Nursing Father Tim

by Liz Hawes
(Minneapolis )

Here's another story Emily sent me. These stories are precious and I'm glad I have a way to share them with you all. This one is about Father Tim, a man that Emily cared for.

"Every night, when I'm walking into work, I pray that my hands and words and presence would bring God's healing to my patients. I often 'lay hands' on my patients and pray for them while I'm giving bed baths, etc. too. Sometimes though, even that becomes habit; if I'm honest I don't really believe anything will happen.

For a year and a half I had a patient named Father Tim (because his story was in the newspaper I can share this information publicly). He had been a priest ministering to troops in Iraq. One day his humvee ran over an improvised explosive device. He received multiple traumatic injuries including a serious brain injury. Because of that, the only Father Tim I knew was a man, completely dependent on us to move him, bathe him, feed him, etc. He always stared straight ahead, expressionless, occasionally yawning, never moaning, never opening his mouth to speak. After working with him for a year, it became apparent that he could communicate to a limited extent with his left hand. If you told him to wave hello, he would (still expressionless), lift his left hand and wave. He could also do thumbs up. They gave him a computer with a touch screen and pictures so that he could try to communicate a few things with that hand. He would frequently just sit in the chair and tap the screen over and over. 'Good morning. Good morning. Good morning, Good morning, Good morning...' it would say as he tapped over and over. We would often talk to him as though he understood everything we said. Just as often though, we would lapse into treating him as though he understood nothing. To some people, he was just a body to clean and feed and move.

When I first started taking care of him I would sometimes tell him stories, I asked him to pray for me, and I would pray out loud for him as well. After a year and a half, however, I was doing this much less often. I was lacking hope in my own life, and I'd pretty much given up hope for him as well. I do believe in miracles. But from a physiological standpoint, he had run out of time. Any progress in recovering from a brain injury usually happens within a year of the injury. After that year, their brain function is usually not going to get a whole lot better. His year had been up even before I met him.

Father Tim's family was and is a breed all their own. Their childlike faith was a constant contrast to the cynicism of most of the hospital staff. For two years his family had arranged visitors who came to see him nearly every day. These people read the paper to him, they held his hand and prayed, read him books, took him outside for 'walks' in his wheelchair. They had a website dedicated to him. According to the website people all over the world were tirelessly praying for Father Tim. Some of the staff said he was just shy of a vegetable, so they laughed or rolled their eyes at all of it.

One night I came in to work and sat down to take report from the evening nurse. 'Father Tim
spoke to me tonight,' she said. She waited for all of us to react. We thought she was joking. Each of the nurses came in and told us the same thing, however. He had vocally said hello to them, and had said each of their names. We were in shock. I was giddy.

Father Tim didn't speak to me that night. I asked him if his silence was because he was tired. He looked me in the eyes, squeezed my hand and nodded. Day by day, more people wrote notes about the things Father Tim had said to them. They were little things, one word here, two words here. Then one day he recited the Lord's Prayer. It was always exhausting to him, and the thoughts he communicated were simple. But it had our staff reeling. My favorite interaction was with a nurse who, even after there'd been reports about him speaking for weeks, found it impossible to believe. She was furious with everyone. 'This isn't a funny joke! Why would professional people write crap like this?! I'm not going to believe he speaks; it's just not possible!' A month later when Father Tim told her good morning, I could hardly keep from belly-laughing for joy. People tried in different ways to explain it away. But it was remarkable to see the shift that happened in our staff. It had profoundly shaken more than one world view... including mine."

written June 5, 2007