William Kienzle - Deathbed

Koesler was impressed. He had met very few who were more determined than this young lady. Nor few who were more doomed to failure.

“All of which,” Koesler said, “gets us down to the question that occurred to me when you first began speaking to me. Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I thought you could help. Ain’t that what priests are supposed to do—help?”

For an instant, Koesler wondered if it had all begun in the early forties when Bing Crosby became Father Chuck O’Malley in Going My Way? The fictional O’Malley did, indeed, go around helping. There was nothing he set his hand or heart to that wasn’t helped or fixed. Everything from the local Dead End Kids to the parish mortgage.

The movie was released two years after Koesler entered the seminary high school, so he hadn’t been intimately familiar with what priests could or could not fix before The Groaner became a clergyman. But Koesler’s many years of experience since his own ordination indicated that priests were by no means able to solve everything. That sort of magic was reserved to the world of fiction. And this was one of those cases whose solution was simply beyond his power.

“You’re right, Ethel: Priests are supposed to help. And I want to help you. But how can I?”

“Well, I thought you maybe would talk to Sister Eileen. Maybe talk her out of firing me. You could do that, couldn’t you?”

“Sure, I could talk to Sister. But this is her hospital, not mine. I can plead your case—and I will—but she’s the boss. Besides, I’m here only temporarily. Don’t you know the regular chaplain, Father Thompson? He’d be an even better go-between than I. He’s here full-time. This is his job. He’d be more familiar with the way this hospital runs. He knows Sister Eileen better than I do. I’m not trying to pass the buck . . . really I’m not. I’m just trying to get you the best help I can. “

Ethel’s shoulders dropped in an attitude of resignation. “Father Thompson’s a nice guy. He just ain’t here when I need him. By the time he comes back from vacation, Sister will have fired me. I just feel it.” There was a moment of silence, then Ethel spoke again. “It’s okay, Father. You talk to Sister and do what you can and I’ll appreciate it. But I gotta do something on my own. I gotta hold on to this job. That’s all there is to it. No matter what I got to do I got to hang on to this job. No matter what.” She began massaging her forehead.

Koesler was concerned. “Is there something wrong, Ethel? Don’t you feel well?”

“Oh, it’s okay, Father. Just a headache. I been getting lots of them lately. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the stress. It’s okay.”

“Ethel, I really think it’s a big mistake for you to put all your eggs in one basket. Particularly this basket. There are undoubtedly lots of jobs you could do well. Tell you what, I’ll even help you find one.”

“No, thanks, Father. I’ve gone as far as I’m gonna go. This is where the searching stops. I gotta make it in this job. I gotta make Bruce proud of me. I gotta hold the job for the two of us. And this is the one. It’s gotta be, no matter what. No matter what.”

Ethel rose from her chair a bit unsteadily. The chair tipped and fell.

Koesler half-rose as if to help, but she waved him away. “It’s okay, Father. I’m okay.” She picked it up with a “See?” and carefully slid it in place, hitting Koesler on the knee.

Koesler seated himself and watched her as she left the cafeteria. What chance did she have? None that he could think of. He would keep his word and talk to Sister Eileen in Ethel’s behalf. But he was certain it would do little good. Even if he could dissuade Eileen from letting Ethel go just now, she would go on causing havoc all around here. Eventually, she would have to go.

He only wished she were not sticking so single-mindedly to this specific position. Even with her penchant for clumsiness, she probably could wander from one job to another until money from something like Social Security would rescue her.

A vast pity, too, he thought, that she intended to marry practically a cloned klutz. She might have married someone who could have cared for her and removed her from what had become her enemy—the job market. Pity. A great pity.

Koesler now was virtually alone in the cafeteria.

What was it that nurse had said: something about a patient in trouble. Something she had said had struck a chord in him. The room number, that was it. Twenty-two something—what was it? Oh, 2214. Yes, that was it.

Fortunately, he had his patient chart at his side. Number 2214 . . . who was in that room? Alva Crawford and Millie Power. He remembered them now. Alva had been his wild-goose chase. The lady who might have wanted to go to confession if she had been a Catholic. And the other one, Millie Power, had, as he recalled, pneumonia. She was the one who claimed Dr. Jesus as her physician.

Koesler wondered which of the ladies was in trouble: Millie, who had seemed to be recovering nicely from a bout with pneumonia; or Alva, who probably had had her operation during which she would have to swallow a dreaded tube. On the face of it, Koesler guessed the crisis patient must be Alva.

He was wrong, as he discovered upon entering Room 2214. There was a great deal of activity going on around Millie Power’s bed, while Alva Crawford intently watched her small-screen TV. Evidently, Alva considered this problem to be none of her business and she was not about to get involved.

Nevertheless, Koesler approached Alva’s bedside. Actually, if he were going to move at all in that small room, the only direction open to him was toward Alva’s bed. Reluctantly, she took her eyes from the television and glanced at him briefly.

“What happened, Alva?” Koesler asked softly. He did not wish to disturb the consultation that was being stage-whispered around Millie’s bed.

“She got sick.” Alva nodded toward Millie.

“Do you know what’s wrong?”

Alva shook her head. “I guess they don’t either.”

“Oh.”

Alva returned her attention to soap-opera time. Koesler remained standing near the head of her bed. It was the only place in the room whence he could have a clear vision of Millie.

She certainly looked gravely ill. She appeared to be unconscious. At least her eyes were closed as her head moved slowly from side to side on the firm white pillow. Then Koesler noticed her hands. They were restless, moving up and down her arms, seeming to scratch endlessly. He could hear only snatches of the conversation going on around her bedside.

“Did you change her medication in any way?” The speaker appeared to be a doctor. The telltale stethoscope. But more than that, the imperious attitude one occasionally finds in a doctor. He was angry. Obviously, his patient was not doing well and it was up to him to discover the reason.

“No, Dr. Wilson,” said the brunette that Koesler had noticed earlier in the cafeteria.

“I don’t understand it,” Wilson whispered. “I don’t understand it at all. Her blood pressure has dropped out the bottom. I don’t understand. There’s no reason for this to be happening.”

No one responded. Perhaps, Koesler thought, no one else could understand it either. At least none of them offered any possible solution. Wilson whispered something to the others. It sounded like he was giving instructions . But Koesler could barely hear the doctor, and the little he could make out was, to him, unintelligible medicalese. When Wilson finished, all the medical personnel left the room.

Koesler approached Millie. Clearly she was in great distress. He tried to touch one of her hands, but Millie shook him off and continued her ceaseless scratching.