Tuesday, July 25, 3:30 p.m.
While Justine shopped for a few last minute items before her hospital admission, I spent a pleasant afternoon at the rectory with my nephew.
He promoted me to first lieutenant and placed me in charge of a squadron of plastic army men. Under General RJ’s command, we made a relentless assault up the front stairs against overwhelming odds and finally liberated his bedroom just in time for his afternoon nap. Remarkably, our troops did not suffer one casualty.
I hadn’t had much one-on-one contact with children in my life, and I was amazed to see how freely RJ could drift between fantasy and reality. Watching his expression of grim determination erupt into a happy dance at our decisive victory lifted my spirits, but left a hollow aching at my core.
Although everyone called me Father, I would never be one biologically. I would, however, get a taste of fatherhood for several weeks when Justine had her bone marrow transplant, and I wondered if I would be relieved or disappointed to return the reins to her when she was released. If she was released. I couldn’t even force myself to imagine what RJ’s world and mine would be like if she didn’t make it home from the hospital.
Justine returned around five o’clock, and we devoured a delicious meal of beef stew that Colleen had prepared. Well, RJ and I did. Justine merely pushed it around her plate. Afterward, she and I chatted into the early evening, swapping stories from our separate childhoods. She kept using the same nickname that I used for our philandering father—Dirt-bag. Concise and accurate. Having both been abandoned by him at a young age, we flaunted our anger with no remorse.
After he deserted us, my mother referred to my old man as a tomcat. As I grew older and learned what the term implied, I detested him even more. Now, with Justine sitting across from me, I grasped that the tomcat had fathered a kitten in Louisiana and inadvertently provided me with a family again. Having been without one for decades, it was an incredible blessing and an unexpected miracle—yet her illness raised the stakes enormously. If she died, RJ would be orphaned and I would be alone again.
Over a second cup of tea, Justine expressed fears about her upcoming procedure and our conversation returned to the present and grew serious. I tried to allay her concerns, and a few of my own, without flat-out lying. Unless Tree Macon located our father and the dirt-bag consented to donate his bone marrow, I didn’t like her chances, but kept my dark thoughts to myself.
When RJ became cranky, Justine put him to bed and retired early. Crawling around the floor with my nephew must have tweaked my healing fractures, because they were none too happy with me. I found the bottle of OxyContin that my physician had prescribed after my injury, took one, then put on the baseball game in the living room.
The Tribe and White Sox were in a slugfest with the score tied at nine. As they completed the eleventh inning, the opiate wrapped its arms around me and I slept until the mantle clock over the fireplace chimed seven, clanging me back to consciousness and into Wednesday morning.
My back felt fused to the sofa, and my mouth tasted like used gym socks. The TV was still on and sun poured in through the front window, flooding the room with sweet dawn light and painting a bright yellow-orange rectangle across the rug.
Justine had been raised by an atheist mother, and my sister had made it clear that she and RJ had no interest in attending services of any denomination, so I didn’t wake them. After a quick shower and shave, I scrambled to the church and dressed in my vestments.
Surprisingly, Wednesday morning Mass had a large turnout. I cleared my mind of all distractions, found my rhythm, and celebrated our Lord with joy and enthusiasm. Everything went well. The parishioners were attentive, the homily mesmerizing, and my timing spot-on. I felt like a great athlete who was “in the zone.”
I was savoring the sublime simplicity of the Eucharist and feeling blessed that my strange journey through life had somehow led me to this wonderful vocation and this perfect moment—until I noticed Martin Luther asleep behind the statue of St. Joseph. The furry rascal had a lot in common with his namesake. No matter how many times the Catholic Church had thrown Martin Luther out, he inevitably found his way back to his flock, and every time I banished the cat to the church basement, he always found a way upstairs. At least this time, he didn’t have a dead rodent in his mouth.
Martin remained motionless except for the occasional swish of his tail and I decided to let sleeping cats lie. As I recited the Lord’s Prayer, I began to relax, but the moment I said, “deliver us from evil,” the tabby made his move. He rose, nuzzled the statue, and strolled passed me into the sacristy.
Either no one else saw him or they chose not to react—or the congregation was simply interested to see what I would do. What I wanted to do was throttle the unrepentant reprobate. But I’d just said, “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” so I quietly asked my altar girl, Kristin, to evict him before he snuggled up to my black cassocks or left a hairball in my dress shoes. God only knew what mischief Martin would get into if left alone in the sacristy.
Kristin handled the crisis deftly and we finished Mass without further incident. I was changing out of my vestments when my cellphone rang.
“Jake, Marcus Taylor here. Sorry to bother you again. Could you come into the hospital ASAP?”
“What’s going on?”
“I spent the last twenty nine hours working on the SIDS baby. The child may have been in cardiopulmonary arrest too long before EMS got there. The damage is probably irreversible and I doubt that he’ll come out of his coma. I’ll have to run a battery of tests first, but … I hope to hell I’m wrong. The idea of discussing brain death with parents always turns my stomach. When I broke the news that things aren’t looking good, they asked if you could come and counsel them today. Miguel forgot to bring your telephone number and asked me to call. Please come. They’re in the room across from pediatric intensive care.”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Traffic was light, my foot heavy on the accelerator, and I arrived in twenty. Tina and Miguel were huddled in the waiting room, his arms draped around her, their foreheads touching like conjoint twins telepathically exchanging their fear and sorrow. He wore cutoff jeans and a Browns jersey that barely concealed his beer belly. She amply filled out a tight blouse above a short skirt displaying miles of suntanned legs. Although she may not have written the book on sensuality, she’d definitely read the CliffsNotes.
Both heads lifted when I entered.
“Thank God you’re here, Father,” Tina said. “Help us, please!”
Sadly, I had very little relief in either my Bible or my medical bag for this kind of catastrophe. I walked over and sat next to Tina.
“Your physician filled me in.” I placed a hand on her wrist. It was ice-cold and trembling. “I’m so terribly sorry.”
Miguel whispered, “Doc Taylor said we might have to pull the plug on our baby.” Tina glared at him, and he fixed his eyes on his shoes. “Diós mío! How we supposed to do that?”
“It may not seem possible, but you will get through this with God’s help.” The words sounded hackneyed and empty. “Would you like to pray?”
Tina said, “No, not now. We, ah, never ….” Her voice trailed off, and she stared at her long, manicured fingernails. “We never baptized Pablo. Could you? Now. Please?”
“Of course. Do you want to come in with me?”
“The nurse told us to stay here till they call us,” Miguel answered, “but don’t wait. Do it now, please.” He kissed Tina’s cheek and added softly, “What about Last Rites, Padre? Just in case.”
“Pablo’s not yet reached the age of reason and is too young to have sinned, so that’s not necessary.”
Tina stood, tears streaming down her cheek. “And pray that Pablo lives, Father. Please!”
“Certainly. I’ll come back as soon as I’m done and we’ll pray together.”
I usually loved being a priest. Not that Wednesday morning.
Trudging slowly across the hall, I entered the pediatric intensive care unit, which always reminded me of a young girl who had died of meningitis under my care when I was an intern. The child’s face was etched in my memory. I’d been a bumbling rookie then, and I’ve always wondered if I could have saved her had I been smarter, quicker, and more aggressive.
A PICU nurse recognized me. I explained my task and she led me to Pablo’s crib.
He was much smaller than I’d expected for a one year old. An endotracheal tube protruded from his mouth. His chest rose with each whoosh of oxygenated air from the ventilator. His tiny arms had more needle-stick holes than a sieve. A central venous catheter peeked from the right side of his neck and an IV was taped to a vein in his scalp.
The nurse opened a bottle of sterile water, handed it to me, and said, “The child’s in bad shape, Father. Make it as quick as you can.”
Holy water from the church or tap water were not options given the risk of infection. I sprinkled a few drops of sterile water on the only available exposed portion of the baby’s scalp and said, “I baptize you, Pablo, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” He did not stir.
The nurse took the bottle and ushered me away from the crib. I stepped out of her way and whispered a prayer for all of the sick and dying, then added, “Lord, Pablo is so young and helpless. Please return him to his parents so that he may lead a normal, healthy life. Allow him to experience this wonderful world you’ve created.” I wiped moist eyes. “This I ask in Jesus’s name. Amen.”
I gathered my composure and was walking back to pray with Pablo’s parents when Dr. Taylor stepped from the elevator. He was the grand old man of St. Joseph’s Hospital, a fixture for decades and the undisputed leader of the medical staff. I, however, thought of him as the grand old snowman, because of his pale complexion, coal-black eyes, and snow-white hair. Between Taylor’s roly-poly, Frosty-the Snowman physique and the oven-like heat outside, I worried that he might melt into a giant puddle before he reached his car in the parking garage.
I remembered Tree Macon’s question about whether there was any evidence against an accidental crib death interrupted by an alert parent.
“Marcus, I just saw the baby in PICU. He’s somewhat old for a SIDS episode, isn’t he?”
“It’s not common at that age, but not impossible. SIDS usually occurs between two and six months, although it can happen later on.”
“He’s small for his age. Shouldn’t a one year old be able to roll himself off his belly if he has trouble breathing?”
“That’s true in general, but may not apply to Pablo. He was born prematurely and had a difficult delivery resulting in birth trauma. After a short stay in neonatal intensive care, however, he seemed okay and we discharged him home. He continued to gain weight and was on no medication, so everyone relaxed. Things appeared to be fine. But over the last few months Pablo’s pediatrician noticed developmental delays indicative of underlying cerebral palsy from brain damage. Low birth weight premies are at higher risk for many things, including SIDS.” He paused and looked down. “In some ways, that may make things easier.”
“Easier? How?”
“The parents understand that Pablo was … damaged at birth. They’re young and can have more children. That may make letting go a little easier if we have to withdraw life support. I won’t know for certain for a few days, but I’ll have to broach the subject of possible organ donation soon.” He managed a weak smile. “That’s the kind of discussion that turned my hair white. Never gets any easier.”
Dr. Taylor patted me on the back and entered the intensive care unit.
Miguel and Tina were alone in the waiting room when I walked in. They set down their Styrofoam coffee cups, and we prayed the rosary together.
They thanked me and I got up to leave.
Tina stood and said, “One more question, Father.”
“Yes.”
“Would it be a sin if we … let the doctors take Pablo’s organs … if he passes? That could save other babies, right?”
Miguel appeared as stunned as I was. He stiffened, signaling resistance. This was not a question I expected at this stage from a parent. Usually families of dying patients initially oppose the idea of organ recovery. Some see it as a desecration of their loved one. With my sister’s impending bone marrow transplant, however, I wished that all families would be more open to the possibility.
The question made me wonder. As a premie, Pablo had spent time in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. The NICU can be a terrifying place for parents, and it was possible that Tina had never developed the normal maternal bond with her son. I could understand how the mother of a baby who was brain damaged might eventually suggest donating his organs, but still couldn’t imagine broaching the subject so soon after the child’s hospital admission.
“The Church has no problem with organ donation, Tina. I carry a donor card myself. And yes, that kind of selfless act could save the lives of several children.”
“Thank you. That’s what I needed to hear. If we … lose Pablo, I hope we can save some other parents from this living hell.”
“That’s a noble plan, but it’s too soon to talk about that, Tina. All we can do now is pray.”
They both nodded and I left, feeling helpless. Their baby was in God’s hands, and I hoped He would have mercy on this family in their hour of need.
I paged Dr. Taylor and told him that Tina was receptive to the idea of organ donation if Pablo was declared brain-dead.
Taylor sounded relieved. Tina’s premature, almost casual discussion of the possibility of harvesting her child’s organs, however, left me unsettled.