Encountering Christ in Others—Grace in the Waiting Room

In my early fifties, I was diagnosed with tachycardia—an irregular (rapid) heart rate. Since my father had a similar diagnosis and lived a full life, I wasn’t really concerned. My husband wanted to go with me for testing. “No, I’ll be fine. It’s just a rule-out,” I said.

When you have a nuclear cardiac PET scan, you have to fast before the test. Once I arrived, they injected me with the radioactive tracer dye and placed me in a quarantined room. That should have been my first clue that this was a bigger deal than I’d originally thought.

What I didn’t know at the time was that the dye also has significant side effects, with migraine and vomiting being among the top two. I started to feel a headache come on pretty quickly. It wasn’t until I was in the scan that I felt a sudden urge to vomit. “I’ve gotta get out. I’m going to be sick,” I said.

The medical staff quickly pulled me out of the tube and got me something to vomit in. The thought was that after a few minutes, they could resume the test. But the vomiting would not stop. “When I have migraines, the doctor gives me Phenergan. It really calms the nausea down,” I said. Inside, I was thinking that I am in a hospital where there is a pharmacy, and surely I could get some anti-nausea medicine.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. The only way we can do that is if we wheel you over to the emergency department and admit you,” she said. I couldn’t believe it.

By this time, I had called my husband to come and help me, but he was at work 45 minutes away. The nurses told me that I needed to reschedule the appointment. They helped me into a wheelchair, put a blanket over me, and handed me a plastic bag with my clothes in it.

Before they called someone to transport me, they gave me a new bag for when I got sick, placed a cold washcloth over my forehead and on the back of my neck, and I could only imagine what I looked like. The transport guy, who had surely gotten the short straw, rolled me over to another section of the hospital, and all the while, I was vomiting.

He parked me in a spot off by myself in the reception area of the emergency department and checked me in before he left. I continued vomiting. Sitting in a wheelchair with a hospital gown on, a wet cloth on my neck and forehead, and a puke bag in hand, I felt so vulnerable.

I noticed a woman walk up to the reception desk and ask for a cup. She went to the water fountain, filled it up, and came over to me. “Do you think you can take small sips of cold water?” she asked. At that moment, nothing sounded better. I took a few small sips.

“Thank you,” I said, but then I got sick again. She took the cloths from my forehead and neck, rinsed them in the cold water from the water fountain, and gave them back to me. I felt less vulnerable. Someone had my back.

Then, a man got up, walked over to the magazines, and picked one up, bringing it to where I sat and beginning to fan me while I retched. I could not think of a kinder act. I realized that I was no longer alone.

Another woman, the third person, went to the reception desk and insisted that I be seen immediately. Three random strangers were tending to my needs, and the phrase my grandmother used often, “angels unaware,” came into my mind. I felt supported.

Strangers—people who didn’t know me, who were willing to be the face of Christ, an instrument of God’s love—put themselves out there for me, a stranger. They helped me feel as if I belonged. They had no expectation of reward or compensation. They were moved by compassion.

My husband and I were chatting about that memory lately, and he asked me if I ever went back to the rescheduled appointment. I could not remember. What I remembered most was the love and kindness of strangers, who helped me feel worthy of belonging. The courage they showed in connecting with me in a very uncomfortable situation changed me. It made me willing to do the same.

In my most vulnerable moment, with nothing to offer and no one I knew, Christ came to me anyway. He didn’t necessarily come to me through the trained medical professional who could not help me earlier.

But through three random strangers in the emergency department—supporting a friend or family member, seeing me alone and without help—they stepped in. And their love changed me.

Where has Christ shown up for you?

Going Deeper

• How might God be reaching out to you in love through the people that surround you? Read another perspective of Seeing Christ in Others.

• How do we learn how to show up for others? Read Beth Knobbe’s blog post, Christ Has No Voice but Yours for deeper insight.

• God invites us to know ourselves and to know others, responding in love. Monique Jacobs shares more in The Grace of Vulnerability.

• Pray with the beautiful prayer from St. Teresa of Avila, Christ Has No Body. Invite the Holy Spirit to help you encounter others as the Body of Christ.

Photo by Getty Images for Unsplash

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Jean Heaton

Jean Heaton is the author of “Helping Families Recover from Addiction.” She offers her experience, strength and hope to friends and family members affected by the addictions of others using both the 12-steps and Ignatian Spirituality. Recently, she’s been invited to engage a wider audience that includes parishioners, spiritual directors, volunteers, rehab facilities and people who work in pastoral care ministries. She offers resources at www.jeanheaton.com.