An Unholy Mission (8 page)

“Let me see what I can find out on the QT,” said Jim. “It may be something, and it may be nothing, but in the years I’ve known you, Olympia, you’ve never been very far from the mark, and that means this all deserves a closer look.”

When they got home, Frederick announced that he needed a cup of tea and offered to make one for Olympia. While he busied himself in the kitchen, Olympia reached for Miss Winslow’s diary. She kept it beside her chair, and when she had time, she picked it up and read a few pages. It was her personal window on the history of the house she now called home and the life of the woman spirit with whom she shared it, Leanna Faith Winslow, Mayflower descendant and persistent busybody.

November 24, 1861

The waiting is unbearable! Because this is my first attempt, I truly have no idea how long it will take before I learn whether or not my story has been accepted for publication. I fill my days with making ready for the winter, tending to my growing son, (he stood without assistance today!) and when the rare moment presents itself, working on another story. Jonathan is an early riser, but he is in bed by seven in the evening. So unless I have visitors, which in truth I rarely do, my time is my own to use as I wish. This would not be so if I were a wife.

 I do confess that on more than one occasion, I wrote with such intensity and for such a length of time I saw the sky go pale outside my eastern window. And I do also confess I have paid a very dear price for such self-indulgence on the following day.

When it is not too cold or wet outside, I visit with my women friends. We sip tea and marvel at our children, but the nights are lonely. Then I cannot help but think of Jared and wonder how he fares. But I have closed that door, and it does not benefit me to think of ever opening it.

More anon, LFW

Eight

Olympia got to the hospital early enough on Monday morning to dash into the hospital cafeteria for a quick cup of coffee before going up to her unit. As luck would have it, Luther Stuart had the same idea. She acknowledged his nod of greeting and come-hither wave and carried her double cappuccino with whipped cream and cinnamon over to his table. This was a bonus, an unexpected opportunity, beyond the watchful gaze of Sister Patrick or the jurisdiction of a charge nurse, to get to know more about this man on her own terms.

“You’re looking well this morning, Olympia. Have a good weekend?” Luther pushed his plate to the middle of the table. “Want to share my muffin? It’s bigger than I can eat by myself. I’ve already cut it in half.”

Olympia eyed the half muffin. She didn’t need any more calories added to what she was already consuming in the cappuccino, but the smell of the cranberry-orange confection dissolved her willpower, and she accepted with a guilty grin.

“Thanks, Luther. I don’t really need it, but …”

Luther looked across the table at Olympia. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who are always counting calories, Olympia, and if you are, forget it. You’re fine just the way you are.” Then Luther paused and added, “I think you’re a very attractive woman.”

Olympia ducked her head and smiled. She couldn’t help being pleased by the compliment. She was always wishing to be twenty pounds thinner but not so much so that she actually did anything about it for very long. So a man who appreciated her for the size and shape she was had at least one point in his favor.

“So, how’s it going now that we have the first week behind us? At least I’m learning my way around the complex and remembering everybody’s names.” Olympia was licking her fingers and collecting the crumbs on her napkin as she spoke.

He shook his head and looked doubtful. “I’ll feel more confident after I get through my first verbatim this afternoon. I’ve never been good at writing. I’m better at speaking. I feel like I’m more in control.”

If Olympia found anything odd in this remark, she didn’t comment on it. She did, however, file it for future reference, should she ever need it.

“We’re here to learn, Luther. That’s how I look at it. It will be everybody’s first time in the verbatim barrel today.”

“What do you mean by verbatim barrel?” asked Luther.

“It’s a reference to an old and very rude joke, my friend.”

“I didn’t know ministers told rude jokes.” Luther looked both intrigued and dismayed.

“Ministers are human, Luther. The calling may be divine, but it’s humans who answer the call.”

“I think I’d like to know more about the human side of you, Olympia.” The intrigued look became an intense stare.

“What you see is what you get, Luther, and I think it’s time for both of us to go upstairs.”

“Can we have lunch some time?” Luther stood, smoothing his jacket and positioning the silver cross in the space above the buttons.

“Sure,” said Olympia, deliberately keeping her voice casual and impersonal. “We both eat lunch here in the cafeteria; no doubt our orbits will intersect again before the term is out.”

“I certainly hope it’ll be sooner than that,” said Luther, taking Olympia’s arm and steering her in the direction of the elevator. “I want to know more about Unitarian Universalism, as well. This may be my only chance.”

Olympia’s momentary discomfort dissipated.  “That, I can talk about at length. You may be sorry you asked.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Luther. “Try me.”

After lunch the six chaplains sat at the table, each with their stack of verbatim sheets in front of them, waiting for Sister Patrick to choose the first to present what he or she had written. Olympia was not particularly nervous. She’d been through this before. But Patrick was different from her first supervisor, and until she knew exactly what the woman expected, she, too, was just the tiniest bit on edge.

The nun began by explaining that they would each take turns having their verbatims read in the manner of a play script or radio drama, with different members of the group taking the parts of the people on the lists. No names, of course. Then she turned to Olympia. 

“I’m going to ask you to go first, Olympia, mainly because you’ve done this before.” To Olympia’s skyrocketing eyebrows she said, “That doesn’t mean I expect it to be perfect, but at least it will show the others how the process works.”

Five sets of shoulders dropped visibly.

Ugh! Thanks for setting me up, thought Olympia. She gathered up her papers and began passing copies to the people seated around the table.

“Do you want to assign parts, or shall I?” asked Patrick.

“I’d much rather you did,” said Olympia, flashing an engaging smile at her supervisor, “I may have done this before, but it was a while ago, and I’m sure you have your preferences.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” said the no-nonsense nun.

Olympia wasn’t surprised.

 “I think the person who wrote the verbatim should listen to it rather than be one of the readers. It makes more of an impact when you hear your own words read back to you by someone else.”

Olympia didn’t bother to say she had used this technique all through her twenty-five years plus of teaching. She said only, “My, what a good idea.”

Patrick assigned the parts of chaplain, nurse’s aide and patient, the three persons involved in the interaction Olympia had described in her verbatim, to the three other women in the cohort group. Then she reminded everyone once again that because of patient confidentiality and the intense and very personal nature of Clinical Pastoral Education, they were never to use an actual name, not even their own, when writing or reading a verbatim.

When they finished reading Olympia’s case, Patrick commented only that she found it to be a spiritually healthy interaction and that Olympia did well to allow the patient to direct the conversation; but in the future, she said, a chaplain should always remember to offer to pray with a patient before leaving them. After that, the other cohorts asked contextual questions about the patient and the nature of his or her illness, but other than that, they had little to add.

“We have time for one more. Luther, why don’t you go? We’ll do two more on Wednesday.”

Olympia could hear the deep intake of breath to her immediate right as Luther stood and began passing his paper-clipped pages to the right and to the left.

“Since this is a two-person verbatim, Olympia, I’d like you to take the part of the chaplain. Timothea, would you please be the patient?”

Olympia and Timothea looked at each other across the table, and both took out their reading glasses. Thus prepared, they began reading:

Chaplain
: “Good morning, Mrs. Patient, I’m the chaplain assigned to this unit. Would you like to have a pastoral visit with me?”

Patient
: “I’ve never been much of a church-goer, but I suppose at this point, I’d better give some thought to my soul.”

Chaplain
: “No time like the present. Good thing I brought my Bible. How are you feeling today?”

Patient
: “How do you think I feel? I’m in a hospital. Considering that, I feel pretty good. At least I’m not in pain. My husband’s going to be here in a few minutes. Is this going to take long?”

Chaplain
: “I’ll stay as long as you wish. Here, let me close the window shade a little bit, the sun is going to be in your eyes in a few minutes. There, isn’t that better?”

Patient:
“I suppose so, but make sure you open it back up when you leave. I’m almost blind, and the light is pretty. It’s something I can see.”

Chaplain:
“Sunlight is a gift from God—it brightens all of our lives. Would you like me to read to you from the Bible?”

Patient:
“Not really, but if you think it’ll help, then be my guest.”

Chaplain:
This is one of my favorites. Most people like it. (Reads the “Twenty -third Psalm.”)

Patient:
“Not very cheery, is it?”

Chaplain:
“Maybe not, but lots of people in your situation find it very comforting. Would you like me to read you another one?”

Patient
: “One’s enough. I think it must be lunch time, and I’m hungry. Thanks for coming.”

Chaplain:
Leans over patient, places hand on patient’s forehead and says, “May God bless you and be with you always, Patient.”

Patient
: “Don’t forget to open up the window curtain before you leave. I like the sunlight.”

The end

Patrick didn’t pick apart Luther’s presentation.  It was more like she shredded it.

“Luther, and this is to all of you, don’t ever lay a hand on a patient or anyone else, for that matter, without asking. This is even more important when you are ministering to someone of the opposite sex. Transference of emotions happens too easily in these situations, and what is intended to be a caring pastoral gesture can be totally misunderstood with potentially disastrous consequences for both parties.”

Now she focused directly on Luther. “I know you meant well, and taking a person’s hand when you are praying with them is almost always acceptable, but even under those circumstances, you always ask first. People who are ill can easily form … attachments … to caregivers. Touching another person without his or her express permission, however well intended, is never appropriate. It’s too easily misinterpreted, and a person lying in a hospital bed, half naked in a Johnny, is at his or her most vulnerable. Don’t ever do that again, Luther, or any of the rest of you.”

Luther’s face and neck were a deep red. Olympia couldn’t know whether it was embarrassment or anger or both, but whichever it was, she felt sorry for him and decided to come to his defense.

“Surely his actions were well intentioned. I think any of us might reach out to a patient without really thinking about it. It’s almost automatic. I’m sure Luther …”

Patrick’s voice took on a softer tone. “I didn’t mean to single you out, Luther, but a chaplain has to be more observant and more careful than even the doctors and nurses. I’ve said it before. We clergy are invested with an unusual power, and people respond to it in all kinds of ways. It’s very easy to abuse that power without even knowing it. You must never let that happen.”

“Sister Patrick.”

“Yes, Timothea?”

“What you say is true, but I think that Luther had a difficult patient. I can’t say what I would have done, but I think he did a good job under the circumstances.”

Olympia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Is this woman on a suicide mission? She’s either the bravest woman on earth or one of the dumbest.

Sister Patrick smiled and inclined her head toward the large, compassionate woman. “What you say is also true, Timothea, and this is your first time presenting a case, Luther. You’ll all improve, no doubt, but the no touching rule is paramount.”

Olympia was certain not one of them would ever forget it.

“Before we close for today,” said Patrick, “I want to remind you that we’ll be going over to our affiliate hospital across the street tomorrow for a tour of their obstetrics and neonatal unit. We’ll meet here at one, and I’ll show you the way through the underground walkway connecting the two facilities. It’s easy to get lost down there, so pay attention to me, and remember to follow the signs.”

Olympia was delighted. She loved everything to do with mothering and birthing and babies. Much as she loved visiting the feisty Elinore Banks and fragile Nancy Farwell, she’d already considered requesting some time with the new mothers and their infants before the end of the course.

“Before I started here I always thought those passageways were some kind of urban myth, that they didn’t really exist,” said Timothea.

“Oh, they’re real, all right,” said Patrick, gathering her papers. “They can be pretty spooky when you’re down there by yourself, but they’re well lighted, and they keep you out of the rain and save time if you need to get from one place to the other fast. The morgue is down there, too, and you might as well know exactly where. You may be called to accompany a body down there sometime.”

Luther, whose color was returning to normal, said nothing but stood, tight lipped, along with the others and went ahead to hold the door.