Annual Memorial Service at Seattle Children's Hospital

"I got half-a-dozen paintings from that shattered plate." - Georgia O'Keeffe

Oh, how I loved this quote when I read it! I got it, right away. It's what I've been doing for the past couple of years, writing and speaking, with "that shattered plate" as inspiration. I wish the plate hadn't shattered, but it has.

Yesterday, I had the privilege of being invited to speak at Seattle Children's Hospital's Annual Memorial Service for all of the children who have been patients of the hospital, and who have died.

Sounds like fun, huh?

We've never attended the service before. We were invited, after Katie passed away, but I'm going to be brutally honest here and say that it simply sounded like the kind of thing that would make me run in the opposite direction. One memorial service for our daughter was one memorial service too many, to my way of thinking.


But I was wrong. It was beautiful, and it was a deeply moving and refreshing experience.

What a wonderful hospital, to provide such a sacred space for its grieving community. Who would have thought of it? Since Seattle Children's Hospital was founded by a mother (Anna Clise) whose son had died, I have a feeling that this way of thinking and caring has been part of the culture of the hospital from the very beginning.

I was nervous. I am always nervous before a speaking engagement, but my last talk (for the Moyer Foundation) really set me back a bit. I think it's because they didn't know Katie, or have any involvement with her, personally. Every other group I've spoken for/to felt as if there was a direct tie or connection to her. Though the Moyers and the foundation staff couldn't have been more gracious or efficient, and I loved being able to raise awareness and support for the Hutch School and the other charities the foundation supports, it was just more draining emotionally than the other speeches have been. So I was a little extra nervous after that experience, and I was feeling depleted and tired from a really busy couple of weeks on the home front.

 [And I know he can't help it, but Gregg has been snoring for the past few weeks, so loudly that I can hear him, even when I'm wearing earplugs. It's kind of like having a newborn wake you every hour or so...and you may recall that I'm over 50, now. I know why they use this sort of thing as torture for prisoners.]

So I was praying for help, praying for God to speak through me and to me, and others were praying for me (thank you for your prayers). In the midst of this, the Center for Action and Contemplation sent this email, which seemed perfect for the situation:

"God of life, bless our days.
Keep us alive and in love. Keep us listening.
Keep us growing, Mother-God. Keep drawing us closer to you.

Help our words, Father-God, not to get in the way of your Spirit.
Help the words we use not become too many or too confusing.
Our faith, Holy One, is in you
and not in any words or in any teaching.
We just want these words to open us up to you
and to your Spirit among us.

Help us not to be afraid of Jesus,
the companion you have given us for our journey toward you.
As St. Bernard prayed, 'Jesus, you are honey in our mouth.
You are music in our ear. You are a leap of joy in our heart.'
Amen." - Richard Rohr, adapted from Radical Grace: Daily Meditations

When I arrived at the hospital, I had with me a batch of 22 quilts for donation; that always makes me happy. And by grace, I ran into a kind and courageous woman who we met in Indianapolis (at the Hope & Empowerment Event), who has traveled here so that two of her children can be treated for cancer at the same time - yes, they both have it (unthinkable, but true). It was wonderful to be able to hug her, and welcome her to Seattle.  She said, "Thank you for the comforters," so I know that her kids have received quilts from our guild. I'm so grateful!

Then Janet D. arrived, as we had arranged, so that she could donate 9 more blankets made by her group, West Coast Oddball Knitters. Janet allowed me to take her photo with the blankets (and her husband), and she took the 3 huge bags of yarn (donated by Lucile) so that the W.C.O.K. can knit more blankets for the hospital. There is a new posting up on Katie's Comforters Guild's blog all about this. The guild's blog also has a new look - check it out!

After making the donations of blankets, I went to the ladies room, locked myself in a stall, and practiced my speech again. Then it was time to go into the auditorium and meet the coordinator of the hospital's Journey (grief) Program, Jackie. She led me to my seat, brought me a glass of water, and I tried to get comfortable. I prayed. I remembered that people were praying for me, and I started to relax.

I was overcome by a feeling of profound love for that hospital. I don't know what it is, but I felt I would do pretty much anything for them. Maybe it's because nearly everyone I met there gave their very best to help Katie and our family. They loved her. It's not a scary place. I feel "at home" there. (That's pretty amazing, coming from someone who was raised as a Christian Scientist.)

Families were filling the auditorium, bringing photos, stuffed animals and mementos of their child's life. I saw people weeping; candles were lit, the memorial book signed, and ribbons tied onto the memorial wreath. With love and awe at the families' devotion in coming to this memorial service, I knew I was going to be okay with my part in it.

I've written about my Nana Emilie before - she's the one who studied for a year in France on scholarship, and received a Master's degree in education (Mills College, Class of 1925), and who didn't really like children in a hands-on way. She had a live-in nanny for her only child (my mother), and wasn't domestically inclined; she was an intellectual and a committeewoman, a member of the Board of Trustees of Mills College and Seattle Children's Hospital.

Nana Emilie & Coco (my mother's parents)

And here I was, the very hands-on mother of a patient, about to speak in the same hospital that was my grandmother's greatest charitable passion. It was a pretty surprising circle of life-events.

The other speakers did a beautiful job. A member of the board spoke - she's the mother of a patient who died. That had a huge impact on me: she's not just an administrator, or a figurehead; she knows what this is like, first-hand, and in her talk, she said she wanted us to know that from the board on down, the hospital is ever-mindful of the lives of our children who have died.

The prayers were lovely, and varied. Here is one of my favorites, for the dedication of the memorial book, wherein all of the children's names are written:

"O God, we dedicate this book to the memory of our children.

We bring to this act our grief and pain, our longings, our hopes and our dreams.

We bring in fact, our whole life's journey to this moment.

We have wanted with all of our being for what has been not to be.

Yet now that it is, we ask for the grace to accept the unacceptable.

May this book be a symbol that the memory of our children will endure...

That their struggles, their courage, their love will continue to inspire us to live more fully and to love more truly.

May this be our promise and our prayer.

Amen."

One father told the story of his son's brief life, only 2 or 3 weeks, all spent in the hospital. He told us that after weeks of pre-natal and a day of post-natal bad news, a NICU doctor at Seattle Children's came up to him and said, "Congratulations; your son is beautiful." He said this was a wonderful gift to him, and he wept as he spoke; many in the audience wept with him. And in fact, this was the first time that I have wept as I spoke in public. I didn't lose control completely, but my voice broke, and I had to slow down. But I was among my people, grieving parents like me, and it was a privilege to be with them, to address them, and to share what I now know, especially with those who have just embarked on the path that no one wants to walk.

A physician spoke, tenderly and compassionately, and he said something important: "I miss my patients who have died." He said that he cries when they die, but that their courage and strength, and ours (the parents') gives him courage and inspiration to go on.

I am thankful to have been asked to participate in such a sacred ritual, and honored to have been in the presence of the families of all of those precious children who were treated at Seattle Children's, but who still died. Seattle Children's Hospital truly does care about each one of our children, and about us. It was beautiful to see that love and caring expressed in this memorial service.

Nana (in her 90s) with Katie & David