slices of bread to compensate. She wanted to go and visit Mrs. Kerrigan. Instead, she walked back to the residence with her classmates, and talked of this and that as the December evening breathed its chill into their bones.
The foyer was a warm relief from the windy, wintry night, with the usual chatty and friendly greeting from the receptionist. There was a poster opposite the front desk advertising a new singing group called Peter Paul and Mary. One of the tall beauties teased Sister Jonathan about it and invited her to come to the concert.
The following week, the freshmen went back to the Unit and were given their assignments. Sister Jonathan was assigned to care for a young woman who had been admitted for tests. She had to ask a fellow freshman a few times about how to fill in the spaces of the requisition, where to put it so that it would be picked up, how to document it, all the while worrying about her former patient.
Finally, she had the nerve to ask and was told that Mrs. Kerrigan was close to death. She was in an oxygen tent, breathing her last. As Sister Jonathan walked down the hall with her stethoscope, she passed Mrs. Kerrigan’s room. Mrs. Kerrigan was gasping, barely breathing. Sister Jonathan was centered from her youth in Catholic theology, which told her that the last moment was crucial to the soul. A whole life of imperfection could be washed away in the critical remorse of the last moments.
The teaching of Jesus made it clear that complete compassion was hanging, hovering in the moment of dying waiting only for the soul’s asking. Sister Jonathan believed that teaching with her whole heart and without hesitating climbed up on the bed, pulled back the oxygen tent and cradled Mrs. Kerrigan in her arms. She whispered into her ear.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I give you my heart and my soul.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, assist me in my last agony.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I breathe forth my soul in peace with you.”
And Mrs. Kerrigan died. And Sister Jonathan, still cradling the lifeless body, wept like a babe.
The hospital Chaplain, who usually seemed so distant, arrived at the bedside after the last breath. He anointed Mrs. Kerrigan with oil and pronounced the last absolution and final blessing. He told Sister Jonathan in an unusual burst of kindness, that she had done well.
During the supper hour, she was grateful for the closeness of the other nuns with their unspoken understanding of her pain. They walked back to the residence together and she allowed the quiet conversation and gentle banter wash over her. Her small room held a new hint of what was to come since she had a second farewell to perform. She knew for sure that she would part with Winston forever. That night, as she blew the final clouds of smoke out of her window, Sister Jonathan decided to become a nurse.
Sister Catherine Faces Death
Sister Catherine had wanted to be a nurse as long as she could remember. In nursing school she had no trouble memorizing. Everything stuck the first time. She got A’s in all her courses and easily transferred her knowledge into practice. She was good at it. She was able to understand complex issues that bewildered other students. The upper class students forgot that she was new and often asked her for help. She was funny and smart and the doctors often complimented her work.
By the time she was a regular on the unit, she was noticed by the attending physicians. “I’ll bet you’re good with all your patients,” Dr. Livoti had said watching her with an elderly patient of his. She blushed and reveled in the compliment. She was so good even as a second year student that the interns were known to ask her advice about dosage and treatment outcomes. She talked to the interns as though they were naughty boys.
On her third day of work on a new unit, one of her patients went into anaphylactic shock. She quickly dialed the intern on duty as she was drawing up the medication.
“Sister, what do you think we should do?” he queried into the phone.
“Well, how about one cc. of Epinephrine sub-cu. Stat,” she said as she was injecting the patient, holding the phone up to her ear with her shoulder.
“This is good idea. Yes. Stat.”
Since the hospital was a teaching center for doctors as well as nurses, interns and residents arrived from all over the world. The new crop of residents came at the end of the summer. Most of them had been attending physicians in their home country and were completing a second residency so that they could practice in the United States. They all had a fair amount of experience in their field, yet in this situation they were regarded as students. In this, they felt akin to the nursing students who at least had the benefit of knowing the culture.
The new doctors came from all parts of the globe, but the ones with the most curiosity about nuns were the ones from Turkey. The Turkish doctors had no experience with nuns and they were overtly, unreservedly curious. They regarded the student nuns as remarkable oddities and made no effort to conceal their disregard. Dr. Soysal was the smartest of the lot and very quickly became Chief Medical Resident. He also had the most questions.
“Your name is Catherine?” he asked one afternoon as he waited behind her on the cafeteria line. “Are you everyone’s sister?” He was mocking her but his words held a tone of feigned respect. Sister Catherine decided to respond to the words and leave the undercurrent alone.
“In a way, yes.” And she moved quickly past the pudding and cookies to gain some distance. She was disturbed to find that she needed it. As she sat with the other student sisters, she could watch him out of the corner of her eye. He was talking to one of her classmates. Was he asking about her, she wondered.
Early one Monday, Dr. Soysal went up to Four West to assist with bone marrow aspiration and found Sister Catherine at the patient’s bedside, setting up the tray for the test. He sat with the patient for awhile explaining the procedure, then as the patient closed his eyes, he focussed on Sister Catherine and with poorly hidden amusement asked her about her life of dedication to this ‘mythical’ Jesus.
“So you are married to this Jesus?” he whispered with a vicious twinkle in his blue, blue eyes. “Blue, the color of the evening sky,” she had thought when she first met him.
“Yes,” she replied wishing he was somewhere far away.
Unfortunately, he was way too close. She needed to focus on the the test as she realized that the patient was too frightened to care about the conversation that was happening so inappropriately above his head. She rechecked the tray with the sterile equipment, praying that her hand did not shake too much. Dr. Soysal was clearly loving her discomfort, laughing at her behind his eyes.
“So, can you see him?”
“No.”
“Such a marriage? This fulfills you?”
“Yes. Of course.” She knew that she would mess up the sterile field if he did not stop his banter. She mentally reviewed the contents of the tray.
“I need to get some saline,” she said and moved toward the door.
“You stay with the patient. He is frightened,” he said quietly changing his demeanor. “I’ll get the saline.”
She moved back to the bedside and held the man’s hand. He was indeed frightened. He
