Bad News.......

Six months ago, my sister-in-law called me and told me my Dad had been in a wreck. That’s all she knew. Within 10 minutes I had my overnight bag in the car and was heading towards I-26. On my way to my hometown, my brother called to say that my Dad had been hit head on by a drunk driver. He was hurt bad but my brother had talked with him and I felt better. Our small-town hospital was ill-equipped to handle his injuries and they were flying him to a trauma center in Columbia. I waited when I arrived in Columbia for my brother to call and tell me which hospital to make camp. He called to tell me that the weather was too bad and the helicopter would have to go to Charleston instead of Columbia. I got back on the road and headed down I-26 towards Charleston. About 5 miles before the hospital exit, my brother texted and asked how much longer I would be. That was my first clue. About 2 minutes later, my sister texted me and asked if my husband was with me. That was my second clue. When I arrived at the ER, I told the registration desk who I was and who my father was and the attendant looked at me with such sad tenderness. That was my third clue. A lady dressed in an all-black suit asked me to join my family in a little room off the ER. This was no clue. This was reality. There in that room, the room I had been escorted into by this chaplain, I found my brother and sister-in-law and my uncle. They were waiting on me to tell me that my father had succumb to the injuries from the car accident upon his arrival in Charleston.    There are so many things from that night I remember, but one thing that I remember the most was the chaplain.

Her demeanor was amazing. She was there but she wasn’t pushy. She answered questions but she put no demands on my family. She explained kindly. She used words we understood rather than the “big” words of the medical staff. She had caring eyes. She wasn’t judging our grief. She helped my brother and me as we were led into the room with our father’s lifeless body. She quietly handed me tissue. She kindly suggested that I take my Dad’s Clemson ring and his wedding band... She reassured me it was okay to take them off as if she knew he never took them off. In fact, in 45 years, I’d never seen him not wearing those rings. She helped me wordlessly when I couldn’t do it alone. She was strength when we were weak.  I think about her often. I wonder how many times a week- maybe even a day- that she must sit with other families. How many boxes of tissue does she go through in a week in that magic black bag of hers. How many families has she prayed with and for? Delivering news like that every day must be hard for her, I would think?

Just the other day, she crossed my mind again. She gives terrible news to families. She is there when they hurt. She is there when they don’t understand. She is there when they are angry. She is there when they’re heartbroken. I thought of this chaplain because I was in a meeting with a parent. We were having to tell this parent that his son was behind where he should be. We were having to tell him that his son had not gotten the foundational skills necessary to be successful YET!  This parent was sad. This parent was upset at what had happened in the years before this year (or what had not happened). This parent felt like a failure. While we, as the practicing educators, had to give the bad news, we also had to support that parent through it also. This parent had many of the same emotions that that chaplain sees every day.

The difference between us and that chaplain is a decision to share.  That chaplain is forced to have difficult conversations with families. We have a choice. Well, sort of. It would be safe to say, as a practicing educator, that if we do not have difficult conversations with parents that we are committing educational malpractice. No one enjoys difficult conversations. No one wakes up in the morning and ask themselves, “Who can I disappoint, dishearten, upset, anger, sadden today?” Seriously none of us do, but it must happen. We must be honest with parents. They deserve to know the truth. They deserve to know where their student is and how they can help.

As I think about that chaplain, I often wonder how long she trained for her job. I wonder if she practiced. I wonder if she shadowed others. I wonder if she worked alongside a mentor before she did it alone. I wonder if she read books. I wonder if she was led to this work because of her own experiences. I wonder if she worries about how she will behave in these situations and I wonder if she reflects afterwards. While death and academic difficulties are not anywhere near the same thing. I would think the delivery of the news is very similar. We are honest. We are sincere. We are kind. We don’t judge, we understand. We aren’t pushy. We reassure. We are strong. But most of all-we share the truth and we don’t hide from it. It is what our students deserve.