Peggy Newman

The Pink Ribbed Sweater           

As a hospital chaplain working the night shift, I was paged to every code trauma in the ER. A code trauma is a very serious case that requires responses from a team of people. My role, at least initially, is to respond to the needs of family members and friends.

This particular night, a 15-year-old boy had come in via med flight from an outside hospital. He had gone skiing with his friend and his friend’s family, and he was injured in an accident. I knew it had to be more serious than broken bones for a helicopter to transport him from the small community hospital north of Boston to a city teaching hospital that offered more specialized care.

By the time Paul’s parents, Marilyn and Greg, arrived at the hospital, Paul had died. I met them at the front desk and escorted them to the private waiting area we used for the most serious cases, the ones in which privacy was most important. Even before we introduced ourselves to each other, they wanted to know how their son Paul was doing. I explained that not being a medical provider, I couldn’t give them medical information, but I could let the doctor know they had arrived so that he could come and talk to them.

It wasn’t long before I returned with the doctor. Marilyn and Greg were sitting side by side, so he pulled up a chair across from them.

He began, “I am so sorry, but we couldn’t save your son.”

At first all Marilyn could say was no. “No. It can’t be. No. No.” She began to sob, occasionally saying “no” as she took a breath.

Looking at Greg, the doctor continued, “We did everything we could. So did the EMT’s. They did CPR in the helicopter, trying everything they could to get him here where they hoped we could save him. And we tried everything.”

Marilyn looked at the doctor, apparently wanting to hear what they tried. He continued, “We inserted a breathing tube, used electric shock, tried medications. Nothing worked. I’m so very sorry.”

After a pause he asked, “Do you have any questions?”

Greg looked at Marilyn, and saw she had nothing to ask, so he responded by shaking his head no. The doctor said he would be available if they wanted to talk to him again. Once more, he said how sorry he was and left. The whole conversation couldn’t have been longer than a couple of minutes.

Greg tried to fight his tears but then gave in to them. Husband and wife, both were too distraught to offer each other any comfort. The shock was too intense.

These are the moments I find most difficult. I hate feeling helpless. I sat down next to Marilyn, put my hand on her shoulder, and like the doctor, told her how sorry I was.

As if crying was contagious, I was barely able to contain my own tears. Determined to control my emotions, I set my gaze on the mother’s pink ribbed sweater. It was well-worn, a bit pilled from being washed many times. The sweater was fitted but not tight, a casual look that went well with Marilyn’s blue jeans. I noticed that she was slim and attractive. Her gasps for air brought me back into the reality of her grief. As she blew her nose, I pushed the small trash bin toward her.

I saw that Greg was trying to regain his composure. He looked at his wife but had no words to offer. In this moment of relative calm, I asked Greg and Marilyn if they would like to see their son. They looked at each other and nodded in agreement. I excused myself so I could see if the room had been cleaned and if Paul’s body was free of visible blood and arranged under clean sheets. I saw the nurses had everything ready.

When I returned to the waiting area, I was relieved to see that Marilyn and Greg were quietly talking to each other. When Marilyn saw me in the doorway, she responded with an acknowledging nod and a slight smile and then looked at her husband. She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows with a silent question that he understood. He turned to me and said, “I think we’re ready.”

I escorted them to the room. For a moment, there was silence. The couple stood together, looking at their son in disbelief. Then Marilyn gasped for a breath and said, “No,” just as she had when she first heard that Paul had died.

Her husband put his hand around his wife’s waist as if she might need him to hold her so she wouldn’t collapse. A moment later, she laid her head on her son’s chest. Her deep sobs returned. Greg had appeared to regain his composure, but the sound of Marilyn’s sobs seemed more than he could bear. I heard him gasp as if he was trying to swallow his tears and his grief.

When Marilyn raised her head off her son’s chest, I gently took the boy’s hand from beneath the sheet and laid it at his side. His mother took his hand and said, “It’s still warm.”

“Can you tell me about your son?” I asked.

“He was really kind and smart,” Greg replied.

Marilyn nodded adding, “He's so good. He's a really good kid. Everybody likes him. He’s…” She couldn't finish her sentence. She seemed to know she shouldn’t speak of her son in the present tense, but she wasn't ready to speak of him in the past tense, the language that acknowledges death.

“He must have been a wonderful son,” I offered, inviting a response.

Greg nodded as his wife agreed, “He was very caring. A sweet kid even when he was really young. And a good brother. He has a little sister at home.” Pausing briefly, Marilyn added, “She’s going to be devastated.”

Marilyn and Greg were sitting at Paul’s bedside. I was standing closer to the door and could hear two nurses talking quietly about what a horrible situation it was. One had the shaky voice of a person trying not to cry. The mother’s cries and the reality of the boy’s death seemed to draw everyone into feeling a portion of the pain. I was moved by the nurse’s tears, and again rested my eyes on the gentle pink of Marilyn’s sweater.

Seeing the trauma doctor pacing back and forth in the hallway, I thought perhaps he wanted to help, but didn't know what to do.

Then a nurse came into the room and asked the parents if they had any questions for the doctor. They looked at each other and shook their heads. The father looked at the nurse and said, “I don’t think so.” 

I wondered why the doctor didn't come into the room. Offering a word or two of condolence seemed like a minimal gesture, the least he could do given the situation. Of course, I kept my critical thoughts to myself.    

I asked the parents if they would like me to say a prayer. The boy’s mother responded, “Please.”

After a more formal prayer, I asked God to welcome home this wonderful young man. I tried to paint a picture of Jesus embracing this couple’s son with love, welcoming him home after a short life beautifully lived. I thanked God for the gift of his life and his love. I acknowledged his kindness and generosity, and his roles as brother, son and friend. And then I asked God for comfort for all those who would be grieving.”

When I had the sense that it was the right time to help the parents say goodbye, I told them I would give them some privacy to say goodbye and assured them I’d be right there in the hallway if they needed anything. In a few minutes, they emerged from the room. Leaving the body behind has to be one of the hardest moments. The nurse brought a bag with Paul’s jacket, wallet, and a couple of other things and walked with us back to the room where they left their coats. In the hallway Greg asked me about making arrangements with a funeral home while the nurse quietly offered her sympathy to Marilyn. We hugged and then they left.

I headed toward the chapel to sit for a few moments. When I opened the door, I saw the doctor who had been pacing outside Paul’s room. I was deeply moved by the sight of him, sitting bent over with his face in his hands, quietly hiding his feelings. Not wanting to interrupt his solitude, I left as silently as I was able. I felt guilty that I had judged him. I knew I had learned an important lesson.

The next day, as I sat to write in my journal, I closed my eyes to reflect on the experience. The mother’s pink ribbed sweater came to mind. Obviously worn and washed many times it was nothing special, just a piece of everyday clothing for wintertime in New England. But there were moments when looking at it, it became the unlikely anchor that helped me stay grounded, safe from the emotions that threatened to draw me into the grief and sadness that, in turn, threatened to distance me from the needs of Paul’s parents.  

When I shared my experience with Cal, the chaplain who was my mentor when I was new in my role, his comment was, “The doctor needed a pink sweater.”

Peg Newman lives and works in Boston. Though retired from her role as a prison chaplain, Peg continues her part time work as a chaplain in a large city hospital. She volunteers with Second /chance Justice where she advocates for criminal justice reform. Currently, Peg is working on a memoir.