By Jim Nichols

I cannot believe that I am the only person who feels this way occasionally— “I have no idea what I am doing.” It is not always true, certainly. For years I could walk into a college biology classroom and feel confident about the known science I was about to try to explain to captive students. Occasionally, they might ask me a question that stumped me, but my experience in the field usually gave me some pieces of information I might use in a response.

That is not so true in my life as a hospital chaplain; there, I occasionally find myself, if not speechless, at least greatly uncertain.

There had been a motor vehicle wreck close to the hospital itself. A young mother with her two children, one baby and the other a twelve-year-old, were in a small, light-weight compact car stopped as the last car in a line at a light. Approaching from behind at a high speed was a much heavier car driven by a drug-fueled driver. The subsequent collision pancaked the smaller car. The twelve-year old was killed, the baby rushed to a children’s hospital, and the mother brought to the hospital where I waited. She was seriously injured and unconscious during the whole time I was involved.

It is probably obvious, but in situations where the patient is unconscious and unaccompanied, the medical staff has zero information on the patient; they do not even know a name.

The hospital protocol was to go through the patient’s purse (rescued from the scene by the ambulance people). There we found her ID, but no other information. I took her cell phone, and, to my surprise, it allowed me to open the “contacts.” There I found an entry reading “Mom.” 

As my apprehension rose, I punched in the number and a woman answered. I gave my name and asked if the patient were related and she said she was her mother. I explained that I was the chaplain at a nearby hospital and that there had been a bad accident involving her daughter. She began asking panicked questions.

“Is she ok?”

“She is being treated now and is unconscious.”

“How about the baby?”

“The baby was taken to another hospital.”

“How about my twelve-year-old grandson?”

I paused here and said in what was an unconvincing manner, “I do not have any information on him.”

She said she would come to the hospital immediately. 

A few minutes later, she phoned me and said there would be a delay because she had to find someone to bring her. Again, she asked about the twelve-year-old and I responded the same way.

Forty-five minutes later she arrived, being pushed in a wheelchair by a caretaker. Her purse was wedged between the side of her body and the arm of the chair. Her daughter was in a treatment room, and we quickly took the mother to that room where she saw her unconscious daughter.

Seeing her did not seem to upset her overly, but she continued to ask about the twelve-year-old. I guided her to a small family conference room connected to the emergency area. 

While the two of us sat alone at the table, she reached into her purse and pulled out a half-dozen photographs, pictures of her grandson. As she laid out the photos one by one with her hands, she said, “This is my grandson. WHERE IS HE?”

Stunned, I excused myself and went to the larger area where two police officers investigating the wreck were standing. I told them that I felt I needed to inform the grandmother of the death and asked if they would accompany me; they agreed. 

When she saw the police, I was sure the grandmother knew the truth. The police officers and I verbalized the death and explained what we knew about the accident. It was a challenging time for each of us.

I have never attempted to chronicle this event, but decided I needed to try after these many years. The images of using her phone and then seeing her spreading out those photos of her grandson stay with me and are unforgettable. 

One of my chaplain mentors said there will be a small number of events that will become vivid memories. This is one of mine.

Jim Nichols is a retired Abilene Christian University biology professor and current hospital chaplain