William Kienzle - Deathbed

“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.