Deathbed fk-8 Page 19

* * *

  Father Koesler studied his patient chart. It was run off each day and contained such information as the patient’s name, room number, nature of illness, religion, and doctor’s name. Other information was added as needed.

  He noted that several patients had requested the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Odd. From his limited experience, as well as the briefing he’d received from the now-vacationing Father Thompson, he knew confession was rarely requested in this hospital. This was due partly to the fact that Catholics did not go to confession nearly as frequently as they once had, and partly to the fact that there just were not very many Catholic patients in St. Vincent’s.

  One of the confession requests had been penned in by a nurse’s aide. The patient was on one of Sister Rosamunda’s floors. Another oddity. Sister of course was not empowered to hear confessions. So when one of her patients asked for the sacrament, Sister routinely would communicate the request to the priest-chaplain. In this case, she had not.

  He decided to look in on this patient first.

  Alva Crawford was in Room 2214, Bed A, which meant she was near the window. Near the door was one Millie Power. Both patients were in their beds. Koesler’s luck was holding; more often than not when he went to call on a patient, the bed was empty and the patient was anywhere from the bathroom to therapy to the operating room to wandering the halls.

  “Hello.” He approached the window bed. “Are you Mrs. Alva Crawford?” Always well to check; hospital lists were by no means infallible.

  “Yes, sir, Reverend.”

  Odd again. If she wanted to confess she must be Catholic. But if she were Catholic, why was she calling him “Reverend”? Well, he would push on.

  “Did you want to go to confession, Mrs. Crawford?”

  “Uh . . . no, sir.”

  It was evident that the thought of confessing had not occurred to her in recent memory.

  “It says on this list that you wanted to go to confession.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. He was asking her to explain something for which she had no responsibility whatever. Without waiting for her response, he continued, “Are you a Catholic, Mrs. Crawford?”

  “No, Reverend, I can’t say as I am.”

  “Ah-ha. Somebody has made a mistake.” Stupid aide, he thought. Koesler glanced at Mrs. Crawford’s bedstand. No sign of the familiar pink brochure given patients by the chaplains on their first visit. However, he glanced at her neighbor’s bedstand and there it was, the welcoming brochure.

  “Has Sister Rosamunda been in to see you, Mrs. Crawford?”

  “Sister what?”

  “Rosamunda,” said Mrs. Power in the next bed. “No, she ain’t been in for a day or so, Father. “

  Mrs. Crawford seemed thoroughly confused.

  “Here . . .” Koesler took one of the brochures from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “You can read this later, Mrs. Crawford. It explains a little bit about what we in pastoral care are up to. We aren’t so much interested in your liver or gall bladder as just in you. We want to help any way we can. We’ll be eager to be with you, to pray with you, or just talk, or just be with you. You’ll also find some prayers on the back and inside of that brochure . . . see?” He took another brochure from his pocket and indicated the prayers. “There: Morning Prayer, Evening Prayer, For This Hospital, For Doctors and Nurses, and Their Assistants”—stupid ones as well, Koesler added silently. “For Healing, For Relief From My Sickness, In Time of Distress, In Time of Discouragement, In Time of Great Suffering, Before an Operation—”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s what?”

  “A operation. I’m gonna have a operation.”

  “You are? When?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “I gotta swallow a tube.”

  “You have to what?”

  “Swallow a tube. I don’t like that much at all.” She stroked her throat in anticipation of swallowing some foreign substance.

  “I told you before it ain’t so bad,” Mrs. Power said. “You just go in there and do what they tell you. You ain’t gonna have no trouble. You just do what they tell you and relax.”

  “I don’t jes’ know.” Mrs. Crawford continued to stroke her throat. Her eyes showed there was real fear in her heart.

  “I told you, child,” Mrs. Power said, “you gonna be okay. You got Doctor Jesus with you!”

  That stopped Koesler cold. He was unaware of a Dr. Jesus on staff. Then it occurred to him that the “doctor” was an outgrowth of Mrs. Power’s beautiful faith. He consulted the patient chart once more and found Mrs. Millie Power. She too was not a Catholic. While admitting he could easily be mistaken, Koesler supposed the average Catholic would not be on familiar enough terms with the Lord to call Him “Doctor Jesus.” Too bad; Mrs. Power’s was a touching faith.

  “Says here on the chart, Mrs. Power,” Koesler said, “that you’ve got pneumonia. That right?”

  “That be right.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Some better. Some better. Coulda been lots worse though.”

  “How so?”

  “Doctor was gonna put me in some kind of test group or somethin’. But just at the last moment, I ’membered I’m allergic to penicillin. So I ain’t in the test. See: Doctor Jesus was with me.” She nodded confidently.

  “I’m sure He is. Well, Mrs. Crawford, since you’re going for an operation tomorrow, either Sister Rosamunda or I will call on you tonight. Somebody from pastoral care always calls on a patient before an operation. It’s nothing to worry about or to be concerned about. We just like to make sure that somebody’s with you the night before surgery. Just to talk, maybe pray.”

  Before leaving the room, Koesler assured Mrs. Power he would also return to visit with her.

  Outside the room he paused to think this through. When he’d agreed to be a substitute chaplain, he had not anticipated any problem such as this. But here it was. Sister Rosamunda was not doing her job. Probably was not her fault. But disregarding accountability, she still was not doing her job. This was Alva Crawford’s second day in St. Vincent’s and the nun had not yet visited. Thus in all probability, Sister was not aware that Mrs. Crawford faced surgery on the morrow. Among the duties the importance of which had been impressed upon him, high on the list was the necessity of visiting one’s patient before surgery. What to do about this?

  If he did nothing—by far the easier choice—it was likely the patient would be in and out of the hospital without having received the requisite visit from pastoral care. Not good, especially for a Catholic hospital.

  On the other hand, what right had he, a mere substitute chaplain, to offer correction to a lady who had been in hospital work before he’d been ordained?

  He checked his watch. If Sister Rosamunda’s routine was on schedule, she should be just finishing up lunch now. He’d give it a try.

  Sure enough, she was in the cafeteria and, fortunately, seated alone at a small table. Koesler got coffee and made his way over, greeting several employees as he went. He was pleased at the number of St. Vincent’s personnel he’d become acquainted with in a relatively brief time.

  “Mind if I join you, Sister?”

  “Oh . . . oh.” She had been deeply preoccupied. “Father Koesler. Yes, of course.” She rearranged some dishes. It was no more than a welcoming gesture; there was not enough crockery on the table to cause Koesler any problem. Rosamunda, tiny and frail, ate very little. “How is your new career as hospital chaplain going?”

  “Not so bad.” Koesler wrapped both hands around the coffee mug. He wondered if this cafeteria ever became comfortably warm. “It kind of wears on you, though. I mean, this unremitting dealing with the sick and dying. I can see how you could burn out in this work.”

  “Oh, it’s not as bad as all that. You get used to it. If you didn’t, I’d have been in the loony bin long ago, in nomine Domini. Part of the saving grace is that far more often than not, the patients
are happy to see you. After all, you’re not going to plug another tube in them or take any more blood from them. If for no other reason, you are a pretty welcome sight. You just haven’t given yourself enough time.”

  “Time. That’s what you’ve given. Lots of time in hospitals. Lots of time in this hospital.”

  “Lordy, yes.” The hint of a smile crossed her face.

  “The memories you must have!”

  “The memories. Oh, yes, the memories. Funny thing, as the years go by, the memories of the distant past grow clearer. But I have some trouble remembering what happened yesterday.”

  “Tell me some of them, Sister.”

  “Oh, they’re not all that interesting.”

  “Try me.” Koesler genuinely loved stories of the past from those who had lived them.

  “Silly. Well, I remember all the way back to my first day on the job. I was only a novice then. Hadn’t been in the convent little more than a year. But they put you to work in a jiffy back then.

  “Well, I was assigned to give baths. And I tell you, the only thing that got me out on the floor with a basin and cloth was the vow of holy obedience. Lordy, I was embarrassed! I’d never seen an unclothed man before, let alone touched one. And, as it happened, my first patient was a hirsute creature, a bear of a man. He had hair on his chest like a shag rug.

  “Well, I can’t tell you how nervous I was. The only way I could get through it was to concentrate on not spilling the water basin. But in the process, I put so much soap on the poor man’s chest that it got all matted in his hair. And this was long before there was a water faucet in each room. I had to go all the way down the hallway to get water. I think I spent most of that day getting water and coming back to try and get the soap out of his chest hair.”

  Koesler was laughing.

  “I suppose the only good thing to come out of that, as far as me and my innocence were concerned, was that I never got beyond the man’s chest.”

  “That was nice of God to protect your modesty.” Koesler smiled. “More.”

  “I think about this sort of thing from time to time. But you know, most of the things we find funny now were not at all funny when they happened. For instance, I recall a time when the nurses had to provide most of the equipment they used. Very little of it was supplied by the hospital.”

  “I didn’t know that. That must have been a terrible burden for the nurses. They don’t make all that much even now. They must have made considerably less years ago. And then to have to buy equipment!”

  “Yes. And—you may find this hard to believe—but back in those days most of the nurses used to sharpen their hypodermic needles by scraping them across the terrazzo floor.”

  Koesler winced as he smiled. “Nothing like giving the patients something genuine to complain about.”

  “As I was saying, it sounds odd and a bit humorous now. But back then it was pretty grim. Dreadful for the nurses and frightful for the patients. But the poor girls simply were unable to buy new needles all the time.”

  “And now in this plastic age, most everything is used once and then discarded.” He shook his head. “Tell me some more.”

  “Oh, you’ve got better things to do than listen to an old biddy tell stories about long ago.”

  “I will never have anything more important to do.”

  “Well, I do remember a time—and not all that long ago—when the second floor of this building was reserved for black people. We called them Negroes then.”

  “Segregated! St. Vincent’s was segregated?”

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it? But it did happen. I don’t suppose there’s any way to remember a time when just about everything in this country was segregated. And it all seemed right and proper. We’ve had the civil rights movement with us now for so many years. But that’s the way it was. As far as I can remember, our black patients got the same kind of care and treatment as the whites, but they were all on the second floor.”

  “Incredible.”

  “But true.

  “Sometimes a very light-skinned black patient would be assigned to one of the other floors on admittance. We never asked people their race, you know, just looked at them. That was enough in most cases. But visitors would come. And that light-complexioned person would get a lot of dark-complexioned visitors. Then, without anyone’s saying anything, the patient would be moved to the second floor.”

  Koesler shook his head. “And now, it’s rare to find a white patient here. Sister, you know you really ought to write these things down, get them published. The present and the future need to know the past. You could just turn your memory on and record these marvelous anecdotes for the rest of us. And for those who will follow us.”

  “In nomine Domini, who’s got time for that?”

  “Well, you, for one. Now don’t be offended, but it’s no secret around here that you are more than eligible for retirement.”

  Rosamunda’s countenance changed swiftly and dramatically. Koesler was aware that he had skated onto thin ice.

  “I just want you to know,” he plunged ahead, “that I can understand your reluctance to go into retirement.” He paused, hoping she would contribute something. She did not. “I’m sure you have no fear that retirement will only lead to consequent death as it does for some people. I’m sure you are not afraid of death. It isn’t that, is it?”

  Steely silence.

  “I can remember when nuns did not retire. They died teaching school or nursing or whatever else they had been actively involved in. They didn’t retire unless they were physically unable to put one foot in front of the other.

  “I can also remember—and so can you—when priests didn’t retire. They died giving absolution or hanging on until the end of Mass. It was a disgrace to retire.” The last was said with deliberation.

  It did the trick. Koesler could see the sudden spark in Rosamunda’s eyes. That was it. She equated retirement with what it had been throughout most of her long career: disgrace. Was there some way he could dislodge her mental equating of retirement with disgrace? He waited to see if she would respond. Time passed. Though little more than a minute, it seemed much longer.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” she said finally.

  “Doing? I’m not doing anything to you, Sister. I’m trying to help you. That’s all.”

  “It’s none of your affair. You have nothing to do with it. It’s between me and Eileen. And that’s bad enough. Eileen has all the power of the administration behind her. How can anyone expect me to fight all that and the rest of you too? It’s unfair. It’s just unfair!” Her lower lip trembled. It was as close as Koesler had come to seeing her break down and cry. It was about as close as anyone had come to that.

  “Sister, I just called on one of your patients.”

  “How—” Koesler broke in before she could finish the sentence—”dare you!”

  “It was a mistake that called me there. Some nurse’s aide had noted that the patient had requested confession. So I called on her. Turned out she isn’t Catholic. It also turned out that she’s been here a couple of days and you haven’t called on her. She’s going for surgery tomorrow morning and it was even money you wouldn’t be seeing her before the operation.”

  “How can you . . .”

  “Because it’s been happening a lot lately. Others have been talking. Sister, no one wishes you any evil. Everyone here has the highest regard for you. I was just trying to help. There is no disgrace in retiring. I’ve suggested only one of many contributions you could make if you didn’t have the pressure of this active life to weigh you down. All of us just want to help.”

  “Then get out of my way. Stay out of my way. I am not going to retire. Things will be much clearer for all of you who ‘just want to help’ if you will only understand one simple fact: I am not going to retire!”

  “Sister, as I understand it, you have no choice.”

  “This is between Eileen and me. The rest of you stay out of it! Do you hear? Eileen may
have the administration on her side. But I’ve got a tad more experience. I am not going to retire!”

  She rose unsteadily and turned to leave. Abruptly, she turned back. Koesler thought it was as much to give herself time to regain her balance as it was to ask her final question. “Who is it who’s going to surgery tomorrow?”

  “Mrs. Alva Crawford . . . 2214-A.”

  “I’ll see her tonight!”

  The implication clearly was that he was to stay out of her business entirely.

  Koesler sipped at his lukewarm coffee. He had not anticipated the response he had triggered from Rosamunda. He shook his head sadly at the futility of it. There was no way she could stave off an inevitable retirement. She might, as she claimed, have a tad more experience. But Eileen, as her superior and with the rules on her side, held all the cards.

  There was no doubting Rosamunda’s determination. But what could even that degree of determination do? How far would Rosamunda be willing to go in her battle to stay active? In her war with Eileen? As he drained the now tepid coffee, Koesler began to wonder about that. How far would Rosamunda go to stop Eileen? He did not like to consider the perimeter of those possibilities.

  * * *

  Seated at another table in the refectory was Bruce Whitaker. He had carefully selected this table because it was adjacent to the table where two specific doctors were eating lunch. These doctors were select because they were conducting a study among the hospital patients. A study in which Whitaker was intensely interested.

  A very recent addition to Whitaker’s table was Ethel Laidlaw. This to Whitaker was the source of both positive and negative vectors. He was, of course, happy to see and be with Ethel. At the same time, it was most important that he be able to pay close attention to what these doctors were talking about. And of course Ethel would want to talk. Whitaker did not command the language to tell Ethel to be quiet. All in all, he felt, it was going to be a challenge to listen to both the doctors and Ethel.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Ethel began, “about your offer to help with my problem . . . you know, with Sister Eileen. I don’t really think you have to go out of your way to help with this. I mean, there are other ways.”