things I haven’t thought about in years. It’s strange. Thinking about things from the past makes me feel peaceful.”
Entering final days
We talked a bit more, and then I couldn’t quiet my empty stomach grumblings. I wondered if Kay’s stomach made hunger sounds after a day without food. I excused myself and told her I would grab some poems from my stash in the lounge and make copies for her.
“Kay, I will see you in a couple of days. Take care.” She blew me a kiss, as I walked out into the fluorescent light of the nurse’s station.
For the next two weeks I stopped in to see Kay on a regular basis. These visits were brief, because most of the time she was surrounded by her children and grandchildren. And all of the time she was surrounded by loose sheets of poetry on her table, her bed, and the windowsill. Her warm smile never faded completely, but grew mellower as the days passed. Her bubbly personality had softened into a quiet, alert, presence. Family members read poems aloud to her when she could no longer hold them up to read herself.
A few days before Kay died, I sat with her and her daughters-in-law in her cramped, overheated room. I gazed out the window at the last light of the day behind a loose cluster of trees in the distance. Inside the room I could almost see the fading rays of Kay’s spirit. She was dozing but lucid. I asked if I could read a poem to her. Kay emitted a soft sound I took for a yes. I reached for the Mary Oliver book. It was still on the top of her pile, and I turned to “the one about the caterpillar or the grasshopper.”
“I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention,
…how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day…
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?”
(Mary Oliver, 1992)
When I finished, I got up and touched Kay’s forehead, as I left her room.
I collected my belongings from the staff lounge and then walked slowly to the exit, barely noticing the buzz of dinner trays and call buttons along the way. I waved to a few passersby as I exited the building and dug around my purse for my keys.
Two days later I heard the news that Kay had died during the night, in the quiet company of her children. They all recited the Hebrew prayer, the “Shema,” as she drifted off. And the pile of poems remained next to her bed, with the Mary Oliver book on top, until the end.