Deathbed

“The pastoral care team?”

Koesler nodded.

“What did they tell you?”

“Well, Father Thompson bequeathed me his beeper. He said it was the kindest thing he could do for me. He said it would free me from being lashed to a telephone.”

“By and large, that’s correct,” Scott agreed.

“Sister Mary Kevin introduced me—or rather, reintroduced me—to the theories of Kubler-Ross on the process of dying. And she described the chaplain’s routine when there’s a death in the hospital. And Sister Rosamunda— well, briefly, she urged that I spend most of my time being quiet and listening. Come to think of it, that’s pretty much what all three of them advised.”

Eileen sipped her coffee. “Not bad advice, at least for a start. This may seem like a very strange enterprise at first. Most beginning chaplains, especially after undergoing the orientation you’ve just had, are apt to be a bit nervous about what to say to sick or, particularly, to dying people. The best advice anyone can give at this point is that which you received.

“But it would be a serious mistake to overlook all the experience you’ve had in the priesthood. How long have you been a priest, Father?”

He paused to figure. “It’ll be thirty-two years in June.”

“Yes, and you’ll always be drawing on those years. In no time, you will feel very much at ease. In the meantime, ‘shut up and listen’ is not bad advice.”

“Actually, it’s at least the second time I’ve gotten precisely that advice.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The first time was just after Cardinal Boyle—he was a mere archbishop at the time—appointed me editor of the Detroit Catholic. My onetime pastor, Monsignor Stitt, was presiding over a formal dinner. I guess I was making too many comments to suit him. Anyway, he said, ‘Father Koesler, if you’re going to be an editor, you had better learn to shut up and listen. ‘ I’ve never been able to figure out what that had to do with being an editor. But I thought in general it was good advice. I’ve just never been able to follow it very well. I must confess I am not a very good listener.”

“Well,” she finished her coffee, “if you’re not, you’re not. We’re both kind of old dogs to learn new tricks. “

Her frankness in admitting the difficulty of change surprised Koesler. He did not want their discussion to end just yet. “May I get you another cup of coffee?”

“Why, yes. That would be nice.”

“How about you, Doctor?”

“No. I’ve got to get back.” Scott excused himself and left. He was odd-man-out in this conversation between two people who had dedicated their lives to religion. It had happened to him many times in this Catholic hospital. He knew the signs.

Koesler returned with two steaming cups.

“What have they had you do so far, Father?” Young nuns and priests would have begun on a first-name basis. These two were of an older school. They would use each other’s title.

“Earlier this morning, I took Communion calls to my floors. Later, I covered a death in the emergency unit.”

“What do you think so far?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s too early to tell. I’ve certainly brought Communion to the sick often enough. But there was something different about this. In a parish situation the sick are in their own homes. The people here seemed a bit more . . .uh . . .vulnerable.”

“That’s very true, Father. At home most of the activity revolves around the sick member of the family, who remains in familiar surroundings. Here the sick person is part of a broader system. He wakes up, is fed, is medicated, and retires when the system tells him to. And often he is not even wearing his own bedclothes. “

“That’s going to take a little time to get used to. But the death scene will take even longer to get into.”

Sister Eileen smiled. “Problems?”

“Well, first I learned that in a code blue, everyone except the chaplain breaks his or her neck to get to the scene. “

“That’s right.” She grinned. “The chaplain’s just in the way until the patient either makes it or doesn’t.”

“Well, I waited for the family to arrive. When they did, Dr. Scott met them, explained what had happened to the deceased, answered their questions, then left them to me. And all hell broke loose.

“I took them to what you jokingly call a quiet room and I got a look at the abyss where there will be the weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

“So what did you do?”

“Remembered what I’d been told and shut up and listened.”

Eileen leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. “That’s all they wanted you to do. They wanted to vent their grief, and your silence as well as your presence allowed them to do that. I think as you follow up with this family, you’ll find them thanking you for being there and letting them express their emotions.”

“I hope you’re right. But then, you probably are; you’ve been at this so long—oh, pardon me; I didn’t mean to imply anything about your age.”

She laughed. “Don’t apologize. I have been at it a long time. Though not quite as long as this hospital’s been here.”

Koesler had been aware, vaguely, that St. Vincent’s was an antique. Everything testified to that: the worn hardwood floors, the high ceilings, the creaks and squeaks, the smell of the place—somewhere between mustiness and the odor of sanctity. But he was unaware of its exact age. “How old is it?”

“Almost 150 years.”

“Wow!”

Sister Eileen chuckled. “Sometime between then and now, I came upon the scene. Fresh out of the convent, I came here as a nurse, then moved up to supervisor, then briefly a vice-president, and finally, chief executive officer.”

“You’ve paid your dues. But this brings up another question . . . if you’ve got the time?”

“What could be more important than satisfying the curiosity of our temporary chaplain?”

“Well, I’ve asked this question of others, both before I came here and during my orientation. But I have yet to get an answer I can understand.”

“Yes?” She smiled.

“Why go on with it? Why perpetuate St. Vincent’s Hospital?”

Sister Eileen turned quite serious. She did not immediately reply.

“There are municipal hospitals here in downtown Detroit,” Koesler persisted. “And from all I know, they lose money regularly. It must be far worse for St. Vincent’s. Yet there’s no reason you have to stay here. Almost all the other Catholic and private hospitals have either closed or moved out to the more financially secure suburbs. And no one counts them cowardly for doing so. It just makes good financial sense to get out to a place where you can survive.”

She chewed her lip. Koesler was mildly surprised at her hesitancy to answer. She must have faced this question, internally and externally, many times.

“The answer is not involved, Father. We are here because this is where the poor are. Of course we could move to another area in the core city. But why should we? We’d only be seeking another poor area. And the poor we have with us right here.

“Oh, yes, we could move out to the suburbs. Mind you, I am not in any way speaking pejoratively of the other Catholic hospitals that have done so. They use much of their profit for the benefit of the poor.” She fell silent.

“Then, why?” Koesler pressed. “Is it some sort of death wish?”

She searched the priest’s face, seeming to assess his ability to understand.

“We do it—no, I should accept the responsibility . . . this supremely impractical decision is almost totally mine—I do it because our founder told us to. If St. Vincent de Paul is identified with anyone, it is the poor. According to our orders constitution, we were founded to serve the poor. That is our primary purpose. Some may interpret that to mean that if they are going to serve the poor, they must first themselves survive. There certainly is