Chapter 37
April 13, 1832
House of Mercy
Dublin, Ireland
It took three months of hard work, but by early spring, the House of Mercy was getting back to normal. The volunteers had grown used to having women in black habits around, and I daresay we three warmed to our roles.
But Elizabeth’s was short-lived. She had started showing signs of consumption at St. George’s, which we all hoped it was just an ague that would pass. But it was not. Her coughing continued, and at the start of Lent, she began coughing up blood. By mid-month she was in the infirmary and all signs pointed to our little saint meeting her Bridegroom at far too young an age.
Because of this, the mood of House was somber as Easter approached. Then the newspapers began reporting on a particularly contagious form of cholera that had made its way to England and would soon reach our shores, if it hadn’t already. Cholera was not an uncommon disease; outbreaks occurred every few years, but they rarely made headlines at all, much less on a national scale like this. Dr. Frances Barker, secretary of the Central Board of Health for Ireland, warned the public to seek immediate medical treatment if they experienced any symptoms. It was critical, he said, that patients seek treatment in the first six hours, because beyond that, there was little hope of survival.
We understood what this meant, even if ordinary people had not yet grasped the seriousness of the situation. The government was preparing for an epidemic and, therefore, so were we. Just as we tried to ease their burden in ordinary times, if the people of Dublin were in danger, it was our duty to help them as we could.
Wishing to remain at Elizabeth’s side, I organized our relief response through Sister Anna Maria, and put Grace and Frances in charge of devising a plan to keep the schools running, see to the women and children in the shelter, and protect everyone who lived under this roof. Our health and safety had to come first, or we would have nothing to give to others.
Sister Anna Maria stockpiled all the supplies she could find to treat cholera victims in case the House was requisitioned into a hospital or our Sisters had to minister to people in their homes. Our cellar, usually brimming with canned vegetables and meat, root vegetables and smoked fish, was now home to dozens of bottles of laudanum for pain, castor oil, and calomel to help empty the bowels. Not to mention the gin, brandy, cinnamon, and peppermint that was mixed with water for treatment.
On Easter Sunday, I was dozing in Elizabeth’s room when she opened her eyes, coughed, wished me a Blessed Easter, and asked for a priest. Archbishop Murray was already at the House to celebrate Mass, so gave her last rites. Through wheezing breaths and one long coughing fit, she gave her final confession and accepted the holy anointing.
While she was making peace with her God, I was praying for a miracle. We couldn’t lose her, not yet, not so young. She was the future of our order and had so much left to give. Why would God allow her to become a Sister of Mercy if he wasn’t going to use her tremendous gifts to help others? It was so wrong, just so wrong. I realized in that moment of blind grief, when I couldn’t even trust in God, what Mother Mary must have felt like watching her only son die unfairly on the Cross. I had grown to love Elizabeth like the daughter I had never had, and here I was, just two years later, saying goodbye to her on Easter Sunday.
And it was all that horrible Mother Superior’s fault. If she hadn’t treated Elizabeth like a slave, working her half to death and making her endure conditions not fit for a dog, the youngest Sister of Mercy would be taking her place in the chapel to celebrate our Lord’s resurrection, not preparing to meet Him in Heaven. My training at St. George’s said I should pray to the Mother of Sorrows for strength and, like Mary, abandon all to God, trusting in his great love and mercy, but in that moment all I could do was wonder if God really knew what he was doing. How could an all-loving being allow such a horrible person to control the lives of women who were dedicated to him? And why did He have to take one of His best daughters instead of her?
Bitter tears welled up from my broken heart, and I leaned my forehead against Elizabeth’s cold arm, begging God to change his mind, to let her live.
When I lifted my head again, Sister Anna Marie had gathered all of the women of the house around Elizabeth’s deathbed, though at a slight distance, due to her illness. When Archbishop Murray approached her with Holy Communion, they began chanting the Office for the Dead and Dying.
Elizabeth closed her eyes to pray after receiving the body and blood of Christ, and I feared she would never again open them. A few moments later, her lids fluttered and she whispered in a voice so quiet I could barely hear her though my ear was near her lips, “Thank them for me. Their singing brings me such peace.”
Her eyes closed again and a spasm rocked her body, forcing her to sit up as she gasped for air between coughs. When her head touched the pillow, she was gone, a soft smile on her lips, despite the violence of her last moments. Whatever she had seen in death must have been beautiful indeed.
Although I wanted nothing more than to drape myself across her body and weep, to sob ugly tears and scream the unfairness of it all, I swallowed my emotions and wiped the tears from my eyes. Standing for the first time in hours, I swayed a little before regaining my feet. Looking out at the grieving women around me, I tried to offer them what encouragement I could. “Today, Sister Elizabeth is reborn again into Heaven with the resurrected Christ, her spouse. Though we mourn, this is the happiest of days for her, for she is with her God to whom she dedicated her life. Therefore, it is fitting that we pray the Easter psalm: ‘This is the day the Lord has made.’”
The Sisters responded, “’Let us rejoice and be glad.’”
*****
The next day, the papers reported not on the tragic death of a young nun but on the thousand people who already had been sickened by cholera and the three hundred who had died. The first temporary cholera hospital was opened at Grangegorman Lane Penitentiary and was to be staffed by the Sisters of Charity.
Of course, Father Kelly would be sure they were the first appointed to help. For a moment, bitterness hardened my heart, but then I was struck with inspiration. If he could lobby for permission for the Sisters of Charity, I could do the same for the women of the House of Mercy. Once again, I sought refuge in my office and began penning a letter to the Archbishop, asking his permission for us to serve the cholera victims however we could. I sent it by messenger to hasten a response.
The Archbishop’s reply came during dinner. He informed us that a depot was being set up on Townsend Street where anyone seeking cholera treatment could come. It would be ready in a matter of days and we would be the ones to provide aid. Sounding much like the spiritual father he was to us, he left us with sage advice:
“Until then, my daughters, take care that your bodies remain strong. Avoid all intoxicating liquors, which weaken our resistance to disease, but drink a fortifying port wine with your mutton chops and be sure to get plenty of nourishment and sleep. I understand that you have hearts of service, but you will do the people of Dublin no good if you are too tired to treat them or are felled by the disease yourself. I thank you for your willingness to serve those in need. May God bless you with healing hands and consoling hearts.”