A Funny Thing Happened

Raising the Dead

2010-01-31T16:29:00.002-05:00

It was in the late 1970's; I'd been out of nursing school and working nights in the Intensive Care Unit long enough to feel confident in my skills and comfortable in the face of the mysterious events that happened there, a place of extraordinary illness and extraordinary healing. Within the confines of that small, seven-bed unit, amazing things happened all the time: patients who should have died recovered without a hitch; others, who should have recovered, slipped out of our grasp.

This particular occurrence--the strangest of them all--happened at the edges of my professional life. I observed this story from a clinical distance, as if I were eavesdropping, peeking around the corner into the lives of others. The care of this patient, a young woman in her early twenties, had been assigned not to me but to other nurses. While I often helped her primary nurse with the duties of bathing, turning and suctioning, I remained mostly at the periphery. I was a compassionate and, eventually, an awe-struck witness.

I don't recall if it was some catastrophic illness or an accident that brought this young woman to Intensive Care. I remember that she was, even in her coma, even with the endotracheal tube distorting her mouth and her features, beautiful. If memory serves me, her hair was long and dark; her nurses would braid it or rubber-band it into two ponytails. I never saw her father, but her mother was ever present at the bedside, praying and talking and holding her daughter's hand. Not a nurse herself, perhaps not even familiar with any part of our medical world, this mother nevertheless guarded her daughter fiercely. No one drew blood, gave a medication, changed a ventilator setting or came within two feet of her daughter's body without being questioned: Why are you drawing more blood? What is the medication you're giving her? Are you giving her more oxygen today or less? Is this treatment really necessary? I overheard, more than once, this mother's calm but decisive, no, you're not doing that. I saw, more than once, usually taciturn doctors take their time to explain what was happening and why.

I'm not sure if the patient's mother ever went home to rest. She seemed to be there, sitting with her daughter, whether I was working my usual night shift or picking up an extra day or evening shift. As I cared for my own patients, looking through the clear glass partitions that separated one patient from another, I watched this young woman's heart line, a red tracing leaping across the cardiac monitor, and I could see the erratic blood pressure readings that sometimes dropped so low I wondered if she was dying, and other times rose so high I was sure a stroke was imminent. After the second week, when there was no change in her condition, the doctors that came and went from her bedside grew grim and, perhaps to protect themselves, began to spend more time with the chart and less time with the patient. Then one day, after a huddle of doctors in their white coats had gathered around the bedside, hiding both the patient and her mother from my sight, I heard a cry of anguish followed by an explosion of anger: No, the mother shouted. No, you will not take her off the respirator.

A few days later, when I came in at eleven for the beginning of my night shift, the patient and her mother were gone. Had the mother relented and allowed the doctors to take away the tubes and machines that were, apparently, keeping her daughter alive and breathing? No, the charge nurse said. The mother refused to let her daughter be taken off life support and so the hospital discharged her to a long-term rehab hospital in New York, ventilator and all. A few of the nurses shook their heads and said things like if it were my daughter, I'd have let her go. Who wants to live like a vegetable?

I didn't say anything. Even though keeping this patient on life support seemed to fly in the face of all medical advice, and even though the mother's decision to cling to her daughter's life seemed based solely on intuition--a mother's intuition--I silently agreed with her. I hoped that, if necessary, I would have that mother's courage and faith, even if, after all, the eventual outcome was uncertain. The mother's words--it's only been two weeks; can't we wait to be sure--stayed with me.

A year later, when I was no longer working in ICU but putting in my time on the oncology unit, I heard the final outcome of this story. I met a nurse, a colleague from Intensive Care, in the cafeteria. She asked if I remembered the young woman patient and her mother. Sure, I said. Who could forget?

"Apparently," my friend went on, "the patient went to a rehab hospital where she stayed on the vent for another week. No one could talk the mother into extubating her. She kept insisting that her daughter would recover. Then one day, the daughter squeezed her mother's hand and a few days later opened her eyes. It took months of physical therapy and occupational therapy, but"--here my friend paused and popped a French fry into her mouth--"guess what? She and her mother walked into the unit yesterday to say hello. Pretty wild, right?"

I've thought about that young woman and her mother many times in the years since I stood across the unit, watching them. Why did this patient survive when it seemed, according to all medical indicators, that her life was over? How could she be labeled "hopeless" one day and, a few weeks later, open her eyes and begin her life all over again? And what if--how frightening to think this--what if the mother had said yes, let's take out the tube and let my child go? What if we caregivers, relying on whatever we think is the most up-to-date information of our time, consign a patient to die when, with a bit more time and vigilance--and perhaps a lot more faith--we might witness a different outcome? How do we know? How do we ever know?

I wonder about my own conviction in the face of what might seem to be the overwhelming medical evidence presented to me if I were sitting vigil at a loved one's bedside. I can only hope that I would be like that mother, resolute and ever on watch, not prolonging a life indiscriminately but also not abandoning life too soon. And now that so many years have gone by, now that I've seen so many miracles during my long nursing career, I also look at this story from the young woman's point of view: when I'm the patient, will there be someone who loves me enough, trusting in the grace that lies beyond our medical knowledge, to wait to be sure? Will there be someone there to honor my life in just that way?

Where Did All Those Babies Go?

2009-05-26T10:06:00.001-04:00

It was 1972, and I was a nursing student in the final months of my training, eagerly awaiting graduation and the beginning of my real life as a nurse. I don’t recall the time of year exactly, but it must have been early spring, just warm enough to come to work without a cardigan. I know this because I remember thinking how oppressive it was in that closet, the one where my patient awaited me; I remember thinking that it was a good thing I didn’t bring a sweater.
The closet that housed my patient was simply that—a linen closet with a stainless steel rack that held piles of sheets and jonny coats, pillow cases and Chux. This rack had been shoved to the side to make room for the single isolette that stood just inside the closet door. A small crib with a thin mattress and an extra bumper, it held a newborn infant, a boy, who slept on and on. There was no card attached to the front of the isolette proclaiming his date of birth, his weight, or his name. I called him Baby Boy, although they told me I shouldn’t get attached to him. I sang and hummed to him, although they told me he couldn’t hear.
When he wasn’t being tended by me or one of the other nursing students who, during the day, were assigned his care, Baby Boy’s closet door was closed and the light was turned off, leaving him alone in the quiet dark. When I protested, I was told that he couldn’t see and so the light being left on or off made no difference. When I asked about his mother, the nurse in charge hushed me. It’s a tragedy, was all she would say. It took us students some time and quite a bit of snooping to discover that his mother’s room was just down the hall on the other side of the maternity ward. We learned that her baby boy had been whisked away at birth, before she awoke from anesthesia. We learned that the doctors had told her, at her husband’s urging, that the baby was stillborn. She’d never seen her boy, never held him; and she didn’t know that he was only a short walk away, left in a closet until, as the charge nurse said, “Nature took its course.” Sometimes we students ambled past the mother’s room, peeking in to see her face. We talked about how we might go in and let her know that her baby wasn’t dead at all; we said, what if she had a chance to hold him?
Looking back, I assume that we were assigned Baby Boy’s care because he was considered a lost cause—even bumbling nursing students couldn’t cause him any more harm. And he required minimal care: diapering and turning. No vital signs were to be taken. Water was to be offered but no sucking response was anticipated. The medical staff expected the baby to die within hours. But two, three, four days later, he lived on.
When I first saw him, I was only mildly taken aback. Well warned by the charge nurse, I expected the baby to be some sort of monster, born “without a brain” as she said, “with nothing left but a face and a body.” Instead, I saw an infant with a strangely compressed forehead, eyes tightly closed, and perfectly chiseled lips and chin. Although his face was prominent, he did in fact have what seemed to be a near-normal sized skull, only steeply sloped and covered with fine blond hair. He looked, from some angles, like an elderly wizened man. If I turned him just a bit, he looked like a peacefully sleeping infant. Did he respond to my holding and rocking? I thought he did. Did his lips and cheeks respond to the nipple, to the bottle of water I offered? I believed they did. When I asked the charge nurse if I could please try some formula, that I thought he might take it, she said she would ask the doctor but she doubted he’d be unwilling to prolong the inevitable. On the second day, Baby Boy began to cry, a high pitched, hungry, agonizing whine. Okay, the nurse said, try some formula. But although his lips smacked and his cheeks tried to suck, most of the formula dribbled out of his mouth.
When the keening persisted, some of the nurses worried that his mother might hear and, responding to some primal recognition, try to investigate—why were such haunting sounds coming from behind the closed linen closet door? They moved her further down the hall, and the next day the doctors sent her home. I wondered how long it took her to stop crying over a baby she’d never seen. I wondered how her husband lived with the knowledge that he’d left their newborn boy in the hospital where it was taking what the doctors called “way too long to die.”
No, the doctors told me. No intravenous. And a feeding tube was out of the question.

I first cared for Baby Boy on a Wednesday. Thursday he cried, and Friday he seemed to settle into a resigned stupor. His mouth worked in the pantomime of nursing. His fists curled and uncurled. His eyelids—did I imagine this?—opened and his eyes wandered about, searching. I never asked what happened to him on the off-shifts, on evenings or nights. Did the aides have time to rock him, to sing to him? When I returned to the maternity floor on Monday, the linen closet held only linen. Baby Boy had died, unattended, sometime during the afternoon on Saturday, in the fifth day of his age. He died before the time of grief counseling and support. He died before the time when his parents would hold him; when a nurse would wrap him in receiving blankets and photograph him; when another nurse would clip a lock of his hair and tie it in a blue ribbon. He died before we understood how necessary it is for parents, siblings and grandparents to gather together to welcome such a child, and then to accompany him gently to his death.
I don’t know what happened to Baby Boy’s body. At the time, I never thought to ask. At the time, I never thought that such disregard for life, such secrecy, such denial of the reality of grief, was all that unusual. It wasn’t until years later that I wondered, as I do now, where all those babies went, all those who were not whole, not perfect. Were there other closets in other hospitals where infants, abandoned as hopeless, were tended by other nursing students who sang to babies who could not hear, and loved babies who would not survive? Today, when genetic testing is so common early in pregnancy, these babies are too often “weeded out,” denied not only sustenance and love but also life itself—even if that life would be brief and seemingly insignificant. But I wonder, how many lives did Baby Boy touch from within the small space of his life, during the few days he spent in the dark, never held by his parents, never loved except by some awkward students? But here I am, all these years later, writing about him. If he only touched one life, one soul, wasn’t that enough? And even if, during his brief life, he never touched anyone, still, he had a soul—and wasn’t that enough?

My Double Life

2009-05-18T09:08:00.004-04:00

Until a few years ago, I led a double life. Not easy, that going back and forth between acting like the woman everyone thought I was and yet wanting to be openly the woman I had become. The conversation that tipped me off to the reality of my double life went like this:
“So,” my nurse practitioner friend said. “Can you believe that they’re still trying to push abstinence education in the schools? Kids don’t need abstinence; they need birth control and easy access to abortion.” She looked at me, sure of my agreement. “Well?” she asked.

I hesitated. Should I tell her that I actually did support teaching teens about abstinence and that I was, in fact, not in favor of “easy access” to abortion? If I said what I really thought, would she look at me and, in an eye blink, see me not as her colleague and friend but as an enemy—someone she might label a right-wing, pro-life kook? I didn’t want to get into an argument. And I certainly didn’t want to be labeled a kook.

For most of my adult life, I’d viewed abortion as a woman’s right. As a nurse practitioner, I’d worn a button on my lab coat that said “Pro-choice!” When I wasn’t working I wrote about my work, and my published poems and books reflected my “feminist” stance. But during my eighteen years in women’s health, my views on what is truly pro-woman had changed; alas, my courage had not kept pace with my beliefs.

For years I’d remained silent regarding my feelings about abortion for a variety of reasons: unwillingness to judge others; desire to fit in with the caregiving community; fear of job repercussions; and fear of challenging the view of our takes-abortion-for-granted society. Yet at the same time I wondered how many other caregivers had experienced a change of heart about abortion. Were there others who, like me, were leading double lives; others who were against abortion in their minds and hearts but who, like me, remained silent?

My own change of heart was fostered by patients who chose abortions, by my direct participation in their abortions, and by the advances made in perinatal medicine during my years in women’s health. Many of the women who came to the clinic asking for abortions told me they felt they were choosing something, as one woman said, “terribly wrong.” Often, they mourned the loss of their pregnancies even before the abortions had been accomplished; some asked if they would ever forgive themselves. Many were propelled into choosing abortion by the inability to find an alternative solution. And we clinicians in the clinic did little to help them. After all, we’d been taught to tell women that twelve-week pregnancies were nothing more than a “bunch of cells”; we were taught to turn the ultrasound monitor away so that a woman couldn’t see her unborn baby. “If she sees it,” one doctor told me, “she might change her mind.”
I saw women who, after their abortions, were not relieved, but grieving. Some were downright angry. Many felt their pre-termination counseling had been rushed; some felt they hadn’t been given enough information about other options. More than one woman returned dismayed that no one had explained to her exactly "what we would be aborting." Until going online and searching out photos of fetal development, these women had no idea of what a five to twelve-week fetus “was like.” These women—and many more—felt that we, the doctors and the nurses, had not been honest with them and had not fully revealed what abortion entails.

There were also women who did not express any grief following their abortions. And yet many of these women sensed that there was something about abortion that wasn’t natural. I saw women who, after several abortions, decided to keep the next unintended pregnancy although their financial and social situations had not changed. They simply felt they “couldn’t do this again.” One woman decided against abortion when an ultrasound confirmed she was pregnant with twins. Her exact words were "I couldn’t kill two of them." I saw women who were torn between their maternal instincts and their life circumstances. We caregivers said, “You have to do what is right for you at this time in your life.” Even as I spoke those words, I sensed how wrong, how against God and nature, that advice was.

I wondered why we tried so hard to preserve a woman’s choice to abort but invested so little energy in helping women who might choose, against difficult odds, to keep a pregnancy. I wondered why we didn’t give women complete information about the termination procedure, the stage of fetal development of their pregnancies, and the local pregnancy centers that could help them to keep their pregnancies. I wondered why we didn’t listen to those women who were plunged into sadness, guilt, grief and remorse after their abortions.

During my years in women’s health, I also discovered that it’s much easier to be pro-choice when one is not actually participating in abortions. For many of my pro-choice years, I’d never seen an abortion and had little idea what was involved in abortion; my "being pro-choice" was merely giving easy lip service to the feminist (and society's) mantra. But working in women’s health, eventually I did participate in abortion; I did learn what abortions were all about. I participated by inserting laminaria, the cervical dilators often placed the day before a woman’s abortion, thus beginning the then-unstoppable progression to pregnancy termination. One day, when I’d inserted one laminaria after another, it struck me that while some women might have had several abortions, I’d participated in so many more. How many babies, I asked myself, had I helped to abort?

My conversion to being pro-life was also supported by the astounding advances made in fetal medicine over my years in women's health. The gestational age of viability crept down from twenty-eight or twenty-nine weeks to twenty-four weeks or less. We identified women whose fetuses had operable defects and sent these women to perinatal centers where specialists operated on the babies, still in the womb. With these advances, I began truly to understand the miracle of pregnancy. Scientifically, I knew that life begins at conception; emotionally, I understood that fertility is a gift and that the ability to bear children is not to be taken lightly. I’d already realized that we were not serving women by withholding the true details of abortion from them. Soon, whenever I had to insert a laminaria, my hands began trembling. What was I doing? How could I participate in a procedure that was, more and more clearly, against God, against natural law, against reason, and against my own belief?

My final “conversion” came in a flash when I knew, at a gut level, that I would not—that I could not—any longer sanction the taking of human life, not even when that human life was at the earliest stages of development, and not even when a mother insisted on her "right" to abort her unborn child. My conversion occurred on a sunny Friday afternoon when I walked into the doctor’s conference room and found, lying on the table, a pathology lab report clipped to a patient’s chart. There before me, in black and white, was the lab report of that patient's abortion. The pathologist had, after carefully reassembling the fetal parts pulled apart in the abortion process (a gruesome necessity in order to make sure that the doctor had “gotten it all”), listed the “products of conception,” the visible remains of that twelve-week fetus: the skull, the intestines, the fetal arms and hands (five fingers on each), a hip and leg, the other leg, the right fetal foot measuring one centimeter. Reading that lab report, knowing that we humans have somehow sanctified and approved the choice to murder our unborn, something changed within me at the deepest level.

Then, only a few months later, I came across these words written by Mother Theresa:
"The so-called right to abortion has pitted mothers against their children and women against men. It has sown violence and discord at the heart of the most intimate human relationships. It has aggravated the derogation of the father's role in an increasingly fatherless society. It has portrayed the greatest of gifts—a child—as a competitor, an intrusion, and an inconvenience."

When I looked about me, both in the clinic and in our society, the truth of her words was undeniable. In the end, becoming pro-life was not simply a matter of science, not simply a matter of grieving women or perinatal advances—it was a matter of faith.
I am deeply and personally aware of the very real difficulties of single parenthood, abuse and poverty. I’ve been there. As a nurse, I’m intimately aware of the tragedy of rape. But I know that abortion is not the answer to these societal blights. Still, our society—one that has been lulled into accepting, among other atrocities, the torture and humiliation of prisoners of war—has a very long way to journey until we establish a culture that helps women find alternatives to abortion.

Through casual conversation and earnest dialogue, I've learned that many nurses and doctors feel the same way that I do about abortion. Within hospital halls, it's acceptable, even honorable, to be pro-choice; how difficult, radical and unpopular it is to hold an opposing view! As I did, many caregivers are leading double lives, keeping their true thoughts about the tragedy of abortion a secret, afraid to speak the truth at their work places or in the public sphere. In their hearts, minds and souls they are desiring the culture of life. And yet, in their work, they are aiding the culture of death. As I once did, they are leading double lives. Maybe you are too. Maybe you too can change your life.

Sexuality and the soul

2009-02-16T16:06:00.003-05:00

It has been over a year since my last post--at that time I signed off, saying good-bye and assuming I wouldn't be back. Something told me not to delete my blog, however, and now I'm happy I didn't.

But my more than a year of Not-Blogging was good. Not-Blogging gave me time to finish three books and see one to publication and two to acceptances that will lead to publications. Not-Blogging let me think about things but not have to formulate opinions or create text. Not-Blogging gave me some free time after the book's publication as well. (The book is "The Heart's Truth: Essays on the Art of Nursing" from Kent State University Press.) But so much is happening in the world that I thought it might be time to begin again.

First of all, it took me some time to figure out how to get into my blog. I cleverly assumed I'd recall all the steps and passwords. Ha! (But now I've written them down.) Next of all, there are so many things to blog about that I'm not sure where to begin. I've been attending the Latin Mass faithfully at a parish in Norwalk, CT. that offers the Extraordinary Form with reverence and obedience. I'm rejoicing that the Pope has lifted the excommunications on the four SSPX Bishops. My entrance into the Catholic Faith was guided by a young SSPX priest, and my catechism was among the very best (oh, to remember everything I learned!). I've written about this wonderful period of time with Fr. B. in several of my earliest posts. Now I'm praying that the SSPX and the Pope will be able to come to consensus about the other issues that are keeping the Society on the outskirts of Rome. Truly if it wasn't for the priests of the SSPX and their dedication to the Latin Mass, I'm not sure this Mass would have survived the years between Vatican II and today. We owe them our gratitude and prayers.

I'm also about to embark on training to be a Creighton Model practitioner. The Creighton Model is a wonderful, natural method of fertility control (both to postpone and to encourage pregnancy) that involves no chemicals and no risk of abortifacient action, such as we find with the pill and other chemical methods of birth control. This will be an exciting adventure, and I have no idea where it will lead me. And being naturally timid about my abilities, I'm nervously approaching the week's seminar hoping my memory will not fail me and I will pass all the tests!

But I suppose the thing that tugs at me the most is my feeling, my steadily growing feeling, that our young women today are in serious trouble. Not all of them; but many of them.
Standing near to my young women patients in the health center where I work as a nurse practitioner, I have two strong and somewhat creepy feelings: that the women are innocent and yet, at the same time, that they are unwittingly being led to sin by our society and by the secularization of so many of our churches. Can one be both innocent and sinning at the same time? I assume that these women are unaware that their actions are against the dignity of God. And I believe in the reality of the devil. I don't for a moment doubt that he sees, in our society and in our young people, a wonderful opportunity to do his terrible work.

So what are these young women doing that worries me? They are, almost all of them, on the pill or another form of birth control; they are unaware of the very real immediate and long term risks of these birth control methods; if they aren't on the pill for contraception, they are on it for regulation, for their skin, or to prevent ovarian cysts; if they start off on the pill for non-contraceptive reasons, within a short time away at college they embark on sexual activity; many of these women have had multiple partners by age 17 or 18, meaning 5 or 8 or 10; many of these sexually active women have abnormal Pap tests already, already exposed to HPV; many of these young women "hook up" with men before they even know the man's name; and many of these young women are tattooed, pierced, and dressed in outfits that leave little to the imagination. They have been taught by our society that sex outside of marriage is to be expected; that contraception is of course sensible since sex is "bound to happen"; that multiple partners is the norm; that a relationship of more than one month is "long term"; that you can judge by how a man "looks" if he is STD free; that STDs happen to someone else; that "freedom" means doing what everyone else is doing, even when it doesn't feel right or good or true; and that those who speak about chastity and modesty are old-fashioned or downright weird.

Our society is of course to blame (and aren't "we" our society?). But so are our churches to blame. Where are the priests who are willing to speak out against pre-marital sex, contraception and abortion? Where are the priests who talk about personal dignity as a reflection of God's dignity within us? Where are the priests who talk to young women about how they dress and act, and to young men about respecting women and themselves? Fortunately, my parish does have such priests, but from what I hear, few other parishes are so lucky. I fear for the future of our society; we too often, as the citizens of Rome once did, define the value of our lives by the sensual, the temporary, the exciting, the campy, the convenient, the self-serving self-love that doesn't leave room for introspection, devotion, chastity, service, self-sacrifice and yes, even for suffering. It has always, through the centuries, been a small remnant of people who struggle to remain true to God's Word. That remnant seems to be shrinking. But how awful that some of the women I see don't understand what they are doing! They are simply living their lives as they have been taught by movies, novels, TV shows and, alas, by their parents and their schools. These women don't see that there is anything wrong with their lifestyles because no one has opened their eyes--and because they are unable to respond to the small voice inside that may be telling them that something is wrong. It is, indeed, very difficult to work day after day with young women who are anxious, stressed, often medicated for depression, and too often worried about their health and their bodies but unable to see the disconnection between their sexuality and their souls.

I don't know the answer. Sometimes the problem seems overwhelming.

Signing off

2007-12-01T07:46:00.000-05:00

December: A wonderful month for many reasons. Tomorrow our pastor will begin offering, every Sunday, the Extraordinary Mass. Our church is abuzz with happy anticipation--we are fortunate to have a number of parishioners who will attend on a regular basis, hopefully satisfying our Bishop's desire to see a stable number of faithful who will support the Latin Mass. Right now, the Bishop has asked the pastor to offer the Latin Mass downstairs in the chapel. If enough people support the Mass, it will be moved upstairs into the church. Pray for us that we will see this beautiful Mass offered not only weekly in the church but eventually daily. Our pastor already celebrates the Vatican II Mass in Latin with readings in the vernacular, as Vatican II intended.

December also brings Advent and Christmas, the beginning of the Liturgical year--once again, another cycle, another opportunity to become "new," another opportunity to aim for holiness. Again I will mention a small family-run press that is bringing traditional Catholic cards and stationery to us online, http://www.bridgewatercreative.com/, their cards and spirit a welcome change from the Christmas cards I find in stores. No reindeer with stocking caps, thank you, I'd prefer a scene of the Holy family or the Christ child. As my husband said the other day, "I think Christians better start putting Christ back into Christmas"--this after we watched a particularly terrible commercial urging us to BUY, BUY, BUY for the holidays.

December also brings, for me, the end of my short-lived blog. I've learned, in the few weeks I've had this blog open, that I am simply not a blogger. I am a writer, but one who works slowly and privately, even if my writing does, in the end, reveal much about myself and my life. But I am not capable, as bloggers must be, of coming to these pages on a regular basis and forming, through the blog, a coherent thread, an interesting story, an intimate connection with readers unknown. Although I will leave the blog up for some weeks, I will no longer make entries. At least that is my plan after much contemplation. I hope to keep readers up to date via my website, http://www.cortneydavis.com/, which is currently being updated.

And so good-bye to anyone who might stop by; I send all my wishes for a glorious Christmas season, a year filled with God's blessings, an end to abortion and euthanasia, and peace in our world, a world that seems to have forgotten God. May He guide us, and may we serve Him.

on Veterans' Day

2007-11-12T15:55:00.000-05:00

On Veterans' Day, remembering my father who fought in Italy during WWII, winning a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart, and for all the other veterans of all those other wars, and for the men and women who now risk their lives every day in wars around the globe. Whether we agree with the reasons behind these wars or not, we must respect those who are brave and obedient enough to serve, while we wait at home praying for their safe return. In their honor, my poem "Terrorism: Call & Response" posted on The New Verse News, a great poetry site no matter your political leanings. www.newversenews.com

Vocations

2007-11-11T08:43:00.000-05:00

It has been quite a few days since I have "blogged" or, in fact, written anything at all other than my usual emails to friends and "business" emails at work. I've been fairly preoccupied with other things: family health issues, work issues and with the idea of vocations, my own in particular. How do we discern our vocations? How do we know what God wants of us?

I suppose that many go about their daily lives without ever wondering about these things. But certainly we all do, or should, wonder about our purpose in life. We Catholics may, in some regards, have it easier than others. We know that our purpose in life is to know, love and serve God. Yes, but. . . exactly how do we, each in our own vocations, do that?

For many years I breezed through life believing that I should believe everything that was current and feminist, everything that was "pro-woman's rights" and everything, especially revealed in my writing and other women's writing, that was personal, confessional and "emotionally true." Having come to the craft of writing in the 70s, my attitude was, I suppose, a normal result. Suddenly, women were "liberated." There was "the pill" (which I couldn't take--it made me throw up), and there were "consciousness raising groups," and there was, in church, in homes, in general, a gradual breaking-down of tradition, respect and obedience. The liberation of women politically and emotionally wasn't all bad. But it sure wasn't all good. Now, all these years later, we are reaping the "rewards" of those heady and too often mindless and Godless days.

Which brings me back to the idea of vocation. I still believe that my vocation in writing is to be a witness to the suffering of patients and to the work of caregivers. No conflict there. But what about my actual day-to-day vocation as a nurse practitioner who is also a Catholic? I am now, although I wasn't always, a pro-life nurse. I understand how both contraception and abortion work and I also understand the desire of women not to become mothers before they are ready to become mothers (although now I also have a new understanding of the word "ready"--now I know that we become mothers when God is ready for us to become mothers). As a Catholic, as a nurse practitioner, I have a moral duty to make sure that my patients have correct information about both contraception and abortion. Note that I said correct information. Not the understated information that often issues forth from drug manufacturers or pro-choice groups and politicians, and not the sometimes overwrought information that might come from pro-life groups or politicians who are earnestly trying to steer women away from danger. Somewhere in the middle lies both the scientific and moral truth. They are not incompatible.

The truth about contraception and abortion is pretty simple. Both can destroy living human life. At the moment of conception, the fertilized egg is a living human being. The egg, once fertilized, "turns on" the human genome. This fertilized egg, from its one-cell existence, contains all the genetic material that this human being will have throughout its lifetime, from birth to death. It has acquired half its DNA from the mother's egg, and half from the father's sperm. It will grow and divide and, left alone, it will become a human child. It can't become anything else. (For more excellent information about the "humanity" of the earliest form of human life, the fertilized and then rapidly developing embryo, look up the writings of James L. Sherley, MD, PhD.)

So, you're thinking, what about vocation? If I am a nurse practitioner who sees many female patients a day, and if almost every one of those patients is on the pill or the patch or using the vaginal contraceptive ring, and if these same women might choose abortion if they do become pregnant on their contraceptives, how do I live out a holy vocation? How do I, in the 20 minutes per patient alloted me, both care for their illnesses and inform them about how the pill works, about the possibility that any pregnancy conceived on birth control will probably not implant in the uterus but be aborted during the next bleeding cycle? How do I tell these women, women who I may never see again, women who are most often Catholic, women who have grown up believing all the feminist tracts, both the true and the false, that they are going against the Church and against natural law by using contraception? Women do not read the package inserts with their contraceptives. Most women do not consider the pill "medicine." Most women do not know how the pill, the patch, the vaginal ring, the IUD, the progesterone implant, works. Nobody wants them to know. Contraception is a huge business.

Making my vocation more difficult, my employer doesn't discourage the use of the pill. In fact, I work in a Catholic health center in which we do not prescribe the pill (wink, wink) but enable women to obtain the pill elsewhere. Pharmacies deliver the pill to our health center; the women then pick up their pills and go on their way. Because I object to this, I don't have to participate. But don't I have the obligation not only to inform women of the moral risks they incur with contraception (then of course they are free to decide how they will respond) but also to try and correct the very un-Catholic actions of my Catholic employer? How far do we go in our vocations; how far do I go in my vocation? Are we, am I, willing to risk 1) being criticized 2) being fired 3) being thought too "zealous"?

In the same vein, I wonder about the idea of blogging. Is this part of my vocation or simply a vanity, a way to present myself as not only a pro-woman writer but also a Catholic writer whose way of looking at the world has changed since those feminist days? Surely I could work out these questions and issues in essays--in fact, am I wasting valuable time and energy blogging when I could be putting this same energy into writing essays that might be published more widely or at least read more widely in nursing or medical journals?

How do we "do" our vocations at work? How do we know how far to go, how zealous to be, how counter-cultural (and being Catholic, really Catholic, is certainly counter-cultural) to be? How do we "do" our vocations through blogs or websites or other forms of the written word? How often do we mistake what our vocations are, doing what we like or feel comfortable doing when God is waiting for us to do His will? How do we discern God's will for us?

For myself, I'm trying to find ways, kind but firm ways, to inform contraception-using women about how those contraceptives work. I am trying in small ways to show my employer that being Catholic means not winking at contraception. I'm writing more about pro-life issues. I'm trying to do what the Church guides me to do even when doing that is extremely uncomfortable for me. Most of all, I pray for the grace that I may do God's will, whether I know I am doing it or not.

And so now I go off to Mass, the greatest prayer of all.

Catholic Greetings

2007-10-31T17:53:00.000-04:00

A brief post on the eve of All Saints Day to pass on a link to a site that offers lovely Traditional Catholic greeting cards: www.bridgewatercreative.com. Very beautiful cards for Catholic occasions as well as blank cards; they also offer framed art work. This is a small family-owned business with all printing done in the USA. May God Bless us on All Saints Day and grant us the grace of imitating the saints in our daily lives!

Abortion Survey

2007-10-28T11:52:00.000-04:00

A few months ago I conducted a very unscientific but interesting survey at our local hospital's women's clinic. I asked 22 healthcare workers to complete a simple survey form for me. The 22 interviewed included doctors, residents in OB-GYN training, nurses in OB-GYN, medical students, residents in Internal Medicine training and medical techs in OB-GYN. On the survey I asked participants their religion; if they were actively practicing it; if they called themselves pro-choice or pro-life; if they had ever seen a pregnancy termination; if they had ever participated in a pregnancy termination and, if they had, how they would characterize their feelings about that participation; how they would characterize their feelings about abortion in general; and if they thought abortion should be legal or not.

I apologize for the length of the results, which I broke down into many categories. I was surprised by the outcome of this survey: I discovered that being "pro-life" meant different things to different people. And that some who claim to be pro-choice are more vocal about abortion's ills than are some who claim to be pro-life! What did I learn from this survey? That the pro-life movement has much work to do, and much of this work must begin within our own ranks! Catholics in this survey seemed either unaware of the Church's teaching about birth control and abortion--or they chose to ignore it. My summary follows the survey results.

Self-identified religion of respondents:

13 Catholics (11 “actively practicing”)
1 Christian (“actively practicing”)
2 Agnostics
2 Hindus (1 “actively practicing”)
1 Sikh (“actively practicing”)
1 “not religious”
1 Jewish (“actively practicing”)
1 Episcopalian (“not actively practicing”)

“Pro-life” (7 of 22) by religious preference:

Catholic: 5
Christian: 1
“Not religious”: 1

“Pro-choice” (15 of 22) by religious preference:

Catholic: 8
Agnostic: 2
Hindu: 2
Sikh: 1
Jewish: 1
Episcopalian: 1

“Pro-life” by job title:

RN: 1
Tech: 1
OB-GYN resident: 1
Medical Student: 2
OB-GYN physicians: 2

“Pro-choice” by job title:

RNs: 2
Tech: 1
Genetics counselor: 1
OB-GYN residents: 8
Internal Medicine resident: 1
Medical students: 2

Number of “pro-life” professionals who have witnessed abortions: 3 of 7

Medical student: 2
OB-GYN physician: 1

Number of “pro-choice” professionals who have witnessed abortions: 10 of 15

Tech: 1
RNs: 2
Genetics counselor: 1
OB-GYN residents: 5
Medical resident: 1

Number of “pro-life” professionals who have participated in abortions: 2 of 7

OB-GYN physician: “only as a student, part of mandatory training, after extensive counseling with a priest”
Medical student: “as a medical student I felt I needed to experience one, but I doubt I will ever perform the procedure”

Number of “pro-choice” professionals who have participated in abortions: 9 of 15

Tech: 1 (mandatory)
RNs: 2 (mandatory)
Genetics counselor: 1 (willingly, counseling women about 2nd trimester abortions for genetic reasons and staying with women during the abortion)
OB-GYN residents: 5 (willingly, 2 who perform abortions up to 20 weeks of pregnancy)

Number of “pro-life” professionals who feel abortion should be legal: 5 of 7

Medical students: 2 (under limited circumstances)
OB-GYN resident: 1 (with restriction on 2nd trimester abortion)
Tech: 1 (no restrictions)
RN: 1 (no restrictions)

Number of “pro-choice” professionals who feel abortion should be legal: 15 of 15

Number of “pro-life” professionals who approve of / prescribe contraception: 7 of 7

Sampling of “pro-life” comments:

“It’s outright murder”
“Once conception takes place, he or she is a human being regardless of how many days or weeks of pregnancy”
“Abortion should not be legal, but there is room for discussion”
“Abortion should be legal since women die from septic abortions when abortion is illegal.”
“Abortion should be legal when the mother’s life is significantly compromised or the fetus has a relatively significant abnormality that would severely and adversely affect his/her quality of life”
“I’d rather see pregnancy prevention. I think being pro-legal abortion is being pro-life since it saves women’s lives”
“Unless a woman’s life is at risk, abortion is not justified. The destruction of the potential of life outweighs the momentary inconvenience of pregnancy. I don’t believe anyone has the right to destroy the potential of the sum total of experience and contribution to society and life that is inherent in the unborn. There are a myriad of pre-conception birth control devices and options available that could nearly negate the need for abortion”
I am spiritually and religiously against abortion but believe it should be allowed when the fetus has a documented and tested significant abnormality. However, if it is an elective abortion or one in which the risk of a chromosomal abnormality is relatively small, than I am strongly against the decision. I must note, nonetheless, that it is not my place to judge patients who have had or want abortions nor will I force my beliefs on them”
“Men don’t have a post-conception choice that affords them the option to terminate their parental responsibility like women do, thus violating the equal protection clause in the constitution (article 22) and civil rights acts of 1964 and 1965”
“Abortion should be legal and up to one’s discretion”
I did not feel guilt or grief related to my participation, however I did experience grief for the life that was lost”

Sampling of “pro-choice” comments:

“I felt no grief or guilt about my participation”
“I feel women should have the right to choose, however there should be a limit to how many abortions a woman has—should not be used as birth control”
“Abortion should be legal otherwise we’ll be back to back-alley abortions and women dying from infection”
“I have no grief or guilt doing first trimester abortions. I did a second trimester abortion once, and I’ll never do that again”
“I do not think about the abortion—it is a procedure, in my mind”
“I’ve performed abortions, but no more for me!”
“I felt grief and guilt about my participation because there were very few real reasons for the terminations. Most were downright irresponsibility”
“If I thought about it, I would feel bad”
“I wish abortion were unnecessary. The end doesn’t justify the means.”
“I feel abortion should be offered without reservations or stipulations”
“I believe that terminating a pregnancy is a woman’s right. In my experience, most women who are face to face with an abnormal pregnancy will consider termination”
“The political agenda of the extreme right will dictate and control the legality of abortion if allowed. That will be very scary”
“I found watching the abortion disturbing; the woman seemed very distraught”
“I personally did not feel grief or guilt but I remember feeling very sorry for the woman. It was something I did not want to see again”
“I tried to distance myself in many cases, especially when patients used abortion as a method of birth control.”
“After awhile I just couldn’t take it anymore”
“Abortion should not be done after 10 to 12 weeks of pregnancy”
“I realize that it is the decision of the individual, but it should be a last resort”
“I’m pro-life for myself, pro-choice for others. I would never perform an abortion, however I think others have the right to choose what they believe”
“I feel women should have the choice to have abortions, but it is also my choice as a doctor not to perform them”
“Abortion should be a guilt free choice”

My Summary:

Of 7 pro-life professionals, 7 approve of and / or prescribe birth control
Of 7 pro-life professionals, 5 believe abortion should be legal (2 under any circumstances; 2 only when the mother’s life is at risk or the fetus has severe abnormalities; 1 with restrictions on 2nd trimester abortion)
7 of the 15 pro-choice professionals either say they would never participate in abortions in the first place or they have stopped participating in them
All pro-choice professions feel abortion should be legal; 10 of the 15 say that abortion should be strictly limited and regulated
6 out of 11 actively practicing Catholics call themselves pro-choice
5 out of 11 actively practicing Catholics participated in abortions, 3 under pressure and 2 willingly
13 of the 13 Catholics approve of or prescribe birth control, one under pressure
11 of the 13 Catholics say abortion should be legal (2 feel that abortion should be limited only to risk of mother’s death or fetal abnormalities; 1 is against legalization but feels there should be “room for discussion”)

My Observations:

Caregivers of any religion who call themselves pro-life may nevertheless approve of and prescribe birth control (believing this will lessen abortion), approve of the “morning after pill” (as an alternative to abortion), and believe abortion should be legal (some desire limited access)

Catholic caregivers in this sampling more often call themselves pro-choice than pro-life

Pro-choice caregivers of any religion often express feeling conflicted about abortion, especially if they have participated in abortions

Many pro-choice caregivers won’t perform abortions although they remain pro-choice (“okay for others but not for me”)

Most in this sampling, pro-choice or pro-life, express a reluctance “to judge” women who have abortions

My Conclusions:

The labels “pro-life” and “pro-choice” do not accurately reflect how caregivers actually feel or act regarding abortion: Political, societal and peer beliefs seem to determine how most caregivers will act regarding abortion; religious beliefs may or may not determine how they feel about abortion

Catholic caregivers are either not aware of the Church’s teaching on abortion and birth control, or they disagree with it or feel pressured to go against it

Participating in abortions seems to be a deterrent to further participation, but participation in abortion does not deter a caregiver from supporting abortion rights

Most in this sampling, pro-life and pro-choice, view birth control and the morning after pill as a preferred alternative to abortion

Again: The pro-life movement has much work to do; this work must begin in our own ranks! Pray that those of us who are pro-life might be truly pro-life!

Rachel's Vineyard

2007-10-22T09:49:00.000-04:00

Back in April 2006, I attended a Rachel's Vineyard weekend in Connecticut. I attended for two reasons: one was to see what went on there, to witness how women who had had abortions were supported and encouraged; the second and main reason was my own desire to make reparation for all the times I had, either by silent acquiescence or active participation, contributed in any way to the taking of an unborn life. Over the course of the retreat I watched as women who had grieved their abortions--sometimes for years--were lovingly and gently helped to forgive themselves and to be assured of the Church's forgiveness and welcome. (If you're a woman or man in need of this forgiveness and counsel go to http://www.rachelsvineyard.org/ for more information.)

One exercise that weekend was to make a list of people in our lives and then write a letter to someone who had hurt us or with whom we had unfinished business. I found that I wasn't angry at anyone, nor did I have unfinished business with anyone--with anyone but myself that is. Recently I found the letter I wrote to myself that weekend. This letter reminds me of how much work I must still do in the world and in myself; I see again how narrow the gate is, the one that we are called to pass through.

A letter to myself:

After studying my list, I find that no one in my life--my mother or father, my ex-husbands, my children, my friends--has truly hurt me. I have only hurt myself, perhaps most by my years of accepting feminism, as all my friends did. Sometimes I feel sorrow, confusion, questioning, or wonder--but any anger has long since gone away. And the only one that I have unfinished business with is myself.

I've thought about and written about the separation from my parents that occurred when I was an infant and toddler and find no blame there. They did what they thought was best for us all at the time. My ex-husbands? Any issues there are blames shared and perhaps mostly mine. The feminist movement? This turns out to be, this weekend, my biggest question, my black hole, the forest I was lost in. How did this movement fool so many who genuinely believed in women's equality, in a woman's right to be heard, to make equal wages, to live without fear of battering or abuse? How did this movement turn into an approval of abortion, approval of a lifestyle not family centered but career centered, a life based not on service to others but on service to self? How did this movement help turn our society's focus from the desire to please God to the desire for human respect and the triumph of human will over God's will?

How my life and my beliefs have changed from that time, but how many errors and wrong turns I have made along the way! Thankfully, I've also learned that life unfolds as God wills--suffering, joy, change, mistakes and struggle--all a part of the journey as we seek and accept our own part in God's plan. My desire this weekend is for forgiveness for all the wrongs that I have done to others, and for the chance to give thanks that wisdom does come, sometimes slowly, but always in God's own time.

If life is like a ribbon unfurling from conception to death, and if along the way there are "knots" in that ribbon--childhood, marriage, births, deaths, errors, joys, fears--how can I more fully accept this ribbon as both a gift and a grave responsibility? As the ribbon slides faster and faster through my hands, how can I celebrate those knots with love, mercy and clarity? I pray that I might accept the past and learn from it, then go on to live with new resolution and always with prayer and penance:
--to continue to strive to know, love and serve God
--to see Christ in others, especially in those who are suffering
--to serve in the ways I am asked to serve, no matter how others serve
--to suffer patiently, even the greatest sufferings
--to forgive seventy times seven
--to have confidence both in God's justice and in His love
--to be fully embodied and yet aware of how frail we humans are, and how vulnerable
--to live with lightness and with joy by being both of this earth and detached from it
--to remember that we must first serve those in our family and our friends

So ends the letter. So continues my arduous journey.

The Gift of Life

2007-10-20T13:38:00.000-04:00

It's a beautiful day in Connecticut, clear and warm after yesterday's torrential downpour. Leaves are changing and falling; birds are busy at the feeder outside my open window; the woods behind our house is quiet except for the breeze, one chattering squirrel and a pair of arguing crows.

This beautiful day was made even more beautiful for me by the arrival of "Is it a Baby, or just some cells," the brochure that tells the story of my conversion from being pro-choice, even participating in abortions, to being pro-life. Thank you to Requiem Press (www.requiempress.com) for bringing this story into the world. I went to my post office, received and opened the carefully packed box that contained 20 brochures, a catalog and a lovely little booklet of prays for the souls in purgatory; then I sat in my car, rereading the words I had written more than a year ago, words that look so different, so official in print. I have written many things--some things that now I wish I had never allowed to be published--but this is the first time that I have affirmed, in the published word, my pro-life stance. Sitting in the car, reading, I realized that this is only the beginning. Now comes the difficult part, spreading and defending the pro-life message. Well, spreading the word might not be too difficult (I can mail the brochure to friends and others who might be interested), but defending the word is more of a challenge, especially because I work in the medical and nursing world, a world filled with staunchly pro-choice advocates.

I know that there are very few out there who read this blog--then again, one purpose of a blog might be simply to help those who write them organize their thoughts, state their beliefs and support their causes. One reason I began this blog was to correct, if possible, the impression some readers might get from my earlier writings--back before I became Catholic, before I saw the world around me in new ways. My earlier poems, some of them, are particularly "feminist," especially since I came to writing in the bloom of the feminist movement. I recognize, however, a clear difference between being pro-woman (I consider myself pro-woman) and being a "feminist," which seems to imply, to me, a blanket acceptance of everything that "feminism" as an entity supports, including abortion. Thankfully, more of my writing, both then and now, concerns my work in nursing and my privileged relationship with patients. Truly the interaction between a patient and his or her nurse creates a sacred, often a holy, place.

This brochure honors the sacred space of the womb and God's incredible gift of life. Pray for me that I might have the fortitude to defend my pro-life beliefs in the face of the medical community around me. Pray for those women and men who perform abortions, that God may touch them, as He touched me, and change their lives.

Motu Proprio

2007-10-19T18:10:00.000-04:00

Just home from work, got soaked in the rain running from the health center to my car, then soaked again on arriving home and getting the mail. Good thing I like the rain--at the same time I worry about my loved ones who might be out and about. May we all, wherever we live, be getting home tonight safe and sound. Once a priest said, during his homily, that we should all cross ourselves and give thanks when we arrive at our destinations whether driving or flying or riding a bus or train. I've taken to doing this and always wonder what those around me in the parking lot think. Then again, that's the purpose--to show that we are Catholics, to demonstrate pride in our Faith and love and dependence on God, to be examples.

The Pope, may God permit him many years, has given us all a chance to regain some of our Catholic zeal and to further enhance our Faith by issuing his Motu Proprio, releasing the Traditional Latin Mass from its chains. Of course there are many who never gave up the Latin Mass but continued to seek it out, often driving miles to attend. Now, those who have never experienced this Mass will have an opportunity, if only they will request the Mass and do the studying that might be necessary for them to participate internally to the fullest. In my parish, our priest is giving a series of lectures tracing the history of the Mass, particularly the Roman Canon, which was considered too Holy and too perfect to change. Until the Vatican II counsel decided to do just that. He will, in his next lectures, go through the entire Extraordinary Mass--I have been amazed that there are so many who have never seen or experienced this most Holy of sacrifices! I'm fortunate. I have been nourished and nurtured in my Faith by the Traditional Mass for many years. I can't imagine being Catholic without this Mass. You might already know of the wonderful site "What Does the Prayer Really Say," (www.wdtprs.com) but if you don't, go there at once to read in-depth articles and conversations about the merits of this Mass!

Besides jumping up and down in celebration of the Motu Proprio, I'm awaiting the arrival of "Is It a Baby or Just Some Cells?" a booklet published by Requiem Press about my journey from being pro-choice to being pro-life. This publication is only a small attempt to answer my constant questions: how can I use my writing to honor God? How can I use my talents to fulfill His will for me? How can I empty myself of all but His will? How can I go against the popular opinion of society by being pro-life, especially when so many of my colleagues in medicine and nursing are pro-choice? Indeed, how can any of us be as brave and faithful as our Pope, who certainly has gone against many by releasing this Motu. He wants to elevate us to the level of the Church, when for so many years it seemed that the Church was lowering herself to our flawed and secular level.

The rain continues. Blessings upon our Pope, upon those priests who have kept the Latin Mass alive, upon the Faithful who have attended in spite of difficulties, upon the priests and bishops who will now bring to many the Extraordinary Mass, the most Holy of Sacrifices.

Cleavage

2007-10-12T20:06:00.000-04:00

Okay, who in the world ever thought I would be motivated to write about cleavage--but today pushed me over the edge. I work in a hospital and also in a university health center. Back in the "old days" there was a dress code, both for medical staff and for clerical staff. A nurse, I remember having to wear my hair up off my collar, my skirt hem at my knees and my jewelry kept to a minimum, a wedding band only and a watch. No dangling earrings. Certainly no cleavage. Cleavage was something to be reserved for a big event, a fancy night out, an evening gown. Even then, cleavage was supposed to be a suggestion rather than a total revelation of the flesh. Between the "old days" and these modern times, something has happened. Suddenly cleavage is as common as a cell phone and no longer reserved for the grand ballroom. Cleavage appears on TV regularly, even on the medical shows--and in "real life" the female residents I work with have followed suit, or should I say, have followed halter top. I'm not sure how patients feel about being seen by a young woman whose lab coat covers neither her naval nor her cleavage. The same problem exists in the university setting. Young female students routinely wear low cut and/or filmy tops that keep very little a secret. And this show-it-all trend extends to the grand dames as well. I've seen women my age (I could probably be your mother or even your grandmother) who seem to think nothing of exposing their less-than-nubile physiques. So why does this bother me?

I happen to think that the female form is one of God's beautiful creations. But I worry that the current trend to bare all in everyday dress is a slippery slope. This loss of modesty is the natural next step to our society's casual attitude regarding sex and abortion. What comes next? My suspicion is that all this "casual" behavior isn't really casual at all but instead is the outward sign of a culture that is anxious, untethered, searching, and in great need of balance, limits and peace. Our frantic world, one in which we are endlessly "connected," endlessly bombarded by sight, sound and sensation, can be a very disorienting place. I worry that we're sometimes too overstimulated to realize this. Like over-wound toys, we frantically jump about--until we wind down and collapse.

Slippery slopes exist everywhere, some more dangerous than others. The slippery slope of immodesty coupled with fluid or non-existent moral boundaries has, historically, led to the downfall of nations. I worry that we've begun this downward slide and are picking up momentum. Cleavage everywhere; clothing for young girls with slogans like "I'm hot" or "Babe" or "Kiss me" across the chest or bottom in sequins; residents who dress like hookers but want to be respected as professionals; students who dress as if their bodies were public property.

The trend to immodesty is so commonplace that we, most of the time, don't even notice. And so the slippery slope gets ever more slippery.

October is Respect for Life Month

2007-10-08T08:10:00.000-04:00

We hear a lot about the "culture of life" versus the "culture of death," and I have to admit that the idea of choosing one over the other might turn some people off. Those folks might look around and say, "What do you mean, culture of death?"

I used to be one of those folks. And, had I not become grounded in the Church, had I not myself lived through the process of moving from being a woman who, without questioning, supported pro-choice initiatives to a woman who understood, from personal experience, what it meant to choose death instead of life, I too might wonder why we need to be reminded that we live in a culture of death.

Just for today, look around. Our society champions money, possessions, youth, sexuality (as opposed to sensuality, which is a good thing), instant gratification without sacrifice, good looks (as opposed to good works), intelligence (with little toleration for "learning disabilities") and "experiences" rather than commitments. We so often place ourselves above God: everything becomes our choice and our wish, even if our choices may be against God's will. Yes, I admit that God's will is not always easy to discern. Nevertheless, isn't it our task to try and discern what God's will is in every case instead of simply hustling our own will to the forefront?

Pope John Paul II, admittedly not my favorite Pope, said it very well: "All human beings, from their mothers' womb, belong to God who searches them and knows them, who forms them and knits them together with His own hands, who gazes at them when they are tiny shapeless embryos and already sees in them the adults of tomorrow whose days are numbered and whose vocation is even now written in the 'book of life.'" (Evangelium Vitae, 61)

He does a few pretty impressive things in this short quote. By using the plural "their mothers'" followed by the singular "womb," he implies that all human beings, all mothers and all embryos, share one womb---perhaps the womb of Mary, who bore Christ. This links us all from the moment of conception to Christ and to the woman who carried him. Surely Mary, finding herself unwed and pregnant, said Yes when it might have seemed more "practical" and convenient to say No. Then, at the end of the quote, the pope mentions the book of life, the focus of the Jewish Holy Day of Yom Kippur. For Jews, this season of atonement has one goal: to seek forgiveness for sins against God and against man and so to be written, by the hand of God, into the book of life for one more year. By bringing in this Jewish tradition the pope links us to ancient ancestors, to the religious forefathers of Christ. Surely today we are still called upon to act in ways that demonstrate our desire to be written in the book of life: are we not also called upon to act in ways that assure that the names of the innocent, the elderly, the disabled, and the "worthless" are also written in the book of life? Then too there is the pope's use of the singular "vocation." Does the pope inply that we all have but a single vocation? I think perhaps he does. Our universal vocation is to know, love and serve God, no matter what other personal vocations we pursue. Again, not always an easy task to combine our secular work with the work we must do to serve Him.

In October, let us pray for the strength and courage of Mary and for the desire to be written in the book of life. Our sins against life might be forgiven, if we only ask. If only we ask, we might know God's will for us when we are faced with the decision to choose life or choose death. May we all give God our Yes, even when that yes seems impossible. The gate through which we are called to pass is narrow indeed. I remind myself to keep thinking of what lies on the other side.

The Call to Conversion, Take Three

2007-10-02T07:47:00.000-04:00

I've had three conversions in my life: the first was my conversion from the Protestant religion of my youth to Judaism; next came my conversion to Catholicism; and along the way, something else happened. Little by little, I became pro-life.

After working in women's health for sixteen years, after counseling women who chose abortion, after preparing women for their abortions, after participating in the abortion procedure and after talking with many of these women after their abortions, I could no longer endorse pregnancy termination as the almost-casual method of birth control it had, for many, become. Just as my Catechism with Fr. B. opened my eyes to the world around me, to how we seem to have forgotten that our task in life is to become holy, to return to God, my work in women's health opened my eyes to the reality of what I was doing: I was destroying life. Over time, I had, in spite of the warning voice inside me, become more and more involved with abortions. God kept sending me warning messages, but I kept trying to rationalize them away. This little booklet, "Is It a Baby, or Just Some Cells," is the story of my journey from being unquestioningly pro-choice to being pro-life, a turn in the road that I never expected to take--just as I never expected to move from my Protestant beginnings to Judaism and finally to Catholicism.

Truth is, I'm a bit nervous about this publication. It is, in a way, a coming-out, a declaration of belief, a belief that is not shared by many. It seems, in our secular culture in which birth control and abortion are simply taken for granted, impossible to be a woman who supports women's rights and yet also supports life; to be a poet and a writer who appreciates the exploration of human feelings and actions and yet also believes that our task in life, no matter who we are or what we do, is to know, love and serve God. Sometimes that means going against popular belief, popular practice. It acknowledges that the gate to Heaven can be, indeed, a narrow one. So it is with a deep breath and a prayer for courage that I publish this post.

The booklet is available from Requiem Press: http://www.requiempress.com/

The Whole World Changed--or Was it Me?

2007-09-26T07:35:00.000-04:00

A few posts ago I began the story of my Catechism with Fr. B., a young Traditional Catholic priest who immediately took me in and began teaching me after so many had discouraged me. At our first meeting, I began studying the excellent book, "My Catholic Faith," reading chapters for homework, reading Papal Encyclicals and other assigned articles and, every few sessions, taking tests, either written or oral, to verify the depth of my slowly accumulating knowledge. At home, I used the Baltimore Catechism books as quick study guides, and every time Father B. announced a "little quiz" coming up, I'd spend hours studying as if I were suddenly a young girl preparing for her first Holy Communion. With every page of homework, with every meeting with Father B., I began to see the world around me change.

At our third or perhaps fourth meeting, Father B. greeted me, we prayed, and then before he sat down he walked to the library window. It looked out on a rolling lawn that led on one side to a lake and on another to a path that meandered down to the huge white Church. Near the window, close to the priory, a yellow tarp flapped and lifted in the autumn wind, revealing a stack of newly cut wood. Father B. and the other priests had been busily preparing for the winter.

"Does the world around you seem to look different now?" Father B. asked me, turning back from the window. I was surprised. Had he read my mind? "Yes," I said. "And it's a very uncomfortable feeling." After only a few lessons, I felt as if blinders had been removed from my eyes, allowing me to see the world not from my accustomed secular vantage but from a new place, one that considered God before all other created things. Suddenly I was aware of how people spoke, acted and dressed, with little regard for God or for themselves; how television and magazines encouraged the worship of money, possessions and "what was right for me"; and how I myself failed to honor God in so many ways in the course of a day. Seeing "through the eyes of Christ" was an awesome and disturbing thing. I wondered if St. Paul, going about his business of persecuting Christians, was also shocked when he suddenly saw with this new clarity. Like St. Paul, I now felt called upon to change course, to make pleasing God--and not simply "fitting in" with the world or the people around me--my final destination. I knew, in my heart and soul, that becoming a good person would not be an easy task. I understood, for the first time, that the gate we must pass through to reach God is indeed narrow. And yet, at the same time, it is open to all.

Slowly, slowly, I began to change my life. Thanks be to God for Father B.

Because I want to move now more quickly to the present, because I want this blog to be not just the story of my conversions but also the story of how I am trying, day by day, to be as holy as I can be, with all my limitations, I'll summarize in a few sentences my "adventures in becoming Catholic." As my friend M. said, "You'd think the Church would be so eager for converts that they'd give you a trip to Italy and a matched set of Libby glasses!" Ah, not so! But anything worthwhile is worth waiting
for.

After my nine-month Catechism with Fr. B., he was transferred to another Church in another state. I knew without a doubt that I wanted to become a Catholic and so had to take the next step, enlisting a priest to help me straighten out my marital situation with the intervention of the Catholic Tribunal. I attended, in the meantime, an RCIA program with other adults awaiting conversion. But at the last minute I learned I couldn't join them as they were welcomed into the Church on the Easter Vigil--my paperwork had not been completed, and wouldn't be for another 8 months. All in all, my conversion--from the time I was called to Catholicism to the moment of my First Holy Communion, Confirmation and the blessing of my marriage in January of 2007--encompassed more than than five years.

At last I am, happily, at home.

Yom Kippur

2007-09-22T10:08:00.000-04:00

Today is Yom Kippur, the most solemn of the Jewish High Holy Days, the one day a year when I feel most poignantly the fact that I am, in the eyes of my husband and in the eyes of Judaism, an apostate Jew. This morning I ate breakfast as my husband fasted. He dressed in his best suit while I threw on some cutoffs and a T-shirt, ready to do my Saturday rounds of grocery shopping, plant watering and email-answering. In the past, before my conversion to Catholicism, this was the day that my husband and I would sit together in Synagogue, holding hands as the sun came through the stained glass windows. I imagined that all those worshippers around me were content, secure in the religion that had either sustained them from childhood or called them as adults. Already, I had begun my search for a way to return to Christianity, but I had not told my husband of this longing; I had not yet met Father B. and begun my Catechism. For years, I sat through the magnificent and somber Yom Kippur services, all the time feeling that something was missing. It was lovely being together with my husband, being close, but while we were praying I was forever waiting for the hand of the Holy Spirit to pierce the Temple walls to accuse me--or perhaps to elect me. Recently I wrote a poem, a memory of that time:

Sitting in the Synagogue

Sitting in synagogue by the stained glass windows
where we sat every Yom Kippur morning,
a seat I chose, the brown wood
warmed by the sun as it angled over the parking lot,
its beam narrowed by the property of glass
to a round yellow light that I hoped might shine on me
as if I were the pot of gold or a saint in the church I left behind,
I pretended that God might redeem me,
the light falling upon me, a miracle that everyone would see,
whispering to their neighbors until even the rabbi was hushed and waiting.
What would I do then, I asked myself—
stand and speak in tongues, words poured through me
like my granddaughter pours sand to spin her plastic windmill?
By 10-O’-clock the sun was hot, the prayer book’s pages
fragrant and warm, the wooden pew almost melting.
Still, no finger touched me, the hand of God
did not reach down and seize me.

Why should this burning ignited in childhood
take so long to burst into flame?

And so today I go about my tasks and wait for my husband to return. Later, we will go to a friend's house for dinner where he will break his fast. Tomorrow, I will go to Mass and, on my knees, thank God for the chance to worship Him once again. I have also thanked God for my years in Judasim; I know at some deep level that had I not converted to Judaism I might never have been led to Catholicism. Like Mary, I truly did find Jesus in the Temple.

More about that on another day: my Catechism with Father B. and how I came to see the world around me in a new and wonderful way.

Meeting Father B.: What Is the Destiny of Man?

2007-09-20T18:27:00.000-04:00

After converting to Judaism, after discovering in my heart and soul that I must return to Christianity and, specifically, to Catholicism, I spent many years searching: I searched my heart, I searched the Bible, I met with many priests and laypersons, all the time trying to find the door, the narrow door, though which I might pass. Some of my call to Catholic conversion was intellectual. After studying the Bible I saw clearly that the Catholic Church was the true Church. I read the works of C. S. Lewis and others whose calls to conversion, like mine, were unexpected and arrived at inconvenient times. And for all those years, I seemed to run, again and again, into closed doors.

One was the closed door of secrecy. I lived for years as a rarely-practicing Jew, afraid either to offend or alienate my husband and our Jewish friends but, at the same time, feeling like a stranger in the Synagogue. I ran into the closed door of self doubt. I'd been fascinated with Judaism and had found much to admire in that religion. Was I now simply looking for a new challenge, something else to learn? On top of everything, it seemed as if I would never find a priest who would talk with me and bless my journey. But in spite of my questionings, I felt increasingly drawn forward by that ever-present, sometimes close and sometimes distant Presence. Looking back, I recognize the twofold blessing of this long wait. When I did find such a priest, I was able to patiently enter into my studies and to allow God's will to work in me. And, during this wait, I came to understand that in order to move forward I had to own and proclaim my desires. I had to let my husband, my family, my husband's family and our friends know of my decision to seek entrance into the Catholic Church. These conversations were difficult. I felt our Jewish friends withdraw, ever so slightly, from me. I felt both my husband's loving support and his sorrow. I was choosing to leave the religion he loved, and therefore it must have seemed as if a part of me was leaving him as well. But I had no choice. I continued to knock at the Church's door, and it was Father B. who at last opened it for me.

I'd made the appointment to meet with him at my daughter's suggestion. When the day and hour arrived, I drove to his church wearing an outfit I thought (then) appropriate for the event: lovely billowing pants that I'd purchased at Martha's Vineyard, a navy T-shirt, short sleeved for the warm September day, and long dangling earrings. I entered the Church office, greeted the secretary and then sat, as she asked me, to wait for Father. The office was dim. Only the sunlight from one open window lit the room. Religious statues looked down at me from their wall niches. I could hear the distant tick of a clock, and then the chiming of the hour. Otherwise, everything was silent. Sitting for five, then ten, then fifteen minutes, I began to relax. Something in the air, in the half-light, in the serenity, felt right.

Then Father B. arrived. Young, dressed in a long black cassock that swished and swirled about him, he walked into the room neither hurrying nor delaying. Although I was not accustomed to rising when men walked into a room, I was propelled to my feet; something about him required respect and even awe. He smiled, nodded, and stepped aside to let me pass before him into the next room, where tables, set for a meal, were lined up before a central podium. A grandfather clock stood in the corner. A crucifix was the focal point, looming above the fireplace and mantle. We crossed the room and Father B. directed me to the library, a smaller room lined with shelves, the shelves filled with books, large and leather bound, Bibles and missals, tomes in Latin and Greek, their gold-lettered titles worn from years of use. The large dark wood table in the center of the library was already arranged for our meeting: at the head of the table, by his chair, sat a pile of books and papers. A chair three spaces away from his was already pulled out, as if to let me know where I was to sit. Closing the door behind us, Father B. said, "Before we talk, we'll pray." He indicated a crucifix on the wall, and I turned to it. He stood behind me. "In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost," he said. Out of the corner of my eye I watched as he crossed himself, and I did the same. "Amen" I said. I waited until he sat, and then I went to my chair and did the same.

"How can I help you," he said, smiling. The windows in the library were open; a breeze stirred the papers before him and the sweet smell of end-of-summer grass filled the room. "A beautiful day," he added. Taking a deep breath, my heart pounding so hard I was sure my voice would shake with equal violence, I said that I wanted to explore becoming a Catholic. That my daughter had recommended him to me. He nodded and passed me a large red book, sliding it along the polished table. He asked me to turn to page two, chapter one. I did. "Please read the chapter out loud," he said. For a moment I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly. Read out loud? I looked up. He said, "Please read," and rested his elbows on the table, his face both serious and pleasant.

I took a breath, clasped my hands in my lap to stop their trembling, and in my best voice, reading slowly and carefully, began my journey into the book entitled "My Catholic Faith": "What is the destiny of man?" I began--was I finally to learn the answer?--and when I'd finished the chapter, Father B. asked me to recall what I'd read. "Why did God make us," he asked. And I knew the answer: "To know Him, to love Him, and to serve Him."

For the rest of the hour, we talked. I was given a copy of the book, and homework, Papal Encyclicals to study. We set up a meeting time for the following week, and he encouraged me to bring him any questions, any doubts, any insights. Before we ended our session, we stood again facing the Crucifix, and Father B. began to teach me how to pray.

The Call to Conversion: Take Two

2007-09-18T18:25:00.000-04:00

During my studies with the Rabbi prior to my conversion to Judaism, I was required to read several books about the history of Judaism and Jewish holidays and to learn to read enough Hebrew to follow the prayers during services. My husband and our friends joked: "You're learning more about Judaism than we know--and we were born into the religion!" Their comments made me realize that, as a Christian, I had known very little about Christianity. Other than my Sunday School warm and fuzzy feelings about Jesus, the man with open arms Who welcomed children to His knee, I had no true understanding of who Jesus was or why Christians throughout the ages were willing to become, for His sake, martyrs. Within months of my conversion, a brand-new Jew, I began reading everything I could get my hands on about Christianity. Unfortunately, I time and again picked authors who only wanted to put forth theories about the Historical Jesus, the real man, not the God man. I poured over books that told me Christ was a great human being who probably didn't really rise from the dead but was so esteemed that resurrection stories naturally appeared after his death. I read books that stressed Gnosticism or doubt, that focused on all that was earthly, on all that might be proven but very little on Faith or the supernatural. That mysterious Presence seemed to draw ever farther away.

My curiosity about and longing for this Presence existed within me, day after day. I carried this longing to work and to the movies; it sat with me in the company of family and friends. The more I read about Jesus the more I was filled with confusion and sadness. He was, to me, the ultimate mystery. I decided that I was a Jew whose lot it was to struggle with the concept of Christ, and so began reading literature written for "Jews for Jesus." I found in these books the first hint of comfort, of transcendence. I hid these books from my husband; I never mentioned a word to my friends. I continued to pray the Lord's Prayer, and I became ever alert to the mention of Christ's name--in conversations, in the news, on the radio. I wondered if Christ was the Presence lingering, waiting.

One Sunday morning when my husband was out of town, I felt drawn to attend a local church, one I'd visited a few times previously with my friend T., a nun. This church was Catholic; at least it seemed Catholic to me, a nominal Jew who was now more used to occasional Temple services than to Christian worship. I drove over alone; walked in and sat in the very back. When Communion was offered, I sat unmoving. "It's for everyone," the usher whispered. I wondered what would happen if I walked forward to receive? Would I die? Would the church collapse around me? Terrified, I fled before the Mass was over.

This Christian cat-and-mouse game went on for months. I would go to this church, lurk in the back and stand, trying to be invisible. The priest eventually found me out and invited me to talk. "What are you looking for," he asked. I told him I wanted to know Jesus, but all I could find was the human, the man in the books who was called "Historical." I was looking for the other One. I was looking for a blessing. The priest and I talked for hours, about art and life, about the recent exciting investigations into the "real" life of the man Jesus. We debated the idea of the "real presence." After several meetings with this lovely, learned gentleman, this man who welcomed all to his Communion table, who was willing to give me, a Jew, Communion and to welcome me into his Church, I understood I was not yet in the right place. I knew little about the Catholic Church, only what I recalled from my children's few years in Catholic school, but I didn't want becoming a Christian again to be too easy. I had slipped effortlessly into Judaism without incorporating any of that religion's true essence or belief. I didn't want to be the same sort of Christian. And more and more, I knew I wanted to be a Christian. Not an Episcopalian or a Congregationalist, not a Protestant or a Jew for Jesus. I wanted to be a Catholic, a capitol "C" Catholic. This feeling came to me as an imperative. It came out of the blue.

And so began several years of wandering. I called my friend, T., who introduced me to a priest she knew who, she thought, might help me. I sat across from him in his office as he, dressed in a shirt and casual sweater, crossed his legs and asked what he could do for me. When I told him I thought I wanted to become a Catholic, he frowned. After a few minutes conversation he told me I should practice discernment. Maybe I would really be happier as a Jew. Maybe I should go to Temple on a regular basis, take up all the Jewish traditions and immerse myself in the religion. I asked him how one "discerns," and he told me that I should pay attention to what "feels good" and what "feels bad." When he stood, I thought for a moment he might give me a blessing. But all he did was shake my hand, check his watch and tell me good luck. That made me feel really bad.

I decided to get to work on my own. I read a Jewish translation of the Hebrew Bible in order to avoid any "Christianizing" of the text; I wanted to see if the Old Testament really did tell of the coming of the Christ. I read a second Jewish translation: both of them pointed, like an arrow, to the events of the New Testament. I read the New Testament. I reread the Gospels. I bought a Crucifix and hid it in my dresser drawer. The Presence moved closer, not quite close enough to touch.

Finally, I confessed to my Catholic daughter that I was really being drawn to the Church, but I seemed to be discouraged at every turn. She and her family attended, still attend, a Traditional Church, one that adhered to the Latin Mass in spite of the wide-spread changes that followed Vatican II. "See Fr. B.," she suggested. I called her church and made an appointment, saying that I simply wanted to speak to a priest. Half expecting the same sort of meeting--one that intellectualized the Historical Jesus or one that seemed more therapy session than prayer session--I marked the date on my calendar. Little did I know that this meeting would change my life.

The Call to Conversion: Take One

2007-09-17T10:34:00.000-04:00

A funny thing happened to me on my way through life, though my years as a wife, mother and nurse practitioner: I was called to the Catholic Church. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

Born during the final months of World War II, in the middle of a thunder storm, to a devoutly religious but non-practicing mother and a non-religious but spiritual father, I was baptised in the Episcopal Church. Sunday school is a blur of sunny days and pictures of Jesus, arms open, children gathering around Him. What follows is nothingness--no church, no religious instruction, no mention of God, although God was ever present. I saw evidence of Him everywhere.

When I was a teenager, I joined the local Congregational Church for two reasons: it was within walking distance of my home, and all my friends belonged to the church youth group. Soon I was an active member of the junior congregation, attending retreats and Sunday night meetings and finally electing to be Confirmed at age sixteen. My parents weren't sure what came over me. "Better late than never," I told them. At the moment I was Confirmed, I felt myself filled with the Holy Ghost. At the reception, my boyfriend said, "You looked as if you were crying or something." He thought I was turning into a softy or, even worse, a nun.

Jump ahead several years. My boyfriend and I are married by a Justice of the Peace. We have two children. After five years of marriage, we divorce. I'm left with a baby and a toddler, the rent and no car. Working as a nurse's aid, I'm desperate for money. While I work, my children attend a Catholic pre-school and Kindergarten where they are looked after and loved by the nuns of Our Lady of Grace. A friend convinces me I should have the children baptised, and so they are received into the Catholic Church. Better late than never.

What follows are more years of nothingness: no religious education for my children, no church for me. Another marriage, again by a Justice of the Peace. All this time, although there is no evidence of this either in my life or in my actions, I feel the Presence with me constantly. Waiting. Giving me freedom of choice. Ever patient.

By now I'm a registered nurse, working with the very sickest patients, the injured and the dying. In my work, I feel even more strongly this Presence, this odd and puzzling call to something, to someone. If I have any religious leanings, they are played out in my ministrations to patients. In my other life, the one in which I am not a nurse, I make one bad decision after another, seeking neither minister nor priest. It's the seventies: we all want what we want; we all want to be the center of the world, a world of our own making.

Feminism explodes onto the scene. I attend writing workshops for women in which I learn that not only can I write, but I can write about anything! My body is my own! No one can tell me what to do! I am woman! Like so many women of this era, I think I can stand on my own, shouting my own name, doing my own thing. My second husband and I are divorced.

My writing explodes onto the scene too and, prodded by some publishing success, I learn to write the confessional poem, never thinking about who that poem might injure, what might be revealed in writing that perhaps should be kept private. In quieter moments, I ask myself why, if I'm so open, so free, how come I don't feel at peace? And what about that unknown and undefined Presence, the something that is still with me but seems now farther away?

Continuing to work in nursing, now as a nurse practitioner, and still writing, not only about my life but also about my work, I meet a Jewish man, attend Temple with him, agree to convert to Judaism, a religion I find fascinating, in order to marry him. I study for a year with the Rabbi; I learn about the Hebrew Bible, although I don't read it; I go to the Mikvah, where I am immersed in water, washing off all traces of my quasi-Christian past. My husband and I are married in the Synagogue on a Friday night. At the moment the Rabbi places his hand on my head, pronouncing me a Jew, there is a huge crash of thunder and flashes of lightning that illuminate the room.

I'm not a good Jew. I don't light candles, I don't fast, and in Temple I don't feel the presence of God. Even if He is there, I don't acknowledge Him. When I have to go to the Emergency Room for an unexpected illness, I write "Protestant" on the line that says: religion? For years, I stop praying, because I believe that if I'm Jewish I don't have the right to say the Our Father. The mysterious Presence moves farther away, and without it, whatever it is, I'm bereft. I find my way to an Episcopal Church and to a female friend, a poet, who has become a priest. Sitting on her office sofa and crying, I ask her permission to say the Lord's Prayer. I confess to her that I don't feel Jewish, that I feel untethered and lost. I don't tell her, because I can't yet articulate this, that I also feel that much in my life is wrong. It looks pretty good on the outside. But on the inside, I feel called to something greater, something that I can't identify or define. And I don't know where to find it.

And so I live for many years, Jewish by conversion, Christian by birth, a nurse who finds religion in caring for patients, a woman who, at last, begins to pray again. Not the Hebrew prayers I learn in Temple but only the Our Father. I talk to God all the time. I ask Him, what do You want from me? I don't say anything to my husband who would be, I imagine, devastated by my confusion.

Enough for now. For another day, "Conversion: Take Two," when I stumble my way to the Catholic Church.