Hospital visit and health blessing

Hugo and I just got back from visiting J, who received his heart transplant a couple days ago. We brought dinner for his partner A, who had just gotten off work; the three of us ate in the cafeteria while the nurses changed shifts, and then we went up to visit J. When we entered the room, J's father was there, and the nurse was attending to J, who was clearly in pain. So there was this, to me, very strange moment when J was lying in bed, in worsening pain, while the four of us—me, Hugo, A, and J's father—stood around a few feet away chatting among ourselves as if J's pain wasn't happening. As I say, it struck me as a very strange thing for us to be doing. I surmise the logic of it was that we were all waiting for the nurse to take care of things.

After a while the nurse had administered what medications she could—which weren't making an immediate difference in relieving J's pain—and left. J's father said goodbye and left; by that point, A and J's father were talking with J about his pain, which he was trying to put a brave face on as he lay there stiff and shaking. And then I sat in a chair near the foot of the bed, and Hugo stood nearby, and A stood next to J and held his hand and stroked his forehead, and I sat there feeling like I was watching reality—like, pain is the ultimate reality from which all facade is stripped away. And I felt very helpless. Which, it occurred to me, is what God must feel all the time—the "weeping God of Mormonism," I mean, to use Eugene England's expression; the God we see in Enoch's vision, who looks down from heaven and weeps because of the suffering he is powerless to stop. I thought how miserable that must be for God, given the way I was feeling right now.

The feeling made me want to give J a health blessing. (J isn't Mormon, in case that wasn't clear; we know J and A from the Episcopal church Hugo and I attend.)

Instead, I just kept sitting there as J did relaxing exercises and tried to get his pain under control. We turned down the lights for him; A put a cold washcloth on his head. Hugo got me to join him in singing silly Spanish songs, which A translated for J, and that led to conversations about this and that and the other, trying to create amusing distractions, basically. After a while I felt bolder and took the initiative to start rubbing J's feet.

When it came time to go, Hugo said to J: Well, we can offer you a couple of things. We can offer you a Mormon blessing, or we can offer you an Episcopal blessing. I was glad Hugo said that, given that I'd been feeling that earlier; I'm chalking our being on the same wavelength to inspiration. J said he'd like the Mormon blessing—something about how that would be different. So we anointed him using the oil I still carry on my keyring. Hugo anointed, I sealed. Somewhere along the way I became aware that A's hands were in the pile, too, which I hadn't thought to invite him to do; perhaps Hugo thought of it (I don't remember), or maybe A was just moved to join in. Anyway, I said what I felt moved to say, and then I invited Hugo and A to say something if they'd like, which they did. Afterward, J was visibly doing better, and we joked about how the Mormon God seems to be particularly effective, especially if the patient takes Percocet in advance.

This next thing I'm about to say is beside the point—the point being J's comfort—but as an added blessing, I felt really good afterward, on the way home, in a drained, emptied-out kind of way. I'm feeling that now as I sit here typing this. The Spirit, of course, with an intensity I haven't felt in I don't know how long. Thanks be to God.