Photo by Pearse O'Halloran on Unsplash
Doctor Swanson peeked into the room and asked to talk to me. I left Mom's bedside. Two hours ago she seemed to be doing fine. Now, she was in a deep sleep.
He said, "Mary has gone into a coma. Given the state of her heart failure, it is not possible to control her condition anymore. If we increase her fluids to combat the dehydration, her lungs fill up and she can’t breathe; giving her diuretics to reduce the fluid retention triggers dehydration. It's a whiplash effect. Either way, she will go into organ failure very soon. I'm afraid there nothing more we can do.”
It was jarring to hear what the doctor said. For a moment, I didn’t hear anything else. All along I knew this was coming, but she had fought the heart failure off for so long that I put this eventuality out of my mind. Now, the day was here. Because Mom’s health had declined in recent years and she could no longer live alone, I moved her from New York to Iowa. There was no one else she could turn to. Dad was long dead, as was my older brother. That left only me. I held the power of attorney, so I had decisions to make.
“Should I have the nurse contact hospice coordinator?" The doctor asked.
"Yes, if you would, please. Can you keep Mom comfortable? I asked.
"We will make sure she is. The Hospice will then handle everything once she gets there," he said.
There was nothing left to say but, "Thank you."
A short time passed, there was knocked at the door. "Hi, I’m Cheryl Voight, the hospice coordinator."
I didn’t look up. I was looking at Mom. "Yes. Hello. What happens now?" I probably came off as abrupt.
"She'll go by ambulance to a local hospice. Your whole family can come and stay. Do you live here or are you from out of town?"
“We live here. Can you get a facility on the west side of town? It would be closest to our home.” I said. Cheryl nodded.
I then signed some paperwork. Cheryl had a copy of my power of attorney. I kept telling myself, "This was the right thing to do." I still hoped there was a miracle available but I was fooling myself. With the transfer arrangements made, the reality of my situation hit me. I should say, “our situation”; it was Mom who was the main player in this drama. The rest of us were onlookers.
It was not long afterwards, a man poked his head in the room. He was short, his hair uncombed and he was not in scrubs.
I thought, "Who is this? What now?"
The man smiled. “Hi, I’m Father Thomas Autry, the hospital’s Roman Catholic Chaplin. I understand your mother is about to be transferred to hospice care. It is listed on her admittance form that she is Catholic and wanted Last Rites, if the occasion warranted.”
“Well, Father, it looks like it’s time.” I said.
“This will not take long,” he said. I stood back and watched him perform the sacramental ritual.
When he was done, I thanked him. Mom had been very clear with me; she wanted the Last Rites performed by a young, “handsome” priest who said Mass at the assisted living center. That was not Father Autry but since I wasn’t sure how much time she had, I couldn’t take the chance she’d die before I could locate the priest she wanted. I had to let Father Autry perform the sacrament. I thought, “If nothing else, I got this covered.”
Then my wife, Claire and daughter, Samantha arrived. They had been in the hallway talking with the hospice coordinator. I told them the Last Rites were done.
Claire said, “Hon, your Mom wanted that young priest to do it, not some random chaplin.”
“I know. When we get to the hospice, if she’s still alive, I’ll call the Diocese and get that priest she wanted to hustle over and do the Last Rites.”
“You’re going to have it done again? Samantha said. “You’re not supposed to do that.”
“One time, two times, what’s the difference? I’m going to find this “handsome” young priest and get this done. I promised Mom I would but the clock is ticking here, Sam. I had to get the Last Rites done.”
I understood I was not following strict Roman Catholic doctrine. The name of the sacrament of “Last Rites” implies that it is a final sacrament, to be performed at the end, one time. I’m smart enough to know what “last” means but my word to Mom was going to be kept regardless of ancient religious protocol. Anyway, if there was some sin being committed here, God knew who to blame.
Right then, the attendants arrived to take Mom to the hospice. We watched as they moved her to the ambulance. We followed along.
Upon arriving, I asked the hospice director for the number of the Diocese. My intention, find that “young, handsome priest” and get him over here to perform the Last Rites. I was about to place the call but I realized I didn’t know who to ask for. Neither Claire nor Samantha remembered the young priest’s name either. We all had blank looks on our faces.
Then, I remembered a name, Father Kenner. Without hesitating, I dialed the number and explained to the secretary our situation. I asked if Father Kenner was available to perform the Last Rites. She said he was and would come right over. I gave the secretary Mom’s name and her room number. I felt like the weight of the world was lifted off my shoulders. Mom’s last wish would be fulfilled.
To be sure he would find us in time; I stood in the lobby of the hospice waiting for a young, “handsome” priest to walk through the door. The person that came in was a stooped, old man, probably in his seventies. He was a priest but not “the priest”. I thought there was some mix up.
“Are you Father Kenner?” I asked.
“Yes I am. I was told a woman needed Last Rites.”
“Right, that my Mom, Mary O’Meara. I called the Diocese office. Do you know her from the assisted living center?” I asked.
“No. I have her name here but I don’t recognize it. I don’t believe we have ever met.”
Now, I had a crisis on my hands. I couldn’t remember the priest’s name Mom wanted, I had called the wrong one and here he stood. I did the only thing a practical person would do; I had him perform the Last Rites.
I took him to Mom’s room. After introductions, Claire and Samantha pulled me aside, all the time smiling at Father Kenner but giving me dirty looks.
“Samantha fired the first shot. She whispered, “Dammit, Dad, you are having the Last Rites performed a second time?”
I whispered back, “I know but what am I supposed to do, the poor fellow came all the way over here at my request.”
I didn’t tell Father Kenner he was repeating a sacrament performed about an hour and half earlier. When he was done, I handed him twenty dollars as a donation and we all thanked him for coming so quickly to our Mom’s side. He then left.
Mom was comfortably in bed, still “sleeping”. Exhausted, I sat down and looked around the room for the first time. There were some chairs, a television and a tape player. Someone thought it would be a good idea to play tapes of the Our Father and Hail Mary as background read by a voice actor who sounded liked Mrs. Doubtfire. After about twenty minutes, I pulled the plug on that.
A large window faced a wooded area next to Mom’s bed. It was nice to have the privacy afforded by the woods. I then noticed on the tree closest to the window, opposite her bed, was a squirrel. It was sitting on a branch; eyes were fixed upon Mom. It didn’t move; it just stared at her.
Finding its presence unnerving, I stood up and went to the window and tapped.
Claire annoyed by the tapping, said, “What are you doing? Stop that.”
“I can’t get rid of this squirrel and it’s staring at Mom.”
“So what, it sees activity. Leave it alone. It’s not bothering anybody.” She said.
I tried to find other things to do. I sat close, held Mom’s hand but I also kept looking at that squirrel. When I took Mom’s hand it seemed to move further out on the branch, closer to the window, to get a better look at what I was doing.
“Claire, take a look at this nutty squirrel. It’s watching Mom.” I said. She looked at it for a moment then turned away without commenting.
Then my cell phone rang. It was one of the nurses at the assisted living center.
“Mr. O’Meara, this is Connie Benson. I have Father Pittman here and he heard your Mom is very ill and in the hospice. He would like to come over and administer Last Rites.”
“Connie, did you say, Father Pittman?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Is he a young, good looking fellow?” I asked.
“Yes he is.” She said.
“Jesus Christ! It was Father Pittman not Father Kenner I wanted.” I think everyone, including the quick and the dead in the hospice, heard me. I know the squirrel did because it seemed startled but didn’t leave.
Realizing I just yelled the Lord’s name in vain into the phone, I said, “Sorry, Connie, please ask Father Pittman if he would be willing to come over as soon as he can and give Mary the Last Rites. Right now she’s resting comfortably but I have no idea when the end will come.” I gave her our location and I went to the lobby to wait for him.
After about fifteen minutes, as I looked out into the parking lot, I saw a tall, young and, yes, “handsome” priest get out of the car and walk to the building. As he came in, I stepped forward to greet him.
“Father Pittman?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. He said. “I’m glad I found out about your Mom. We often talked about me performing the Last Rites when the time came.”
I said nothing about Last Rites #1 and #2 which I felt would complicate matters.
We then walked to her room. I introduced him to Claire and Samantha. As he started the third performance of the Last Rites, we watched with tears in our eyes. Why, I don’t know, but I looked out the window and the squirrel was still there. It had moved further to the end of the branch to get closer to the window and had not left since we first arrived. Its stare at Mom and Father Pittman was as intense and sustained as I have ever seen from any animal.
When the Father completed his task, he said a few prayers, blessed us all, took Mom’s hand and gave it a slight squeeze. He said if there was anything we needed to call or text his cell phone. We all thanked him.
After Father Pittman left, I looked out the window again. The squirrel took one final glance and then scampered off. I checked Mom, she was gone.
#
We flew Mom’s body to New York State to be buried next to my father. She had one final part of the funeral plan that meant the world to her. She had made arrangements with the Monsignor of her former church in New York to give her eulogy. For the occasion, she wrote her own “autobiography”. I called the funeral director in New York and had her contact the Monsignor to make sure he could be available for the funeral. A meeting was arranged between him and our family to go over the details.
When we got together he said he thought the “autobiography” would be most helpful in giving the eulogy. He then asked, “Did she have the last rites?”
I said, “Yes, three times.” I then told him the story. He was not amused and let me know that. I didn’t care though. If anyone was without sin it was my Mom. She didn’t need one Last Rites ritual let alone three but I admit having three last rites performed within a few hours of one another was excessive.
At the funeral, the Monsignor’s eulogy was touching. His use of Mom’s ‘autobiography” made her life story come alive. She would have been very happy with the funeral. After the burial, we all went out to dinner. After the Monsignor left, the three Last Rites story was told many times to great laughter.
#
Once we were home in Iowa, I couldn’t stop thinking about that squirrel. Why did it come to our window? What caused it to stay? Why did it watch Mom so intently? Then it came to me, it wasn’t a squirrel at all, it was my father. Through the squirrel, he came to welcome his wife to heaven or wherever good people go when they die. Whether you believe that or not is of no concern to me. I believe it because it’s the only way I can make sense of all this.
Every day now, I feed the squirrels who visit my backyard. I'm in hopes that just one time I might see the "welcoming committee" again. I'll know them when I see them. They will be perched in the maple tree just outside my kitchen window. This time it will be two squirrels instead of one, looking through the window. If it happens, it will be nice to see the folks together again; it’s been so long. I will wonder, though, are they here to welcome me? If so, as much as I'd like to see them again, I can wait a little longer.
Edward N. McConnell writes flash fiction and short stories. To date his work has appeared in Literally Stories, Terror House Magazine, Mad Swirl, Down in the Dirt, Rural Fiction Magazine, The Corner Bar Magazine, MasticadoresIndia, Drunk Monkeys, The Milk House and Refuge Online Literary Journal. His story Where Harry’s Buried was selected for inclusion in The Best of Mad Swirl v2021. He lives in West Des Moines, Iowa with his wife.