Journal of Sacred Work

Today's essay re-raises an old story with a new take. What are we allowed to reveal and what must be hidden?

Once upon a time in 1998, Paul Moore, our great Chief Operating Officer at Baptist Hospital System, walked into my office with a blunt question:

"Erie, are you okay?" His tone defined urgency.

"Sure," I lied. Still new, I was reluctant to repeat a truth he knew. Our hospital's financial sheet reflected disaster. "Why do you ask?"

"Three nurses told me after lunch, 'We saw Mr. Chapman walk through the cafeteria. He looked worried.'"

"Thank you," I told Paul. "I'll definitely be more professional."

Infants cannot hide their moods. Adults lack that luxury. 

Mood-hiding is a tiresome burden for professional caregivers. What if a surgeon entered the waiting room and shouted hysterically, "Good God! The blood in there! Terrible! 

The ridiculous nature of that example illuminates our expectations and what the doctor is feeling but does not reveal. 

The best professionals balance competence with compassion. Families need both. Most caregivers master the first but may under-appreciate the second. 

The professional demeanor I learned as a trial attorney is the same that caregivers learn.

Certain language is forbidden. At the top of the poison word list: Panic. That noun is so toxic that it's opposite,  "Don't panic" is also dangerous.

Please NOTE: Neurolinguistics proves that phrasing things in the negative amplifies poisonous words. "Don't panic" telegraphs trouble.

Better to say "remain calm." Best is compassion plus operating instructions: "Here's what we need to do."

Baptist in 1998 was bleeding so much money it faced organizational death. We stayed calm and delivered astonishing competence. But 2002 a $73 million dollar loss was a $1 million dollar gain. The bad news? Impatient, Bank of America threatened immediate foreclosure on our $52 million line of credit.

Painfully, we in leadership were so professional that thousands of loyal supporters remain ignorant of our truth. Instead of celebrating our heroic turnaround, they are left thinking that we failed.

But Nashville's largest hospital never closed down. Instead, it thrives under a Catholic system that had far deeper pockets on its worst days than we had on our best. 

Twenty years later, I am grateful to remove my professional mask and shout a triumphant, "Yes!" We replaced panic with peak performance!

-Erie Chapman

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