Emergency

Patrick Stewart and Nancy Topping, my fellow staff workers, took me to emergency. When we arrived at the hospital, they both jumped out of the car and ran across the street. Though they weren’t gone long, I felt alone, deserted. Neither was true, but later this feeling would blend in with my whole experience, and I would find myself praying for all the people in the world who are alone or deserted.

Waiting

When they returned with a wheel chair, we went to the waiting room of emergency where we waited from about 7 p.m. until midnight. It was very, very crowded.

I had entered into a sea of pain, but at first I did not know it. I was far too tied up with my own pain to be aware of the pain around me.

But, as I sat there, a young couple, their faces filled with anxiety, arrived carrying a small baby who was crying. I knew that it would be some time before the child’s pain would be relieved. The crying of that baby touched my heart, and I found myself praying for him and for the parents.

As I continued to wait, many people were brought into emergency. I saw a man on a gurney being rushed down the hall as he received CPR. Others were rushed by as well, some with tubes coming out of their bodies. Many of the people I saw were obviously in serious condition. There was so much pain all around me, and I was drawn into that sea of pain.

A Stroke

When it finally was my turn to see the doctor, I became one of those being wheeled down the hall. Then when I learned that I’d had a stroke, I was reabsorbed into my own pain.

After my examination, I was wheeled out into the hall where, along with other patients, I lay in a gurney for a few more hours waiting for a bed. Patrick and Nancy waited with me until 2 a.m. when I urged them to go home. Patrick gave me his rosary.

After they left, a feeling of self-pity entered into me, but it lasted only a short while. Into my heart came a prayer I had made up and often used over the years: “All my days are in your hands. Fiat! (Let it be done to me.) Alleluia!” My heart mellowed and I felt a strong sense that I was entering a new phase of my poustinia life.

(For the past four years I have been a poustinik, which is a vocation within the vocation of MH. This means that I spend three days a week in poustinia, a place of prayer, fasting and solitude.)

As I lay there, I prayed the rosary and the Jesus Prayer for the sick people around me and all through the hospital.

Was this the new phase of my poustinik life? Was the hospital now to be my poustinia, a “poustinia in the marketplace”? Was this just my idea, or was it God’s?

This idea was soon confirmed. When Linda Owen (the local director of our house) came early in the morning to spend the day with me, one of the first things she said was, “You are really in the poustinia in the marketplace now.’’

Poustinia

Later I talked with Albert, the director general of men of MH, on the phone. He told me that I really was in the poustinia and that my prayer and suffering were very much needed.

So this was my “duty of the moment”, what God was asking of me now: to be in a sea of pain and embrace the pain of others, the pain of the bedridden man across the room, the pain of the woman whose father had his third stroke during the night, the pain of so many others all around me.

After Linda left, I just lay there. The only thing I could eat was fruit, and I could just barely walk the few feet to the commode. “You may be spending Christmas here,’’ I told myself.
The following morning, I heard the nurses say they were short two people and had not done the “vitals” yet. Someone else, probably the head nurse said, “We are just going to do what we can do.’’ I could feel the place relax. I began praying my rosary for them. The head nurse saw this and said, “Say one for me’’. So I did.

On the third day, I began physiotherapy, and a few days after that, I was able to practice with the walker on my own. I practiced as much as possible because my duty of the moment was also to get as well as I could.

On December 14th, the anniversary of the death of Catherine Doherty, the social worker told me that I needed more intensive physiotherapy and that I was to be transferred to a sub-acute hospital where I would receive it. However, I would have to wait for a bed.

A Miracle?

“Maybe there’ll be one tomorrow,’’ I said. She smiled nicely and replied that she didn’t think so. “Maybe there’ll be a miracle,’’ I said. She just smiled again and left the room.
Right away I turned to Cath-erine Doherty in prayer. “I want a miracle,’’ I told her. The next day, there was an empty bed.

I spent eight days there and went home just two days before Christmas.

As time went on, I continued to recover and now can walk with just a cane. But the sea of pain that I entered into has not left me.

In the Sea

I would compare it to being in the sea. The pain of others comes at me continuously the way the currents of the sea used to move against my body. As I was aware of those currents, I am aware of the pain.

Sometimes the pain of others is before my eyes. Other times, it comes to mind. Either way, my heart is moved to compassion and prayer.

The sick and those in the medical profession now have a deep part in my intercessory prayer.

The sea of pain is a part of me now and I think it will continue to be. I can leave it if I wish, but my heart tells me not to.