Deathbed

9

Most days, Father Koesler did not eat a large lunch. As a rule, he had cold cereal for breakfast, an extremely light midday meal, and a substantial dinner. He had read that this was not the healthiest of regimens. In fact, it was reportedly the reverse of the best. But he didn’t care. All his life he had enjoyed anticipating good things. Indeed, it was part of his creed that anticipation, particularly since it lasted longer, was better than the attainment of whatever was coming.

He also believed there were exceptions to rules.

So this day he juggled a tray holding a cheeseburger, fries, vegetables, salad, milk, coffee, and a sliver of carrot cake. While trying to spill nothing, he searched for a place to sit in the now crowded cafeteria.

“Why don’t you join us, Father? John Haroldson indicated an empty chair at the table where he was sitting with a young doctor.

Haroldson smiled broadly, emphasizing the creases and wrinkles of his lived-in face. Koesler, from experience, did not wholeheartedly trust hail fellows well met. But it would have been awkward to spurn the offer. Besides, there didn’t appear to be any other open space at this moment. So he carefully set down his tray and joined them.

“Actually, you couldn’t have timed this better, Father. Dr. Anderson here was telling me about a medical-moral decision he has to make. Why don’t you ask the good Father, Larry?”

“First, I guess we’d better meet.” Koesler introduced himself to the young doctor, who appeared none too eager to present his problem to the priest. Koesler wondered fleetingly why a doctor would bring a moral dilemma to the chief operating officer. An analogous mystery was why the doctor would hesitate in presenting the puzzle to a priest. But for the moment, Koesler decided to put these brainteasers on the back burner. He tried to look interested while holding together a cheeseburger that wanted to slide apart.

“Well, you see, Father,” Anderson began, “the problem involves a woman who’s had five C-section deliveries. Uh . . . that is, she’s had five previous births by Caesarean section,” he explained needlessly. “I delivered her latest child last year and advised her against getting pregnant again. You see, Father, her uterus is . . . uh . . . all worn out. It’s been traumatized from all those sections. But she checked in yesterday, pregnant. She’s got to have another section and it’s going to be touch-and-go. So I was asking Mr. Haroldson whether it would be morally acceptable to do a hysterectomy on her, after the section.”

Once again, Koesler wondered why the doctor had directed his indecision to the COO for resolution. Also, he had a strong suspicion that such a question would be posed only in a Catholic hospital. Not that other sectarian or public hospital personnel were unconcerned with medical ethics, but Koesler supposed that in most other hospitals this would be a rather easily resolved consideration.

That there was a measure of difficulty here was directly attributable to the Catholic Church’s traditional, as well as officially current, teaching on family planning. In Western civilization, the Catholic Church stood virtually alone in its total condemnation of almost all methods of contraception. The Church’s ordinary magisterium held that there were but two methods of family planning: abstinence from intercourse, or the rhythm method. And to licitly practice rhythm, a couple must willingly consent to limit intercourse to a monthly infertile period; they must be able to do this without the danger of committing some related sins such as adultery or some form of “artificial” birth control; and they must have a positive—not selfish—reason to limit their family.

Koesler knew all this. And he was aware that he was, at best, rusty in this field. But he could see no booby traps in the conversation. So it was full speed ahead.

“As I recall, “ Koesler began, “this is one of those times when the moralist must depend on the medical expert. I mean, if a hysterectomy were performed on a woman with a perfectly healthy uterus, the purpose would seem to be clearly contraceptive. So Catholic theology would oppose that. In this case, I just don’t know how ‘abnormal’ or unwell this particular womb may be. That would be up to the doctor, it would seem.”

“That’s the problem, as I see it, Father,” Dr. Anderson said. “This is not a case of a diseased organ. There’s no CA or anything like that. But this uterus has been so traumatized by past Caesareans that it is unreal to expect this organ to carry another pregnancy even to the point of viability. Another pregnancy can only lead to the death of the fetus and a serious threat to the mother’s life. The womb will rupture. It’s as simple as that.”

Koesler meditatively chewed a morsel of cheeseburger. He was losing his zest for theological inquiry. He had overlooked how frequently moral questions lacked a black-and-white certainty. Most ethical matters, such as the present uterus that was about to give up the ghost, came in tones of gray uncertainty.

“Seems to me,” Koesler swallowed most of the mouthful of cheeseburger, “it seems to me that we’re dealing with, if not a diseased organ, at least one whose usefulness is gone. I mean, from what you say, Doctor, this woman’s uterus can’t sustain another fetal life. From all the cutting that’s had to be done, it’s worn out. So I think we could conclude that the organ has been rendered useless. And that, I would guess, might put it in the same category as an appendix. Whatever our appendix once did, it does no more—it’s a useless organ that no longer serves any positive purpose. Except that it can become infected and be a threat to life. And I think the rule of thumb for surgeons is that should they encounter the appendix during any sort of surgery, they routinely remove it . . . don’t they?”

Dr. Anderson nodded.

“Then I suppose the same can be said for this worn-out uterus. It can no longer serve any positive purpose. It’s just a trauma waiting to happen. So I’d say that it would be morally acceptable the next time you see that womb to remove it.” Koesler fingered some fries. He felt somewhat self-satisfied.

“That’s pretty much the way I figured it, Father,” Anderson said.

Koesler lost some of his smugness. “If that’s the way you had it figured, what in the world was the purpose of asking my opinion?”

“Well, you see, Father, I just got done talking over that part of the decision with Mr. Haroldson here, just to make sure it would be okay to do the hysterectomy. But that was preliminary to the other more pertinent question I had just posed to Mr. Haroldson right before you came to the table.”

“And that was . . .?”

“If it was okay to do the hysterectomy, then wouldn’t it be preferable just to tie the woman’s tubes? That way we would isolate the uterus. She would never get pregnant again and we would avoid major surgery in favor of very minor surgery.”

Koesler glanced at Haroldson, who was sitting back wearing a large smile as if waiting to see if the priest could guess the correct answer. Koesler hated to be put in this position. It was as if he’d been tricked. He’d settled a problem that had already been settled. For no accountable reason, he felt as if he had passed some juvenile test and now was being put through a similar, but higher-level exam.

“Apparently,” said Koesler, “you came down here to ask Mr. Haroldson’s opinion. Why don’t you do that?”

“Oh, no, Father,” said the still-smiling Haroldson, “you’re the designated expert on theological matters. Why, young Dr. Anderson is in luck that you chanced to join us.”

I didn’t “chance” to join you, Koesler thought. You invited me to join you, you curmudgeon.

Anderson seemed to be playing the role of monkey in the middle. By this time, he didn’t much care which of them fielded the question.

Koesler inserted a single strand of fried potato in his mouth and thought. “Tie the tubes, eh?” he said. “It makes sense to me. And it might make glorious sense to the poor woman.”

“Then you think it would be morally acceptable to perform a tubal ligation!” Haroldson more challenged than questioned.

Koesler felt a moment of embarrassment as if he had given an incorrect answer in class. But he recovered quickly. “Well, yes. However you wish to figure it; a part for the whole, if you will. If it’s acceptable to perform a hysterectomy, it seems equally, if not more, acceptable to perform a lesser operation for the same purpose. The idea is this woman shouldn’t chance being pregnant again. Or, rather, that she can no longer depend on her womb to sustain a fetal life.”

“You’d allow that even though there is nothing whatsoever wrong with the Fallopian tubes!” Once again, Haroldson put an audible exclamation mark at the end of what might have been an honest question.

“Yes, I think so. It serves the same purpose and certainly makes more sense than a hysterectomy. As the Doctor here has said, it’s a trade of minor surgery for major. I think it’s the obvious conclusion.”

“And how would you justify that theologically, Father?” As time passed, Haroldson’s questions became more clearly a series of challenges. The plaster-of-paris smile began to fade as well.

“Justify it? What are you driving at?”

“What principle in moral theology would justify your conclusion, is what I’m driving at. Sounds like situation ethics to me!” It was evident from Haroldson’s inflection that he considered situation ethics a pejorative term.

Anderson glanced at his watch. Two things were certain: He had to get back to his hospital duties and his procedural dilemma had become a bone of contention between Haroldson and Koesler. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just get back to my rounds. I’ll get back in touch with you both later and find out what you decided.”

Anderson left the table. As far as Haroldson and Koesler were concerned it was as if the Doctor had never been there.

“Well, I’ll admit that, while I gave the uterus business some ‘theological’ consideration, the opinion on the tubes was sort of off the top of my head. But it certainly did not spring from situation ethics. I’m afraid I can’t subscribe to a school where all morality is weighed by an intention to do the ‘loving’ thing.”

“Well,” Haroldson said, “that’s refreshing. But then, may I ask what theological consideration you used to justify the original hysterectomy?”

For some reason, Haroldson seemed determined to keep Koesler in a pupil-teacher position.

“I suppose,” Koesler replied, “that would be the principle of the double effect.”

“You mean,” Haroldson corrected, “the principle of the indirect voluntary, of course.”

Damn, thought Koesler; he’s right. But he’s also nit-picking. Indirect voluntary was but the generic term under which fell the principle of the double effect. In either case, one dealt with a consequence that was not directly willed. Specifically, in the double effect, one posited an action from which flowed two distinct effects, one of which was “evil.” To be justified in traditional Catholic theology, the action must be good, or at least indifferent. The immediate consequence of the action must be good and the good must outweigh the evil of the secondary consequence, which, in turn, is not directly desired or willed but only permitted.

That, in a nutshell, was the principle of the indirect voluntary and its firstborn child, the principle of the double effect. And the insistence on a reference to the generic term was an indication to Koesler that Haroldson could be a difficult person with whom to do business.

“Yes,” Koesler admitted with little grace, “you’re right. It’s the principle of the indirect voluntary.”

“Exactly. The operation is not only warranted and good, it will happen of necessity because of the Caesarean delivery. The first and immediate effect of the surgery will be the removal of a worn-out, tired, and ineffective organ. And that is good, and it outweighs the contraceptive effect, which is not directly willed, but only tolerated.”

“Uh-huh.” No doubt about it, Koesler was becoming testy.

“And you feel the same reasoning applies to a tubal ligation in this case?” Haroldson made it seem a rhetorical question to which Koesler was about to wrongly respond.

“Yes, I do,” Koesler replied, giving, by Haroldson’s standards, the wrong answer.

“Would you mind explaining that, Father?”

“Look, I’ll admit we aren’t dealing directly with the defective organ. But in performing the hysterectomy the surgeon’s going to have to cut the Fallopian tubes anyway. So what’s the difference? What’s the difference if he cuts the tubes and then removes the defective uterus, or if he simply cuts the tubes, isolating the uterus, and leaves the organ there—to the great benefit of the patient?”

“The difference is, Father, that the surgeon is operating on a healthy organ and on a healthy organ alone. Thus making the action in se mala.”

It had been a long time since Koesler had heard the term evil in itself, or totally evil.

“And besides that, “ Haroldson continued, “the Pope had something to say about this!”

“The Pope?”

“Yes, the Pope!”

“Which one?”

“PiusXII.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Words for the ages.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“That when someone halts ovulation to save a damaged uterus, that is direct sterilization and therefore illicit.”

“He was talking about the prevention of ovulation. At most that would refer to the antovulent pill.”

“Or to the Fallopian tubes that carry the ova.”

“I don’t think so. Besides, that opinion must go back to the forties or fifties.”

“Father! That is—”

“I know, I know: the ordinary magisterium.”

“Yes! The ordinary magisterium!”

“I don’t suppose it would help to point out that the usual teaching function of the Church has developed and changed over the years . . . make that over the centuries.”

“Father, since you are a part of this hospital, at least for the time being, maybe it would be good to know just what you believe. Just what theological school do you belong to? Vatican II? Vatican III? Vatican IV?”

Koesler laughed. “I believe about what you do, John, except not quite so rigidly.”

“Not so rigidly! Then you are a situationalist.”

“No. No, just someone who cannot help seeing some grays in moral theology.”

“Grays?”

“John, the theology we grew up with . . . well . . . it was the theology of The One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church. There was development going on, but ever so slowly. And John, I don’t think it will ever be that way again.” Haroldson was about to interpose an objection, but Koesler quickly continued. “Not that I am about to adopt every new thought just because it’s new. But the theology we grew up with is based on a natural law ethic. It’s an absolute and objective sort of morality. And, on the one hand, I think there’s been considerable development in our understanding of the natural law. And, on the other, I think we can stand some mix of proportionalism where we weigh the proportion between good and evil, where the human person is the norm and each person is unique.

“Besides”—Koesler winked—“I’ll bet I could dig up a probable opinion to support doing a tubal ligation to isolate that woman’s uterus.”

Haroldson shook his head. “I don’t care. I’m just glad I’ve lived my life at a time when Church teaching was clear and objective and dependable. Today’s young priests are creating their own Church. And they can have it.”

“As hard as it probably is for you to believe this, I don’t disagree with you all that much. But I’ve got to hand it to you, John; you have an excellent understanding of moral theology. Usually, when I get into a discussion with a layperson, the main problem is that we’re not talking about the same thing. Usually, our disagreement rests with the layperson’s misunderstanding of traditional theology. That certainly is not the case with you. You have an excellent grasp of systematic theology. I can’t help wondering where you got it.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I beg to differ. And you couldn’t have picked it up in just any parochial school. Where?”

Haroldson sipped his coffee as if trying to decide whether to get into this. “The seminary.”

“The seminary! I didn’t know. Tell me about it. How far did you go?”

Haroldson smiled grimly. “From the very beginning to the very end.”

“The very end! I don’t understand: You weren’t ordained a priest?”

“No.”

“Then . . .”

Haroldson hesitated. “The thing is, you see, Father, I’m an ecclesiastical bastard.”

Koesler was neither shocked nor surprised. There were lots of ecclesiastical bastards around. This was not caused by an unmarried mother. It was a case of one’s parents not having their marriage witnessed by a priest. And this was the result of one or both parents opting out of a Catholic wedding; or one or both parents had been previously married and not in possession of the required declaration of nullity for the previous marriage.

“And that,” Haroldson continued, “is an impediment to Holy Orders.”

“Well, yes. But a dispensation is possible. Now it’s routine. “

“Not then. Not when I was a seminarian. Oh, the dispensation from the impediment of illegitimacy was possible. But the petition for the dispensation was by no means routinely made. And in my case, the bishop simply decided not to petition. And that was that.”

“But the bishop must have known the problem of illegitimacy was there. Why would he let you go all the way through the seminary if he wasn’t going to ask for a dispensation?”

Haroldson shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always thought that he let me complete my seminary education because it certainly couldn’t hurt me even if I lived the rest of my life as a lay Catholic. In retrospect, I’d have to agree with that. And I suppose he spent some of his time during all those years praying for guidance. The answer to his prayers must have been not to process my case to Rome.”

“My God!” Koesler was appalled. “All those years! You were no better than a puppet. And the bishop was playing puppeteer!”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Wasn’t that bad! You spent nearly twelve years preparing for the priesthood. Early on, the bishop could have told you he wasn’t going to do anything about an impediment that was no more than a Church law that could have been suspended. If nothing else, you could have been freed to find a bishop who would have gone to bat for you.”

“You’re building this up larger than life, Father. I wasn’t blindfolded during all those years. I knew about the impediment and I knew the decision was entirely in the hands of the bishop. You see, for me, the bishop’s decision in the matter was the will of God. I entered the seminary intent only on knowing whether the priesthood was, for me, God’s will. As it turned out, it wasn’t.”

Koesler looked at Haroldson as if for the first time. “I admire your faith, I really do. But I think I would have to look well beyond the whim of a bishop for an expression of God’s will.”

“For me, that was it. Besides, all those years of a fine liberal arts education paved the way for my premed.”

“You were premed!”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t complete it. You didn’t become a doctor.”

“No, one more incomplete endeavor.”

“But why?”

“No money. Or, rather, I ran out of money. There were no government loans. Nor any other, for that matter, for someone of most modest means. But,” Haroldson began arranging his tray, “neither experience was a failure as far as I’m concerned. Since both of them led to this hospital. This,” he said it fondly, “this Catholic hospital. The seminary trained me in things Catholic. And medical school gave me a special preparation for the hospital. And this has been my life . . . my very life.”

Koesler noticed the slightest quiver at the corners of Haroldson’s mouth. The priest was touched at this sign of emotion.

“And now,” Haroldson continued, “they expect me to leave it. Just, one day soon, stay home instead of coming to where my life is. Just because a man reaches an arbitrary age, he is expected to die.”

Strange, thought Koesler, the similarity of reaction to retirement on the part of Haroldson and Sister Rosamunda. “Oh, come now, John,”Koesler said, “that’s painting it rather more bleakly than necessary, don’t you think? Especially with your background, there must be any number of fulfilling things you could do. Teach, for instance.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Who?”

“Sister Eileen.” Haroldson almost spat the name. “She doesn’t understand. You don’t understand. Nobody understands. A man can die when he’s forced out of his life’s purpose. Father, I’m fighting for my life!”

“John, I’ve known people who dreaded retirement every bit as much as you do. And they managed to live through it. Even thrive on it.”

“You don’t understand. You just don’t understand . . .” Haroldson picked up his tray with its now-empty dishes and left.

Easily half of Koesler’s lunch remained. It was cold and now unappetizing. That was all right, he thought. Selecting that much food had been an imprudent whim. It was just as well to leave half of it uneaten.

He sat for a few minutes pondering his conversation with Haroldson. Koesler had learned much. Perhaps it was true that every organization needed at least one hatchet man. And perhaps John Haroldson was that man on behalf of St. Vincent’s Hospital.

On the other hand, it might be true that to understand was to forgive all.

* * *

“Aren’t you finished with this story yet?”

The peevish tone took Pat Lennon back to her youth when, as she liked to joke now, nuns were nuns and religious sisters were prone to admonish young Catholic students to “cast down your bold eyes!” But she was utterly unprepared for any harsh statement from Sister Eileen Monahan. So, Lennon was startled by the question.

“Why . . . yes, as a matter of fact,” she replied, “I am almost finished. Another interview or two and I’ll have all the information I need. Then there’s writing it up for the magazine. But that’s a rather flexible deadline. Was there some hurry, Sister? I wasn’t aware of any.”

“It just seems that it’s taking an awful lot of time.”

Lennon hesitated. “Is there something wrong, Sister?”

“Wrong?”

“You don’t seem yourself.”

Eileen pinched her brow just over the bridge of her nose. “I have been abrupt, haven’t I? Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. On the contrary, you’ve been most patient and cooperative. Everybody at St. Vincent’s has been. Especially you. That’s why I was surprised just now. It is perfectly reasonable for you to want me out of your way. But it seemed sort of . . . out of character for you.”

Eileen smiled, it seemed in spite of herself. “Well, I’m glad we’ve managed to give you a good impression of St. Vlncent’s. All the more reason I feel ashamed I was short with you just then.”

“Is there something . . .”

“No. No, I’ve been having some headaches and a little dizziness lately, that’s all.”

“Are you taking anything for it?”

“Some aspirin. A little Terpin Hydrate, but that’s for a kind of constant congestion. It’s probably just the onset of a cold. We’ve got the kind of weather for an annual Michigan cold or flu. It’s nothing to be concerned about. I’ll be all right.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay. And even if I do get sick, I couldn’t be in a more appropriate place, now, could I? Where better to get sick than in a hospital? And even if worst came to worst and I were to die—well, this is a Catholic hospital and I assure you, dear, I am well prepared. Now, let’s get on with this interview. And take your time. There’s no hurry.”

Eileen tried to smile, but involuntarily winced. It must be the headache pain again, thought Lennon. She was concerned for the nun. In a very short time, Pat had come to care greatly for Sister Eileen. Thus, when the nun brought up the subject of her own death, it sent a shiver through Pat.

She had a premonition of danger and evil. The feeling was associated with this hospital and converged on Sister Eileen Monahan. Eileen’s articulating the possibility of her own death intensified Pat’s apprehension.

She felt as if she should somehow protect this nun. But there was no way of doing it. As long as she remained in this hospital, Sister Eileen would be vulnerable to anyone here who wished her harm. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.

* * *

“Father in heaven, through this holy anointing grant Alice Walker comfort in her suffering. When she is afraid, give her courage; when afflicted, give her patience; when dejected, afford her hope; and when alone, assure her the help of your holy people. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

This was nice, Father Koesler reflected. For almost the only time in his priestly career, he had the comparative leisure to minister properly to the sick.

In his early years as a priest, he was rarely called to a sickbed without its also being a deathbed. Back then, the sacrament was known as Extreme Unction—a last anointing. And, while the rite contained several prayers for a return to health, popularly it was looked upon as a one-way ticket to eternal life in the hereafter. So, although priests periodically instructed parishioners to inform their clergy when anyone became ill, generally, it was a useless plea. Catholics, by and large, continued to view Extreme Unction as a final statement that they tried to postpone as long as they possibly could. Thus, Koesler was accustomed to anointing people who were apparently dead.

Then came the Second Vatican Council and, among other things, liturgical renewal. And the sacrament that had been known as Extreme Unction was modified and given the more updated name of the Anointing of the Sick. However, by that time, most sick people died not at home but in hospitals, where they were ministered to not by their parish priest but by chaplains. And that was the role Koesler found himself playing now as he substituted for his classmate.

Of course this was a little more than Alice Walker had bargained for. All she had asked of Sister Rosamunda was confession. Indeed, Alice had confessed her few sins of impatience, anger, and borderline despair in the early portion of this rite. But Koesler correctly judged that a woman of Alice Walker’s advanced years, facing major surgery, was entitled to the Anointing of the Sick. And, after her initial apprehension that this priest was trying to slide her into eternity with Extreme Unction, Alice admitted she felt consoled by this rite. Until now, she had never heard of the Anointing of the Sick.

But then, there were many interesting things going on in Catholicism of which even most Catholics were ignorant.

“God of compassion,” Koesler continued with a prescribed Prayer Before Surgery, “our human weakness lays claim to your strength. We pray that through the skills of surgeons and nurses your healing gifts may be granted to Alice Walker. May your servant respond to your healing will and be reunited with us at your altar of praise. Grant this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Koesler continued with the rite of Communion, then prayed the concluding blessing: “May the God of all consolation bless you in every way and grant you hope all the days of your life. Amen.

“May God restore you to health and grant you salvation. Amen.

“May God fill your heart with peace and lead you to eternal life. Amen.

“May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Koesler’s right hand traced the sign of the cross.

“Is that it?” Alice Walker asked.

“That’s it,” Koesler confirmed as he removed the stole from his shoulders.

“That was nice.”

“Yes, I thought so too.”

“I didn’t think I was going to get all this when I asked Rosie—uh, Sister Rosamunda—for confession.”

“I know. But I didn’t think you’d mind the sacrament of Anointing too.”

“Oh, I didn’t. I was afraid to ask for more than confession. I was afraid you’d come and give me Extreme Unction. And that would have been it.”

“It?”

“Yes. Then you’d’ve prayed me right into the next life.”

Koesler smiled. “I wouldn’t have done that. We need you too much right here.”

There was a slight pause as Koesler folded the stole and gathered up the pyx that had contained the consecrated wafer.

“They didn’t fool me, you know,” Alice Walker said in a knowing tone.

“Huh? Who didn’t fool you?”

“Those two last night.”

“What two last night?”

“The two in the next bed.”

Koesler glanced at the empty bed near the door. It was made up with customary hospital care. There was no doubt that it was not being used by any patient. He knew that Alice Walker was of advanced age and that she was ill. But he was not conversant with her mental state. For all he knew, she might have a touch of Alzheimer’s. Or possibly she had been just hallucinating. In any case, no one was occupying 2218-B.

He decided to try a little reality therapy. “Mrs. Walker, there’s nobody in the other bed in this room.”

“There certainly was last night.”

“There was?”

“Yes, two.”

“Two? It’s a single bed.”

“Not when one is on top of the other. “

“On top? Mrs. Walker, what happened last night?” Koesler was mystified. What did she think happened last night?

“Well, I was havin’ my evening snack—graham crackers and milk—when I heard them. There was two of them. I couldn’t see who they was right off. This curtain was pulled around my bed and the only light was this one at the head of my bed. They was whispering, but I could tell it was a man and a woman. At first they was just sparkin’, but then they went into the act.”

“The act?”

“Yes, you know what I mean. What could I do? I couldn’t stop ’em or cheer ’em on. Besides, they got through it rather rapid. So I just kep’ eatin’ my snack. But then they started in again. I never heard nothin’ like it. I mean it wasn’t ten minutes after they finished the act the first time when didn’t they start all over again. Well, I tell you, nothin’ surprises me much anymore. But that surprised me. And a bit of the snack went down my throat the wrong way and I started chokin’. The next thing I know, the man fell out of the bed and, I guess, rolled across the floor until he hit my bed. Wham!

“Well, my bed hit the wall and I pitched out of it and onto him on the floor. Knocked the morsel right out of my throat. Saved my life, I guess. But what a way to do it!

“Next thing I know, the nurse—’cause that’s who I think it was—was gettin’ herself and him dressed. They got me back in bed. I guess they didn’t think I knew what was goin’ on.

“Then all hell broke loose. People comin’ in here makin’ a fuss over me. Shoot, I was okay by then. And while they’re makin’ this fuss over me, this man—turns out he was a guard . . . at least he had a guard’s uniform—is tellin’ everybody this cockamamie story about how he heard me chokin’ and came in and saved me. I mean, I’ve lived a long and eventful life, but that’s the first time anything as weird as that ever happened to me.”

Koesler was unsure what to believe. It was a wild tale. A bit too wild, he thought, to have sprung out of whole cloth. Perhaps it was true.

“Have you told this to anyone else, Mrs. Walker?”

“No, just you.”

“Why didn’t you tell somebody? The people who were in here last night? Or someone this morning?”

“Don’t want to make any enemies. I’m goin’ into surgery, you know. I want to have at least an even chance to come out of it okay.”

“So why did you tell me?”

“I can trust you. God! If you can’t trust a priest, who can you trust?”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?”

“Whatever you want. I don’t care. It ain’t my responsibility anymore. If you tell, they can’t blame me. It’s your responsibility. Or if you don’t tell anybody, that’s okay too. I don’t care anymore. It’s your kettle of fish now.”

Koesler shrugged. “Glad to be of help.” He made ready to leave.

“One more thing,” Alice Walker said.

“Yes?”

“Pray for me and my operation.”

“I just did—in the sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick.”

“I know. But keep it up. It couldn’t hurt.”

“Right.”

* * *

Father Koesler made six consecutive calls on new patients on his floors, each of whom was otherwise occupied, either with tests, therapy, or being examined by doctors. Time, he decided, for a coffee break.

The cafeteria coffee had its usual severely strong character. So as usual he was more warming his hands from the cup than drinking it. The people who complained about his coffee-making should be made to sample this coffee, he thought. That would teach them to better appreciate his efforts.

While he sat by himself in the nearly empty cafeteria, two nurses seated themselves at a neighboring table. Evidently, they were also on coffee break. They were actually sipping the coffee. Koesler wondered if it just took time to get used to its industrial strength.

The two nurses began chattering away, seemingly oblivious of Koesler’s proximity.

In order to distract himself, Koesler weighed what he might do with the information he had been given by Alice Walker. It all came down to: to tell or not to tell.

Before Mrs. Walker’s revelation, Koesler had heard something of the event. The version he’d heard was considerably less titillating than Alice Walker’s account. He had overheard some talk of the rescue. But the emphasis was on the coincidence that a guard should be passing by a room at the exact moment a patient happened to be choking. Beyond that, there was some comment about the guard’s being able to execute the Heimlich Hug. It was, Koesler had been led to believe, not so outstanding or newsworthy an event.

If one could rely on Mrs. Walker, there was a far more colorful aspect to this rescue now celebrated in the lore of this ancient hospital. Which were it known would undoubtedly trigger a couple of dismissals. Was it worth it to reveal the story and cause a couple of people to be fired?

Probably not, Koesler concluded. Security in this hospital was not the best, to say the least. It would not be improved with the revelation that one of the guards had been horizontal when he should have been vertical. Same for the nurse—or aide, whichever.

Peripherally, he noticed the two nurses changing position preliminary to leaving. “What’s the hurry?” the blonde asked. She seemed to be down to the dregs of her coffee, but not ready to leave.

“I gotta get back,” the brunette answered. “One of the gals in 2214 is having problems.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. No one can figure it out. Just took a bad turn. I promised to cut my break short and get back. I gotta go.”

“Okay, okay. Hold your horses. I’ll be right with you.”

The two nurses departed, leaving Koesler wondering. Something about that room number . . . Ordinarily, there was no reason a particular room would strike any chord in his memory. But, for some reason, Room 2214 stood out. Of course it must have something to do with the patients in that room. But what?

So absorbed was he in trying to recall the patients of 2214 and why the memory should disquiet him so, that he was oblivious to the arrival of someone who seated herself at the table directly across from him. Thus, her greeting startled him.

“Father . . . Father!” Ethel Laidlaw felt as if she were awakening someone.

“Oh . . .” Koesler’s attention came back to the scene. He smiled. “Hello. Sorry; I’m afraid I was distracted.”

“It’s okay,” Ethel said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have sat down here. I didn’t have any appointment or anything like that. I just needed to talk to somebody. Probably a priest. And I kinda thought you might be the one who’d understand.

“Sure, that’s fine. You certainly don’t need an appointment. For the time being, I’m chaplain at this hospital and I am quite literally at your service. But I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Father. No, we haven’t. I’m a nurse’s aide here. I’m Ethel Laidlaw.” Ethel offered her hand. As she did so, she knocked over the saltshaker, spilling salt on the table. “Oops,” she said, “got to avoid bad luck.” With that, she picked up the shaker as if to flip a little salt over her left shoulder. Instead, she lost her grip and the shaker sailed across the room, landing with a smack against the wall.

For some reason, it reminded Koesler of the biblical incident of the two disciples on their way to Emmaus on the original Easter Sunday. In their walk they were joined by Jesus but they did not perceive who He was. It was only during dinner at an inn, “at the breaking of the bread they recognized that it was the Lord.” In this instance, it was the fiasco with a salt-shaker that jogged Koesler’s memory. This one was one of a matched pair. Koesler had watched the couple demolish a meal at least once. And he had been duly impressed with their clumsiness. Ethel’s performance with the salt confirmed the image.

Clearly, she was embarrassed.

“Just an accident,” Koesler assured her. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

“‘Just an accident’!” Ethel mimicked reproachfully. “More like the story of my life. I wonder about that, Father: Do you suppose some people are born clumsy?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Ethel. I suppose people have a greater or lesser degree of coordination. I don’t guess it’s any more than that. But that’s not what you wanted to talk to me about, is it?”

“Not exactly, Father, but it’s got something to do with it. Actually, it’s a kind of complicated problem. I don’t know exactly how to tell you.”

“Well, let’s start at the present. What’s the problem right now?”

“The problem right now is I could get fired. In fact I probably will unless something happens.”

“The unemployment rate in this town being what it is, that could be a pretty serious problem. What makes you think you may be fired?”

Ethel shrugged. “Like that saltshaker. I break things. A lot.”

“That many?”

“I guess so. It’s kind of hard for me to tell exactly. I’ve been doing this sort of thing all my life. But, whatever, Sister Eileen said she’d have to fire me if it didn’t stop. Well, Father, I mean it can’t stop. I’ll probably find some way of falling out of my coffin and knocking over all the flowers. That is, if anybody sends flowers.”

“Well, Ethel, if you can’t help being clumsy, you can’t help it. If that’s the way you are, it’s not your fault. But maybe you’re just working in the wrong job.”

“The wrong job?”

“Yes.” It was an opening for one of Koesler’s anecdotes. “Did you ever hear about the guy who went to New York to get a job? He got in a cab and said to the driver, ‘T-T-T-Take me to N-N-N-NBC in a hurry.’ You see, he stuttered very badly.

“So, to make conversation, the cabbie asked, ‘What do you want to go to NBC for?’ And the guy says, ‘I’m going to an au-au-au-audition for a j-j-j-job as an a-a-a-announcer.’ When they reach NBC, the guy says to the cabbie, ‘W-W-Wait for me.’

“After a while the guy comes back and gets into the cab. The cabbie says, ‘So, did you get the job?’ And the guy says, ‘N-N-N-No; they’re p-p-p-prejudiced against C-C-C-Catholics.’”

Ethel laughed. “That’s funny. But, if you don’t mind, what’s it got to do with me?”

“Just this, Ethel: There seem to be an outstanding number of things in a hospital that are breakable. Test tubes come to mind; thermometers; breakfast, lunch, and dinner dishes; all the things that are used to carry specimens and medications around the hospital—the list just goes on and on. Almost everywhere you look in the hospital, there’s something breakable. Doesn’t it seem to you that this is not the best place to work for someone who . . . uh . . . has a problem with awkwardness?”

“I suppose. But I gotta work.”

“Well, then, not at a restaurant either. All those dishes. Maybe a dry-goods store. Something with a lot of cloth.”

“It doesn’t matter, Father. I think I’ve tried them all. There’s no place where you can’t spill things, break them, damage them, rip them, and on and on. When I got this job here at St. Vincent’s, I decided this was it. This was where it was going to come together. I would work here till I retire. And now I’m on the verge of being fired.”

“Well, we all have to alter our goals every once in a while, you know.”

“There’s something else.”

“There is?”

“It’s a fella. My first real fella, would you believe that? Yeah, I guess you would.”

“Not really . . .” Koesler attempted to dismiss her disclaimer.

“Sure you would. Anybody would. I mean, look at me. I know you’re a priest and all that, but you’ve got to have at least looked at girls. Marilyn Monroe I ain’t. Not really bad looking, but no raving beauty either: Just barely good enough so that a few fellas have asked me out down through the ages. But once we get out on the date and I spill and break enough things, that’s it! One-date Ethel. Until now. Now I got a fella and I think this one’s gonna take.”

Koesler felt himself desperately hoping that Ethel was right about this upswing in her love life. “Well, that sounds great. Just what the doctor ordered, as it were. If this works out—and you sound pretty confident—this job isn’t all that important. So what if you lose it? Your fella can bring home the bacon and you can gracefully retire and become a homemaker.” Koesler knew that by current standards this scenario reeked of male chauvinism. But for her benefit he was trying to conjure up a padded cell with as few breakables as possible.

“But see, Father, that’s sort of the good news and the bad news.”

“Oh?”

“The good news is I think I got a man and I think I really love him and I think he really loves me. But the bad news is he’s as clumsy as me. That’s why we get along so good. We wouldn’t even think about complaining about each other. It’s more like looking in a mirror.

“Besides, I think he’s so nice he might not dump me even if he wasn’t as clumsy as me. But the thing is, he is. And he’s gonna spend the rest of his life going from one lousy job to another. He ain’t got much of a job now. In fact, it’s a worse job than any that I’ve ever had. But even with all that, he still is a volunteer here at the hospital . . . ain’t that something?”

“That certainly is something.” Koesler got the image of two people slowly sinking in quicksand and being clumsy about it to boot.

“That’s why my original promise to myself is so important, Father. I got to keep this job. I got to prove to myself and the rest of the world that I can hold this job. It may be Bruce who stays home and keeps house. That’s fine by me. I don’t mind working outside the home. But I gotta keep this job, Father; I gotta!”

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.

Koesler strongly suspected she could hear him. He began slowly and loudly to recite the Twenty-Third, his favorite Psalm. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .”

He thought she seemed more calm. Her expression appeared to have relaxed somewhat.

“. . . And 1 shall dwell in the house of the Lord for years to come.”

He paused. She lost the little serenity she seemed to have gained. He took out the small booklet, Pastoral Care of the Sick, and turned to a Blessing for the Sick.

“All praise and glory is yours, Lord our God, for you have called us to serve you in love. Bless Millie so that she may bear this illness in union with your Son’s obedient suffering. Restore her to health, and lead her in glory. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

He looked long at the suffering woman whose affliction remained undiagnosed. Silently, Koesler commended her to the care of her personally selected physician, Dr. Jesus.

Peculiar how quickly the fortunes of life could change, thought Koesler, as he walked slowly up the corridor to the nurses’ station. It was just yesterday that Millie was, to the nonmedical eye at least, in fairly good condition. Indeed, it was Millie who had gone out of her way to assure her roommate, Alva, that an operation would go well. Now Alva, who seemed well, had, as promised, successfully undergone her operation and was divorcing herself from Millie’s predicament.

At the nurses’ station, Koesler shuffled through the patient lists trying to organize the order of his visits so he would not be constantly doubling back and forth. As he did so, he became aware of someone very nearby talking, but not to him. He looked up to see the same two nurses whom he’d recently observed in the cafeteria. They were again conversing and once more disregarding his presence.

“. . . Just the same, it’s not fair. How can he blame you for something that isn’t your fault? As a matter of fact, it’s probably his fault.”

“Maybe he’s just frustrated. After all, she was doing just fine yesterday.”

“That happens. I’ve seen it a zillion times. When you’ve had as much experience as I have you’ll know the signs.”

“Come on, now, I didn’t pass boards yesterday. I tell you this one’s different. It’s like she came in with one problem and overnight she came down with an entirely new and different illness.”

“Even that. I’ve seen that, too.”

“Maybe you’re right. But then, why was Dr. Wilson so bugged? He certainly must have encountered this before. I mean if you have—”

“Malpractice. They’re all running scared of malpractice suits.”

“You think she could sue?”

“If she survives, sure. If not, watch out for the relatives. How bad is she anyway?”

“Pretty bad. Blood pressure dangerously low. Looks as if she’s about to slip into a coma. Keeps scratching herself. Why would she be itchy? She certainly wasn’t yesterday.”

The blonde grew thoughtful. “Blood pressure dropping, and itching. Hmmm . . . I don’t know. Sounds like an allergic reaction to something. There was a patient here, oh, about four or five years ago, who had the same kind of reaction. I know the doctor had a hard time of it. At first he couldn’t . . .”

Koesler stopped listening. He was distracted by a memory. What was it the blonde nurse just said? She knew a patient who had had “an allergic reaction to something” and, as a result had ended up with about the same sort of symptoms as Millie Power.

Why did that ring a bell? Hadn’t Millie told him something to that effect? Something that had happened to her after she was admitted to the hospital. Somebody had asked her something. If she would be in some kind of test program. And she was about to agree to it when she remembered that she was allergic to penicillin. So they had taken her out of the program. Was it possible? It didn’t seem likely. But it certainly seemed possible.

“Excuse me . . .”He spoke up, interrupting the two nurses, who looked at him somewhat startled. “Excuse me,” he was speaking to the blonde nurse, “but did you just say something about a patient who had an allergic reaction or something . . . and that it produced symptoms something like what Millie Power has?”

The blonde nodded. It was obvious from the roman collar beneath his hospital jacket that he was with the pastoral care department. Her expression was a blend of “What’s it to you?” and “Where did you come from?”

“Well,” Koesler said almost apologetically, “I was just wondering: When I first visited with Millie, she mentioned that shortly after she was admitted, a doctor asked her to be a part of some hospital experiment. And she was about to say yes when she remembered that she had an allergy to penicillin. And she would have been given penicillin if she had been in the experiment. Do you suppose there could have been some mix-up and she got included in the test? And that what she’s got now could be a reaction to the penicillin?”

With a look of great incredulity, the brunette slowly extracted Millie Power’s chart from the file drawer, carefully opened it, and studied it.

“Well . . . I’ll be damned,” the brunette said. After a brief pause, she added, “Oh, excuse me, Father.”