To the Patient in Room 4

I was assigned to your floor today. It was my job to pray for you, make sure you weren’t scared and let you know that you’re not alone. But by the time I helped a daughter say her final goodbyes to her mom via video, and made my rounds to the other COVID patients, it was too late.

I arrived to your room to find you lying in your bed, zipped up in a pristine white bag. After mumbling a few choice words most ministers wouldn’t say aloud, I stare at you and replay my day. When I started this morning, you were getting x-rays. Maybe if I had arranged my visit list differently, maybe if I hadn’t taken that coffee break or waited even longer to use the bathroom, I would’ve circled back to you in time.

I never got to meet you. I never saw your face. I will never know your story. As I stand here looking at what’s left of you, I wonder what you look like. You seem tiny in that big bag. Were you always a small man or did COVID do that to you? The bag is protruding in the middle where your tummy is. I wonder if this would embarrass you or if you liked your beers and didn’t care. Maybe you liked your wife’s cooking and took pride in it.

I talk to you in my head and tell you I’m sorry. I’m sorry you never got to go home. I’m sorry you had to die because you didn’t have to die. I’m sorry your life has become politicized and your worth a controversial subject. I’m sorry your illness will be disputed and your death downplayed. I’m sorry your family couldn’t be here. I’m sorry I missed you.

As I stand here in a daze, your neighbor in the next room is wheeled past me. He’s burrito wrapped in a blanket from head to toe. I missed him too. #@$&?%*!! As much as I would like to honor you with a few more moments of silence, I must keep moving so I don’t miss anyone else. There’s no time to grieve.

Chaplain Adrienne