An Unholy Mission Page 4

  “You can?”

  The nurse tucked her arm though Olympia’s. “This is a teaching hospital. We get a new group of chaplains three times a year. After all these years dealing with chaplains and watching how they relate to sick people, believe me, I can tell. I can tell you horror stories, as well, but not right now. Why don’t you start off with Elinore Banks in room 311? She’s a hoot. She’s doing great. She just needs a couple more days on that new leg.”

  Before Olympia could ask what exactly she meant by a few more days on a new leg, the charge nurse, with her ever-present clip board, patted her on the shoulder and was heading back to her station as Olympia’s question dissolved into the insistent beeps and whirrs of hospital machinery.

  Olympia turned and set off down the gray tiled corridor looking for room 311. She wondered if she should have brought along a Bible, at least for appearance’s sake.

  Guess I’ll soon find out!

  Elinore Banks was alone in the semi-private room. She was sitting up in bed, looking quite stylish in a pale blue bedjacket, reading a large print book. She looked up with a pleasant smile when Olympia tapped on the doorframe and asked if she would like a visit.

  “Come right in, dear,” said Elinore, squinting up at Olympia through her thick glasses, “I love company. It’s lonesome in here without a roommate. Now who might you be?”

  Olympia walked over to the side of the bed, extended her hand and introduced herself as the new chaplain for this unit.

  “Oh, Lord, yes, dear. Pull up a chair.” Elinore looked around. “Uh, there doesn’t seem to be one, and the other bed is too far away.” Then she lifted her hand and pointed towards the window wall. “Over there. Pull up the commode, there’s only a little pee in it. They haven’t emptied it yet. Just keep the lid down.”

  Despite her best efforts to maintain the demeanor of a dedicated and sober-faced hospital chaplain visiting an older lady confined to her bed, Olympia burst out laughing, and that, in turn, set off Elinore Banks. For a few hilarious moments Olympia dragged and maneuvered the commode into place without spilling a single drop. The two women giggled and snorted and eventually calmed down enough to have a chat.

  As the charge nurse predicted, Elinore wanted to talk about nothing specifically religious and just about everything else. She told Olympia all about her family, her home, the pets, and her long-deceased husband. “Twenty years gone, dear,” she whispered, “but you know, I still miss him.” She chattered about her garden and recipes and the daughter who would be coming to get her in two days, and then she burst into tears.

  “Is everything all right, Olympia?”

  Olympia turned to see Luther Stuart standing in the doorway.

  “Well, it was. I mean, it is,” said Olympia. “Mrs. Banks just got a bit emotional, Luther. We’re okay.”

  Elinore Banks nodded, snuffled and reached for a tissue.

  “I was with a patient in the next room and I heard the sound of someone weeping. Thought I’d better check. I was worried she might be alone.”

  “That’s kind of you Luther, but as I said, I’m here. I, uh, thought the hospice unit was upstairs.”

  “Mostly it is, but I have one patient in this unit.” Luther stepped back and turned away. “Let me know if you need any help, I’ll be on the floor for a little while longer.”

  Olympia didn’t know whether to be grateful or furious, but at the moment Elinore Banks needed her attention. She turned back to the lady in the bed and held out an upturned hand.

  “Now then, Mrs. Banks, do you want to tell me what’s making you so sad?”

  The woman in bed sniffled and nodded.

  “Do call me Elinore, dear.” She dropped her voice. “You see, it’s like this …”

  Five

  After lunch, at precisely one in the afternoon, the six student chaplains were back in the conference room, reviewing their first day experiences with Sister Patrick. From where she was seated, Olympia could see the sun shining on the brickwork and the plantings in the courtyard outside. She wished she could open a window and let some of that bright fall air into the long gray and silver room. Then her thoughts strayed to Frederick, and she wondered what he was up to.

  She was snapped out of her scattered reverie when she heard Sister Patrick ask them all to think about where they thought they might be in three years’ time, and would Luther begin the conversation by telling them about interfaith ministry?

  He curled his fingers around the cross on his chest before responding, “Basically, it’s a ministry which observes the traditional Christian ethic without being constrained by the dogma of a specific denomination. I like to think that my ministry will be more inclusive than if I were following the teachings of only one church.”

  “How are people like you qualified?” asked Joel Silverstein.

  “There’s an organization of credentialed interfaith ministers,” said Luther.

  “Once you’re ordained, where will you work?” asked Jenny. “I mean, are you like any other minister?”

  He cleared his throat. “Many of us work in the military or in prisons or in hospital settings. I’m probably going to be a hospice chaplain. I might even work here at Mercy Hospital. I think I’d be a good fit, don’t you Sister?”

  Sister Patrick gave him a faint smile but said nothing.

  Olympia glanced at Timothea, who was leaning back in her chair with arms crossed over her vast expanse, taking it all in. In silent response, Timothea raised an eyebrow a fraction of a fraction of an inch in her direction.

  Sister Patrick thanked him and redirected the conversation. “And you, Timothea? Where do you see yourself after this?”

  Olympia watched as the woman prepared herself to speak. Even seated, Timothea moved slowly and deliberately, and Olympia was reminded of pictures she had seen of Hawaiian Queens, all of them powerful, beautiful, stately women. Timothea could easily have been one of them.

  “I’m called to preach the word, and God will surely tell me where that is to be, but I keep reminding him that I’d like to work with poor folks in the inner city. No harm in that, is there?”

  No response needed, thought Olympia, feeling envious of the woman’s solid, unquestioning faith and sense of purpose. She had no idea where her own ministry might take her. She could only trust that one day all would be made clear.

  Alice Whitethorn was rolling a pencil back and forth between her fingers as she spoke. Olympia noted that her fingernails were badly bitten. She told the group she wasn’t sure about ordination yet and hoped that the chaplaincy program here at Mercy would help her with that decision.

  “This is my first time working with children who are so sick, Sister. I think this is going to be much harder than I thought.” She shook her head and drew in a quick breath. “They didn’t cover this in seminary. They’re all so sweet—the children, that is—and the charge nurse told me today that some of them might not live.” Then she raised her head and looked directly at Sister Patrick. “I just hope I can do it.”

  “Thank you for being so honest with us, Alice. It will be hard work, I promise you, but you’re not doing it alone. Part of the responsibility of your cohort group, these people sitting around you, is to pastor and support one another through the rough spots. We’ll be chaplains to one another as well as to the patients on your units. You will form a powerful bond with one another.”

  Timothea nodded what might have been approval but said nothing.

  Jenny Abelard told them all that in three years she would probably still be working with homeless and abused women, maybe in a prison setting, or maybe she’d stay on where she was in the South End. She went on to say that her first day on Med/Surg floor was okay. She got lost twice and managed to get back to where she belonged, but it really bothered her to hear one old woman calling over and over for her mother.

  “I tried talking to her,” said Jenny, “but it was like she didn’t even know I was in the room. I don’t know if I did the right thing or not. I j
ust stood by the bed and read a couple of Psalms. The nurse up there told me to; she said it usually calmed her down for a little while.”

  “You were a loving presence, Jenny,” said Sister Patrick. “Sometimes, that’s all we can be. Did it help?”

  “For about five minutes, Sister, then she started up yelling again.”

  “You did your best,” said Sister Patrick.

  Joel Silverstein told the group that his first day on the ICU had been a little disconcerting. “There didn’t seem to be much I could do. They were so sick and so uncomfortable. Most of the patients didn’t even know I was there. Finally, one of the nurses gave me a beeper and told me to go downstairs to the Med/Surg unit and visit people there, and if I was needed, she’d beep me.”

  “How did that work out?” asked the nun.

  “Well, at least I felt like I was doing something.”

  “I’ll talk to the nurse-manager of the ICU. If you think you can do it, we might just continue with a split duty. We do that sometimes, and I think it makes sense for you. Come see me in my office before you start tomorrow, okay?”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  Sister Patrick looked across the table at Olympia.

  “Olympia, where do you think you might be three years from now?”

  For the last hour Olympia had been struggling with how much to tell these people. Trust was an important aspect of this whole experience. She certainly trusted Sister Patrick, and she wanted to extend that to the others; but she knew that with intimacy comes responsibility. If you reveal too much, you open yourself up to being hurt, or worse, betrayed. Do I tell them about my daughter Laura and my new granddaughter, the child that was born in a hospital across the street just a little over a month ago?

  Olympia sat up straighter in her chair before speaking.

  “I think I said before that one of the reasons I’m doing this is because I’m in transition. I really don’t know where my ministry will take me or, for that matter, where I will take it. I know I like teaching, but I also know that is a little removed from true pastoral ministry. So I guess the answer is, stay tuned.”

  A tiny frisson of laughter rippled around the table and then just as quickly, it all went quiet. When it did, the six chaplains turned their attention toward their supervisor. Sister Patrick held onto the silence for a little longer than was customary in normal conversation, letting each of them sit with whatever thoughts and feelings they were carrying from that first day. Then she began to speak.

  “Clinical Pastoral Education is a turning point for most ministers. All of you will be profoundly changed by this experience. As of right now, I can’t begin to tell you how or when this will happen, I can only promise that it will. Now, do any of you have any more questions?”

  A few had logistical and protocol questions, after which Sister Patrick went into precise detail about the clinical written component called “the verbatim.”

  “This is a word-by-word description of a pastoral visit with a patient,” she explained. “You are to write it exactly as if you are crafting a scene in a play. I gave you an outline in your information packet. The first one will be due next Monday. Do the best you can, and be sure to bring a copy for each one of us so we can make notes. Finally, I’d like you to report back here again tomorrow morning. I’ve scheduled a tour of the surgical unit. Then, if you need to, we can go over how to do the verbatims one more time before the weekend.”

  Olympia looked at the clock on the wall. They were getting out a little early. She had time to run back upstairs and do a quick check on Elinore Banks and still be home in time for supper.

  As she was collecting her materials, she could hear Luther making general comforting sounds to Alice. He was assuring her it would get easier in time, and she’d do just fine, and if she ever needed someone to talk to, he would be happy to oblige.

  That’s nice of him, thought Olympia, shouldering her backpack and turning in the direction of the elevators. Maybe he just likes helping people and doesn’t always know how or when to quit. While Olympia stood waiting for the elevator, Timothea walked past her and smiled.

  “See you tomorrow,” said Olympia, returning the smile.

  “Uh-huhhhhhhmmm,” came the response.

  Olympia was unloading her backpack and purse onto the passenger seat of her van when she heard the gritty sound of approaching footsteps on the concrete sub-basement floor of the hospital garage. The instinctive fear of being way underground and alone in an unfamiliar place turned to relief when she recognized Luther Stuart. Places like this always gave her the creeps, and a familiar face, even his, was welcome.

  “Oh, hi, Luther, you parked down here, too?”

  “No. I usually take public transportation,” he replied. “Even with the employee discount, it’s too expensive for me on a regular basis. I save it for bad weather, like yesterday. Actually, I wanted to catch you before you left. I wanted to ask you something, so I waited around till I saw you coming down here.”

  Olympia did not like the idea that he followed her and even less that there was no one else is sight or earshot. What is going on with this man?

  “What’s up?” she said, trying to keep her voice sounding casual.

  “I wanted to apologize for barging in on you today when you were visiting with that woman. I guess I still don’t know my way around and what is and what isn’t proper hospital protocol. Sometimes I have trouble with boundaries.”

  “Oh, gosh, Luther, don’t think twice about it.” Olympia’s cautious mood dissolved on the spot. “I was flying blind myself. It’s been a long time since I did this, and while some things never change, every situation is different. I might have done the same myself … but I probably would have asked permission first.”

  “So I’m forgiven?” He put his hand on her arm and smiled.

  “There’s nothing to forgive. You don’t need to take things so seriously, Luther.” Olympia shut the passenger door of her van and was moving around to the driver’s side when she stopped and turned back. “Say, you want a ride to the bus stop? I can do that much. Where do you live?”

  “Sure,” said Luther, wasting no time pulling open the door and climbing in.

  When they were both buckled in, Luther told her he lived in a basement efficiency in the Italian North End of Boston.

  “The rent’s cheap, and I help the owners with the trash and shoveling. The wife makes me a meal every now and then. We kind of watch out for each other. It works. Well, at least it does for now.”

  Olympia deliberately did not ask for further clarification. She turned the key, and mercifully, the starter cooperated. She backed up and nosed the bulky vehicle around the tight corners in the garage and up onto the street and into a lovely late November sun.

  “That’s better,” she said, enjoying the light and almost warmth on her window arm. It was stark contrast to the chilly, dank, rubber and gasoline smell of the underground garage. “Now where’s your stop, Luther? I’m going to cut across the city, so I guess the best place is right ahead at the circle on Huntington Ave. I’ll pull over so you can get out. It’s only a block or two from here.”

  “Thanks, Olympia.”

  When he got out of the car, he lingered outside her window, fussing at his cross.

  “I’m worried about writing the verbatims. I hope I remember everything and get it down right this time. I’ve never been a good writer. I’m more of a hands-on person.”

  “Like I said earlier, Luther, you worry too much. I remember them from when I did this before. They’re tedious, but they’re not hard. Relax already! Look, if you want me to, I’ll look over your first one. Okay?”

  Olympia waved him off with an encouraging smile before he had a chance to say anything else. Then she rolled up the windows and locked the doors in preparation for the drive through some of the rougher parts of the city. She hoped the traffic wouldn’t be too ugly, and if that were the case, then maybe she would get home in time to hear all about Frederick’s
day at the bookstore. She smiled contentedly at the uncomplicated hominess of it all and pushed down on the gas pedal.

  In the bookstore, located not too far from Brookfield, bibliophile Frederick was like a kid in a candy store, only with benefits. Add the staff discount to his good fortune, and the man was out of control. When she got home, she would write “put up more book shelves” on the rapidly expanding renovation and to do lists.

  And she saw that it was good.

  Six

  “Could you go over that one more time, Sister Patrick? I want to make sure I get it right.” Luther was taking copious notes.

  If the nun sighed in exasperation, no one heard her. This was the third time she’d gone over it, and all the chaplains except Luther had run out of questions.

  “I suggest you actually get out there and do one before you ask any more questions, Luther. It’s not that hard.”

  “But …”

  Olympia was wiggling her foot under the table and trying not to scream when she caught one of Timothea’s big brown eyes sending the barest flick of a wink in her direction. It defused her frustration on the spot, and she twitched the corners of her mouth in response.

  I want to get to know that woman better, thought Olympia, if for no other reason than to listen to her magnificent voice for more than two or three minutes at a time. I know there’s more than that, a lot more.

  “I’ve scheduled the tour of the OR and the other surgical floors for nine-thirty, so we’d best get moving,” said Sister Patrick, checking her watch and interrupting Olympia’s thoughts about Timothea. “You can all go off to your assigned units after that.”