Each year, as the anniversary of the September 11th attacks comes around, I recall not only that terrible day, but I also remember another tragedy that occurred that week. It was the untimely death of Barbara Silverman, my co-worker for my first four years at William Penn House.
Barbara arrived at William Penn House two months before I did, having just graduated from Earlham School of Religion, and thinking she would spend a year as an intern. Shortly after her arrival, the Director fired the House Manager, a staff revolt ensued, and several more people ended up leaving, including the Director. The staff I inherited when I was hired as Director consisted of Barbara, another recently arrived intern, and the custodian.
Barbara became Acting House Manager, and I was fortunate to keep her around in that role for a few more years. She eventually entered a program at the University of Pennsylvania to prepare for institutional chaplaincy.
Following her continued education after she left WPH, Barbara found her niche. She became the House Manager at the Ronald McDonald House in Washington. So, she was back in town.
I spoke to Barbara and saw her from time to time as we kept in loose contact over the intervening years, and I truly felt she was fulfilled in her roles as head resident, counselor, chaplain, manager and everything else she did for the young patients and their families who spent time at the Ronald McDonald House.
At the end of the week preceding the September 11 attacks I received word that Barbara was in the hospital. She had a severe reaction to a prescription medicine and was experiencing kidney failure.
I checked on her at the hospital just about every day. Her condition quickly worsened. As the news of the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon filled the television screen in her hospital room, she seemed barely aware of what was happening.
Each day brought new complications and narrowing hope for recovery. Her elderly father was in town standing by, as were her brother and family. I spent time with all of them apart from the hospital. It was a very intense week, and finally the day we dreaded arrived. Barbara died.
I hurried to the place where her family was staying. When Barbara’s father, a tiny, fragile man with a variety of health issues of his own, finally came into the lobby, he slowly walked over to me, sat down, and simply said, “Today we have fresh evidence that life isn’t fair.”
Afterwards, I went to her room in the intensive care unit and all of the monitors, intravenous tubes and dialysis machines were gone. I stood looking at Barbara for a moment trying to make sense in my mind of what my eyes were seeing. She was just two weeks shy of her 41st birthday and a medication error took a caring, helping person from the world.
Updated: Friday, 7 September 2007 1:26 PM EDT
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