Bishop as Pawn Page 0,79
the resident and Carleson laughed.
Carleson, upon reflection, was aware of the phenomenon of clearing the way for imminent death. But he had never heard a more illustrative, yet humorous, anecdote demonstrating the theory.
Still chuckling, Carleson made his way into the hospital.
It didn’t take long to wipe the smile from his face. The intake department overflowed with patients and their relatives and friends. Most of them were so used to being put on hold that they fully expected to sit in these chairs watching mindless television forever. Forever was the time it took to process the sufferer into a room, a cubicle, or an Ace bandage and out.
No one seemed to identify him as that clergyman they’d seen on TV news or on the front page. He was grateful.
As he made his way down the corridors, he took care to share a confident smile with the worried visitors searching for the room that held their loved one.
Some of the visitors and a few of the patients pushing IV stands paused to talk to him. Somehow they sensed that this was a priest who really understood what it meant to be alone, to be abandoned, to face overwhelming odds. Some asked for a prayer. Others bowed their heads for a blessing.
In some strange way, these interventions, far from sapping his energy, gave him strength. Busy hospitals such as Detroit’s Receiving communicated to him the sense that this was where he was supposed to be. These people—so frightened, so alone—were, in a special way, his people.
Now he found himself on the floor where Ste. Anne’s one and only hospitalized parishioner should be. Carleson made his way toward the nurses’ station, hoping that Herbert Demers was no longer here. No longer, indeed, in this life.
Ann Bradley, R.N., looked up from the screen where she’d been searching for records. “Oh, hi, Father. Come to see Mr. Demers?”
It was no surprise that she recognized the priest. By this time, almost all the hospital employees knew him. He’d been there for, in the course of time, all shifts.
“He’s still here?”
Bradley nodded grimly. “That’s about the way we feel, father. Every time any of us comes on duty, there are a certain few patients we expect to find gone. Mr. Demers certainly is among that group. He doesn’t really cause us any trouble. But there’s so little we can do for him. Make sure the IV tubes are working. Turn him. Talk to him. Funny thing,” she said, thoughtfully, “every once in a while I get the feeling he’s trying to tell me something.” She shrugged. “Of course he isn’t. It’s something like a baby: We get the impression we’re communicating but, outside of maybe he feels our touch, nothing.”
“What if …” Carleson hesitated. “What if he did? What if he did communicate with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“The last time I visited him—I know this isn’t going to make much sense—but I’d swear he formed words with his lips.”
“Really!” Bradley lost all interest in the computer screen. “What did he … uh, ‘say’?”
“He said … he said, ‘Help me die.’”
“He said that? Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I really am positive. I’d just told him a story—a joke, actually—about a patient in one of those old-fashioned oxygen tents. Somebody was accidentally standing on the oxygen hose killing the patient.” He stopped, then shook his head. “I can’t tell you why in the world I was telling somebody as sick as Herbert Demers such a black joke. I guess I just felt I should say something. And I didn’t think Herbert would know what I was talking about anyway.
“But, after this joke about a visitor killing the patient, Herbert very slowly and very deliberately mouthed those words: ‘Help me die.’”
“Weird!”
“My thought exactly. But what would you do if you had that experience? What if Mr. Demers asked you to help him die? What would you do?”
“Well, I’d note it in the log, make sure the doctor knew about it.”
“That’s it?”
“It? Oh, you mean would I act on it? Well, no. Of course not. You must know, Father, there are lots of patients—terminals, people with a lot of pain—who want to die. But that’s completely out of bounds.” There was surprise, mingled with a touch of shock in her manner. As if the last thing she ever expected from a priest was the hint of approval for euthanasia.
“Yeah, sure, of course,” Carleson said. “Just wondered. I think I’ll go see Herbert now. See if he wants to mouth any more messages.”
Carleson’s offhand