Here it may be permitted to put in a strong plea, if a nurse is wanted, to have a Catholic one. Many priests would prefer a nun, even though her medical qualifications were less than those of a professional nurse—which is far from being always the case. If, however, we yield so far as to have a lay woman, at least let her be one of our faith. It is astonishing how frequently even good Catholics impose a non-Catholic nurse on a priest on the plea that nursing has nothing to do with religion. There is really no reason to do so. Plenty of Catholic nurses are to be had. It means some little additional trouble, but that is all. Yet the gain in comfort to the sick man is immense; in the case of a mental illness it is supreme. There are scores of little ways of daily occurrence in which the Catholic nurse may help the devotion of the priest, and minister to his spiritual as well as his bodily wants. There is indeed something unseemly in the question of whether the patient is fit to say mass or not being regulated by a person to whom the mass means nothing, and who cannot possibly estimate the reasons in favour of that consolation being granted. In the meantime, the poor patient is helpless. He has to accept what others provide for him, and has no power to make his own wish felt, for in such matters an invalid is often treated with strange want of consideration. In many cases the hired nurse thinks little or nothing of the patient's feelings, so long as she keeps the sick room neat from a professional point of view, and so pleases the doctor. "I must not let you get bed-sores," a nurse once said, "or what will the doctor say?" The question "What will the patient say?" did not seem to enter her head; yet he was the chief person concerned.
Every serious illness has a crisis—sometimes of considerable duration—which is followed either by a recovery more or less gradual, or by a gradual sinking. Let us follow the former alternative first.
One of the predominant thoughts in time of serious illness is looking back on the days of one's health and strength with a feeling of regret for the poor use we made of them, and a longing to have the same advantage again, if but for a short time, to make some small amends for past shortcomings, or at least to show our goodwill. Canon Keatinge tells a touching story of a dying priest, one of whose arms had been amputated, who assured him that he would willingly part with the other arm also, if only he could have the privilege of saying mass once more. [1] Yet he had spent forty years of his life as a missionary, during which time he had said mass almost every day. A feeling somewhat akin to this is probably within the memory of most priests who have passed through serious illness. The recollection of their past priestly life passes through their mind, and they long to have once again the opportunities which formerly were so plentiful. When real convalescence has set in, they know that God in His mercy has heard their prayer, and they are to have another chance. This thought cannot but fill them with joy.
Yet convalescence is a time which requires in some sense greater patience than the crisis of an illness. It is essential for its completion that work shall not be resumed too soon. In grave illness nature asserts itself irresistibly in this matter, the very suffering and weakness overshadowing some of the tedium and ennui. But in the case of convalescence, it devolves on us to put voluntarily restraint on ourselves, and to omit doing many things which singly might not be beyond our actual physical power, but which would retard or even prevent proper recovery. It devolves on us to "kill time" in a manner that in health would be almost sinful. Literature of the lightest is indulged in, and wisely so, and any pastime such as a game of cards comes as a relief, when one longs to be once more up and doing. Day after day—week after week—we have to occupy ourselves as best we can, while our nature slowly recuperates itself. It is real wisdom to wait patiently for the day of our emancipation from the control of doctor and nurse. We may have the consolation of saying mass, if not every day, at least frequently; and the time may come when we may resume our Office, though until we are sure that we are able to say it all, we are not bound to say any. Then perhaps we may be well enough to be taken to the seaside or other health resort to complete the cure, and this forms a little excitement: but soon that dies down, in the heavy atmosphere of doing nothing, and we require all the stimulus we can get for our patience.
At length, however, the day dawns when we go forth, pronounced well enough for work, and we resume that life which we once thought had finally passed from us. Then is the time to gather up the fruits of our illness, and to show by the spirit with which we now approach our duties that the lesson of illness has not been lost on us. No feeling of high spirits at the events of life such as starting for a holiday or the prospect of enjoyment will compare with the feeling of elation at finding oneself once more leading the life of a priest in the midst of his people.
But not all illness leads to convalescence, and if the malady is taking a serious turn, the priest of all men has a right to be told. He has been so long familiar with death-beds that even the feeling of shock, so often put forward as a plea for concealing an invalid's state, is not to be apprehended in his case; and he knows as no one else does how to prepare himself to face this last passage. Alas! very often he has to do it for himself; he has frequently been the support and consolation of others, but he may live in a lonely mission and find no one to minister to him in his own time of need. He may have to go without Confession or Extreme Unction, and only secure Viaticum by getting a layman to open the Tabernacle, and bring up the Ciborium so that the patient can communicate himself. Or he may live in a populous city and have the same assistance as others. But in either case he has no reason for discouragement. If he has given his whole life to the service of his Divine Master, he need have no fear but that in return he will have the grace of dying as a priest should.
Once a priest always a priest, and there is no time in life when a man's priesthood is more prominent than when he lies on his bed of death, while his parishioners going about their daily duties remember him continually in their prayers. Thus truly they are grouped around him in spirit, as the sheep around their shepherd. "I know mine and mine know Me." He has been intimate with them, has shown how he knows and sympathises with their difficulties and trials and dangers; now it is their turn to show that they also know him, perhaps better than he knows himself, which they show by the very certainty they entertain as to his final lot. It may be that the priest himself, knowing his own frailty, is tempted to despondency as he lies so helpless on his bed of suffering. He may be as the man who "revolved these things within himself, saying: 'If I did but know that I should still persevere'; and presently he heard an answer from God; 'And if thou didst know this, what wouldst thou do? Do now what thou wouldst then do, and thou shalt be very secure.' And immediately being comforted and strengthened, he committed himself to the divine will and his anxious wavering ceased." [2] What more can the sick man do, but "commit himself to the divine will"? Then in union with that divine will, surrounded by those praying around him, he goes forth from the world as a priest of God, this being the concluding act of his priestly vocation.
[1] The Priest, etc., p. 60.
[2] Imitation, I, xxv. 2.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
BY WM. BRENDON AND SON, LTD. PLYMOUTH