Editor’s Note: The following first appeared in the April-June 2025 issue of Good Faith Magazine. As the print publication of Good Faith Media, Good Faith Magazine is free to all Good Faith Advocates. Learn more about being an Advocate here.
It’s the elevators that get me.
The walk down the hall is quiet. The wails of the mother beside me now dimmed to weepy exhaustion as we slowly plod, one foot in front of the other, the bereavement teddy bear I just gave her clutched to her chest where her baby should be.
Was it just a short time earlier that I was standing beside her in the hospital room as her baby received round after round of compressions and doses of Epi? It can’t have been that long ago because my shoulder is still wet from her tears as she fell into me and sobbed.
I stood with her until the time of death was pronounced in the room, weighing her to the ground and burying her in grief. I sank to the floor with her, my arms wrapped around her.
“What do I do now? What happens next?” she asked after the room emptied and the adrenaline of machines and urgency gave way to quiet and emptiness. As the hospital liaison between the regional transplant center and the medical examiner, I made those phone calls and then gently talked with this bereaved mother about things mothers should never have to consider: funeral homes, autopsies, and death certificates.
I make this walk to the elevator night after night, week after week, year after year, and it doesn’t get easier.
When I first began as a pediatric hospital chaplain in a level one trauma center, I watched those elevators close, sending those broken parents into the world, hoping their community would catch them and help them heal.
I consider myself a “grief first responder” and do my best to make those initial, acute moments of grief after a child dies the most tender they can be. I bear witness, and I am present. Until the elevator. Then, I let them go as best as I can.
A few years ago, I began paying more attention to life outside the hospital and how we respond to people who are suffering. I reflected on my own experiences and realized that well-intentioned, kind-hearted people often don’t know what to say or how to be in the face of grief, trauma, and suffering. We want to be supportive and cultivate healing relationships, but we don’t know how.
Inspired by the grieving parents I send out into the world without their child, I started teaching classes on how to cultivate empathy and listening skills and how to provide grief support. I give presentations to churches, law firms, national conferences for educators, colleges, seminaries, etc.
Every time I have the opportunity to teach these skills, my hope increases. People want to know how to support others, what to say, and what not to say. People want to know how to receive those parents when they step off the elevator.
My chaplain work is meaningful and traumatic. My empathy work outside the hospital is healing and hopeful.
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Christy S. Edwards is a board-certified chaplain in a pediatric level one trauma hospital where she provides emotional support during times of acute trauma and end-of-life situations. Christy also teaches empathy and listening skills to groups around the country. You can learn more about her at ChristySEdwards.com or find her on Instagram.
