Journal of Sacred Work

My mother loved me, so you can’t hurt me.
-Hunter "Patch" Adams, M.D.

   Most people are dressed in business suits. It’s a typical-looking fund-raising luncheon for a wonderful charity, Hospital Hospitality House, a place that offers a safe, low cost, haven for those whose loved ones have been hospitalized. One person, however, stands out in the crowd. "Who the devil is that?" someone asks me. "That" is a giant of a man wearing a full orange outfit. Half his long hair is blue, the other gray. He wears a broad moustache.
   The clothes match the personality of the man – more or less. The less he can seem to be like everyone else, the happier he is. Before his speech, someone overhears him making a pattern of startling comments, "We need to get those murderers out of Washington," he tells one startled listener…

   Another person introduces herself to Dr. Adams.
   "Who do you work for?" he asks.
   "HCA," she replies."
   "Wow, what a nightmare organization that is," Patch says.
   "We happen to be a sponsor of this event," she says.
   "Hey, I’m just here to speack my truth," he responds.
   And speak the truth he does. Dr. Patch Adams, made famous by the movie starring Robin Williams, doesn’t think much of American healthcare. In the early ’70s, he set up his own hospital, staffed it with a combination of volunteers and other employees who were paid a maximum of $300 per month, and grounded the organization in unconditional love. He was continually flooded with applicants he couldn’t accomodate because he had no turnover for nine years. None of the professionals carried malpractice insurance. As far as I know, they were never sued in the twelve years Dr. Adams was involved in the hospital’s operation.
   "Love is what counts," Dr. Adams said. "We never turned away a patient, even if they had to sleep in the hallway. We could never have passed a JCAHO inspection if they’d ever showed up."
   Everyone in the audience sat in rapt attention as Adams derided capitalism, spoke up for the poor and disenfranchised, and offered the argument that if all countries were run by women, the world would be a much better place. (As I’ve previously written, I think this holds true for most hospitals as well.)
   What are we to make of an iconoclast like this? It’s easy to chuckle at his jokes, file out of the room, and forget. But Adams, dressed like a clown, didn’t crack that many jokes. He’s deeply serious about the plight of the poor and underserved and wonders why the rest of us don’t care as much as he does and why we aren’t more in love with the opportunity we have for caregiving. "If we’d taken the $300 billion we’ve spent on this Iraq war and devoted it to feeding and educating the poor, wouldn’t that have had a better effect on terrorism then what we did?" No one offers any disagreement.
   Toward the end of his speech, Adams offered the comment quoted above. He says his mother loved him so nobody could hurt him. This must be true, for as the group of us listening at our table wondered later about how he could get away making so many provocative statements another truth emerged. This loving man is not cocky, but he carries the confidence of one who has been loved himself and who is deeply in love with all others. Some may have winced at his attacks on the status quo. But this person speaks his truth with love and free of fear.
   To my delight, he even quoted from memory a Pablo Neruda poem that carries wisdom and beauty for all of us:

Absence

If I die, survive me with such sheer force
that you waken the furies of the pallid and the cold,
from south to south lift your indelible eyes,
from sun to sun dream through your singing mouth.
I don’t want your laughter or your steps to waver,
I don’t want my heritage of joy to die.
Don’t call up my person. I am absent.
Live in my absence as if in a house.
Absence is a house so vast
that inside you will pass through its walls
and hang pictures on the air.
Absence is a house so transparent
that I, lifeless, will see you, living,
and if you suffer, my love, I will die again.

   I went to hear Patch Adams thinking he would act like a clown. I came out realizing I had been in the presence of a deeply loving and extraordinarily caring human being. An American hero. A loving caregiver.

-Erie Chapman