SC Lamont Spiritual Pages > UNM Children's Hospital Memorial Speech, September 10, 2006

	UNM Children's Hospital Annual Memorial Speech
	Sunday, September 10, 2006 @ 1300 by Scott Chisholm Lamont, RN

"Don't Grieve"
Anything you lose comes around in another form.
God's joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box, from cell to cell.
As rainwater, down into flowerbed.
As roses, up from ground.
Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish,
now a cliff covered with vines,
now a horse being saddled.
It hides within these, till one day it cracks them open.
There's the light gold of wheat in the sun, and the gold of bread made
from wheat...
I have neither, I am only talking about them
as a town in the desert looks up
to stars on a clear night.

Rumi, the renowned ecstatic poet of Islam, wrote these words more than 700 hundred years ago, words that still resonate across the gulf of time. What he speaks of is something which we have always had to deal with as human beings - namely, the challenge of grief and loss.

It seems a little foolish, doesn’t it, to speak of not grieving when faced with a profound loss. How could we not grieve?

As a caregiver, I have seen grief in many forms, borne by many people. Each time I see it, I am struck by how unique it is, how it reflects the person experiencing it and their relationship with the child who has died. The only real commonality I have seen is the universality of grief – we all experience it, families and caregivers alike. Yet as much as we may share grieving, our grief is our own.

Those who have not had to confront this particular kind of grief, the passing of a child, are none the less aware of it. People routinely ask me how I can possibly stand to do what I do, nurse children who are critically injured, or facing life-threatening illness. Children are so fragile, they say, isn’t it hard? Well, children are not as fragile as they seem. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know – you have seen for yourselves how strong they can be, how they fight, how bravely they embrace life, how they defy predictions. Sometimes, however, their strength and our prayers are not enough. But that isn’t really what the question is about.

What people are referring to when they mention children’s supposed fragility is their fear of a wounded heart, their own sense of fragility. I usually answer that a wounded heart is a risk that comes with the work. Caring for anyone requires an open heart. It calls us to forge connections, to reach out with compassion. Caregiving is about being vulnerable with those who are vulnerable themselves. We can’t fix everything, that is a truth. We can, however, choose to care, and to be with families facing the most difficult thing a family can face.

That is what we do as caregivers. It is what we have chosen, risks included. To our work we bring our intellect, our passion, our sense of healing, and the practical matters of care. Most importantly, we bring our sense of connection, our recognition of the value and dignity of every person in our care. I have heard the work that we do with seriously ill children and their families referred to as a 'Great Work'. It sounds very noble, but the ‘Great Work’ that we do is not healthcare, per se, it is being human. This is something that we share, caregivers and families alike, and something that we offer to each other. The smallest things that we do are most often what really matters - a touch, a moment, a word – these things can make a lasting difference, just as powerful as the most amazing technology or newest drug.

The work of being human is open to all of us. It is certainly not easy work, and we make plenty of mistakes along the way. It takes courage, because loss, and therefore grief, is inevitable. We name those who we have lost because we remain connected to them, because we want them remembered. It is part of the work, and it is right that we should do it. Our essential personhood, our worth and our connection with others is what is honoured here. We matter, and our children matter, each and every one.

Perhaps what Rumi is trying to tell us from across the centuries is not so much about grieving, but about our relationship with our memories. He offers a doorway, the possibility of transformation, the option of hope. Our memories reflect both our relationships and a past which can never be taken away from us. Can we be open to seeing our memories returned to us in new forms? The past is always close at hand. How we see it when it revisits us is a choice. That choice allows grief to become something shining, something welcome, even. Grief, after all, is a reminder of the gift of having loved deeply.

To our children, whether here or gone, whether grown or unborn, I say this: you are loved, you are loved, you are loved, forever and a day. After pain, even after memory, love is what remains.

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I was honoured to be asked by the UNM Mariposa Team to deliver the address (a homily, really) for the annual UNM Children's Hospital Memorial. It was the first one that was attempted to remember all of the children who had recently died, rather than just a particular unit or service. About 188 children were identified who had died over a 2 year period, and we attempted to contact all the families and invite them. It was well attended, and a beautiful service, led by Rev. Marie Stockton, our hospice chaplain. It included music, the creation of a beautiful bouquet of flowers as the names of the children were read, and the release of doves from the garden.

Scott Chisholm Lamont, RN.