Deathbed fk-8

by William X. Kienzle

  Later, he overheard the clinic nurse tell someone that Lennon had taken particular notice of the family planning services. All was well as far as Bruce Whitaker was concerned.

  Meanwhile Arnold had gone through almost two rolls of film and had decided that was about all he’d need. He started to pack his gear.

  Lennon, too, felt she had heard enough and closed her notepad. She noticed several pamphlets displayed on a counter. She picked one up and paged through it. Clearly, she found it interesting. She began reading in earnest.

  “Excuse me,” she addressed the nurse, “but these pamphlets—are they available to the patients? The clients who come to the clinic?”

  The nurse scanned the pamphlets. “Why, yes, of course. Is there something wrong?”

  “They’ve got family planning information.”

  “We get quite a few pregnancies in here. Not as many as some hospitals. But that’s because we’re in the core city. Lots of older people. Still, we do get our share of preggies.”

  “Do all pregnant women get this material?”

  “Routinely, yes. You’d be surprised at how little some of these women know about getting pregnant. Even some who are already mothers. Oh, they know enough about coitus. But when it comes to sperm and ova and menstruation, more often than not you can forget it.”

  “But these pamphlets have information on . . . uh . . . ‘artificial’ contraception.”

  “Yes?” The nurse was surprised that a contemporary woman—let alone an urbane reporter—would take issue with contraception. Of course, the lady was from the News, which was a rather conservative paper. But, really!

  “Well, unless I am seriously mistaken,” Lennon said, “the Catholic Church still condemns contraception.” Pause. “And this is a Catholic hospital!”

  “Lady, I don’t make policy here; I just follow it. But I can tell you one thing: It’s like shoveling sand against the tide.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, like I said before, most of the girls who come in here pregnant don’t know how they got that way. They just know they’re pregnant. And even after counseling and literature like this, or even after giving them anything from the Pill to an IUD, they still come back pregnant again. About the only time it ends is when they get a tubal ligation.”

  “You do that here?”

  “Uh-huh. Actually it’s simple out-patient surgery now. Usually there aren’t any complications.”

  “But that’s sterilization.”

  “Well, it’s not as if we did it as a regular practice. Only in some extreme cases.”

  “Such as?”

  “There was a typical one the other day. A lady who’d been here before. Thought she was pregnant again. Turned out to be a false alarm. But she’s a diabetic. And that condition seriously complicates pregnancy. So the doctor did a tubal. Really, it was the only humane thing to do.”

  “How about vasectomies?”

  “No. Not usually. Something like that can be done in the physician’s office.”

  “How about abortions?”

  “Oh, no. That’s where the hospital draws the line.”

  “None of your doctors perform abortions?”

  “Not here. But most of them are accredited at other hospitals—all of which permit abortions. Of course, some of our doctors simply don’t perform abortions, period. But those on our staff who do just take their patients across the street.”

  “But you do provide contraceptive counseling and devices . . . and you do perform sterilizations?”

  “Oh, yes. But keep in mind that as far as the counseling is concerned, we are just supplying information these women should have received somewhere else—school or home or someplace. The devices are supplied only with the patient’s knowledge and consent. And that, of course, holds true for sterilizations. We don’t even recommend tubal ligations unless there are some additional extenuating circumstances. Like the diabetic I told you about.”

  Lennon packed her notepad and pen away. “Well, thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Very.”

  She concurred that William Arnold’s job was done, at least for the moment. He returned to the News where he would submit his film for development.

  * * *

  A reporter! And a photographer! News travels fast in this little hospital.

  Why would the Detroit News be interested in St. Vincent’s? No matter. If what is going on here is reported, all hell will break loose. I will be able to share my private hell with the rest of the world.

  Most of all, it will be the end for that damnable nun. The light of day can destroy her as thoroughly as I ever could.

  And, if it doesn’t . . .?

  I still can act.

  That poor, miserable acid-head! He almost did my job for me. If it had not been for that stupid guard, it would be all over now. Dumb luck. She would be dead. It would be no one’s fault. And it would be over.

  All right. I will give the Detroit News its chance to bring her down. That way, once again, it will be no one’s fault. No one’s fault but hers.

  All right. We’ll see about the power of the press.

  But God, it can’t take long. The pain in my head! It is driving me mad!

  If someone does not get rid of her soon, I will! By God, I will! One way or another, I will bring her down.

  In the meantime, smile, clown! No one must know. No one!

  * * *

  Lennon retraced her steps to Sister Eileen’s office to await the nun’s return. She paged through several magazines, but was unable to concentrate.

  Eventually, Eileen returned. She seemed startled to find Pat there. “Waiting long?”

  “Not really.”

  “Sorry. Meetings have a way of dragging on.”

  They entered her inner office and sat where they had hours earlier. Eileen looked intently at Lennon. Something was troubling the reporter. “Have an interesting tour?”

  “Very. Basically, it seems you have a rather smooth-running operation here. I think I noticed an extra something in the personnel. I’m not sure what it is—more sensitivity, more personalized care, Christianity—something. That I will have to check out more thoroughly. But I’ll get right to what interests me the most—your clinic.”

  “Ah, yes, the clinic.” She was not a crack reporter for nothing.

  “Admittedly, it’s been a long time since I’ve had any formal training in Catholicism. But I try to keep up with reading and some study. Some of the stories I work on require some specialized knowledge. For instance, I did a story not too long ago on Casa Anna out in Dearborn Heights. It’s a home for adolescent girls who are in trouble. Usually a lot of trouble.”

  “Yes. I know it well.”

  “The average inmate is unmarried and pregnant. I interviewed the psychologist-social worker about their pregnancy counseling.”

  “You don’t have to go any further, Pat. I know what you’re driving at: The girls get no contraceptive information whatsoever.”

  “That’s what I learned. And that, as the social worker explained, is because Casa Anna is a Catholic institution.”

  Eileen continued to gaze at Lennon, but merely nodded.

  “But that’s not the case in your clinic. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that. My question may be a little complex, but . . . what’s going on here?”

  Even though Sister Eileen had feared that Lennon would ferret out some of St. Vincent’s less kosher secrets, the nun was unsure how best to explain it all.

  She silently welcomed any help the Holy Spirit might send.

  “The first thing you ought to know,” she said, finally, “is that a considerable amount of the clinic’s budget is underwritten by federal money. And I tell you quite frankly that if we did not offer the full spectrum of family planning, that money would be withdrawn.”

  “Oh?” Lennon had not expected such a candid statement. She flipped open her notepad and began writing.

  Eileen sighed. But it was inevitable. “Having said this
, I can only hope you will trust that I am being totally honest with you.”

  Lennon nodded. She continued writing.

  “The second thing, and, I believe, the more important thing you should know, is that the policies of this hospital are set quite independently of any financial consideration. In the case of our clinic, it just so happens that government funding is available for that operation only as long as clients are given information and counseling on family planning without any reservation. And, since it is our policy to provide the full scope of family planning information, we gratefully accept the much needed government funding.”

  She paused. Lennon looked up from her writing. Her countenance betrayed her thoughts.

  “You find this rather hard to believe?”

  “Frankly, uh-huh.”

  “Frankly, I must admit I don’t blame you.”

  “Look, Sister, reporters—sportswriters mostly—still once in a while talk about little St. Ambrose High back in the fifties and sixties, winning all those city football championships. Beating big public-school teams like Cooley and Chadsey. There was no earthly way a little Catholic school could just happen upon so many huge young boys who were so good at football and all conveniently living within parish boundaries. No way, that is, unless the school was shamelessly and illegally recruiting.

  “So, an enterprising reporter one day went over to interview the principal. When asked if the school recruited its players, the nun said, ‘Of course not.’ Well, because a nun said it, the reporter dropped the story. But most of the rest of us believe that in her next confession, that nun confessed that she had stretched the truth a bit—once—in a good cause.

  “I want to believe you, Sister. But I can’t just because ‘Sister said . . .’ Especially when what you say doesn’t seem to add up.

  “Let me put it to you the way I see it. Casa Anna has girls who get pregnant with the frequency other people catch colds. But the social worker tells me the girls can’t be given counseling in contraception because this is against the rules of the Catholic Church. Okay. I think this is a pretty dumb rule—but a rule is a rule. And they’re following it.

  “Now we come to St. Vincent’s ... a Catholic hospital. As far as I can see, you are bound to the same rules as Casa Anna. Yet you offer counseling in contraception. If you didn’t, government funding would be cut off. But you do offer it and you get the funding. Finally, you tell me you’re not doing this for the money. Does this add up, Sister?”

  Eileen smiled. “You say it doesn’t add up, Pat. But that’s because you’ve left out one very important number.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ve gone further than the government demands. If we were offering this service solely to get government funds, there would be no earthly reason why we would not provide contraceptive counseling and leave it at that. That’s all the government requires. But, as you have undoubtedly learned, we supply contraceptives and even perform sterilizations. That’s considerably more than the government requires. So, if we are adopting a policy on family planning for the sole purpose of being funded, why do we go well beyond what is required for that funding?”

  Lennon stopped writing and was perfectly still as she considered what Sister had said.

  “Okay,” Lennon said, “you win that round. But it leaves the basic question: Why are you offering contraceptives and performing sterilizations?”

  “A good question. An honest question. And a difficult question. I suppose the only responsible answer is that it was my decision. It was a prayerful, conscientious and hard-fought decision.

  “St. Vincent’s has been in this area of Detroit since 1845. It has changed with the city and it has changed with the neighborhood. It started on the corner of Larned and Randolph, moved to Clinton, and finally here on St. Antoine.

  “Pat, some people believe in luck, chance, coincidence. I believe in all those. I also believe in divine providence. I think it was providential for St. Vincent’s to have been created in Detroit. I think God intends it to be here now, for this community.

  “But, Pat, this community, among many other things, does not understand self-control or abstinence or rhythm as a means of family planning. Such concepts are utterly foreign to the culture of most of the people we serve.

  “And I know the question that’s on your mind. How can we bend our principles, compromise our standards to conform to the morality we find around us? Two wrongs do not make a right. And all that. Well, we cannot compromise the teachings of Christ for any reason whatsoever. And here it gets a bit difficult. I don’t know that I can explain everything to your satisfaction. But there are some of us who do not believe the Church is entirely correct in each and every one of its teachings. We believe it is at least possible that the teaching of Christ and the teaching of the Church are not identical in each and every case.

  “You must know that this is not a conclusion lightly reached. It is achieved only through much prayer and much consultation. And even then it is a conclusion painfully reached. But when reached, it must be followed.”

  “Must be followed . . .” Lennon laid the pen on her pad and sat back in her chair. “Must be followed . . . it rings a bell. Someplace back in high school or college. Of course! Your conscience . . . one’s conscience . . . you have to follow your conscience.” Pause. “But there was a hook in that . . . wasn’t there?”

  Eileen smiled. “I guess you could call it a hook. You have to have what was called ‘a normal conscience.’”

  “That’s right!” Lennon seemed to be enjoying recalling ancient rules and regulations that she had at one time been expected to memorize. “There were different kinds of consciences, weren’t there?”

  “Yes.” Eileen, considerably earlier than Lennon, also had memorized rules and doctrines. The difference was that Eileen never forgot what she’d learned. “There were scrupulous, lax, normal, correct, and erroneous consciences.”

  “That’s right!”

  Eileen felt as if she were passing a test.

  “And,” Lennon continued, “you figure you have a normal conscience in this and so you find you have to follow that conscience.”

  “That’s exactly correct.”

  Lennon was lost in thought for several silent moments. “But what about Casa Anna?”

  “What about it?”

  “No contraceptive counseling there. Does that mean the nun in charge of Casa Anna doesn’t agree with your assessment of Church law?”

  “Pat, I’ve always found it a mistake to judge others. There’s no way of telling all the circumstances that go into a person’s decision. It’s possible that Sister Ludmilla simply goes along with official Church policy in this matter. I don’t know. We’ve never discussed the matter.

  “But I would suggest one very conceivable, if not plausible, possibility. You said it yourself just a few minutes ago when you mentioned that Casa Anna is in Dearborn Heights.”

  “What has that to do with it?”

  “Most of the local Church authorities prefer not to want to be informed of what’s going on in the core city as far as things Catholic go. Certainly that’s true of Cardinal Boyle. He understands that if we are to be relevant to the communities we serve, we cannot do things the way they are done in the suburbs.

  “A suburban parish, for instance, conducts the Sunday liturgy just exactly as Rome has specified. The local liturgical commission insists that the parochial Mass be celebrated exactly as the liturgical texts direct. But, far more importantly, suburban Catholics want everything to be done correctly.

  “However, St. Hugo’s in Bloomfield Hills is not St. Patrick’s in Detroit. What relatively few parishioners St. Patrick’s has are mainly blacks, most of whose tradition is Baptist. And if St. Patrick’s were to offer Sunday liturgy precisely as St. Hugo’s does, St. Patrick’s would be left with virtually no congregation. So that if someone were to phone on a Sunday morning and ask, ‘What time is Mass?’ the priest probably would reply, ‘What time can y
ou get here?’

  “So, St. Patrick’s has one of the better blends of a Catholic-Baptist service on Sundays. The parishioners of St. Patrick’s greatly enjoy this liturgy. It makes sense to them. It touches them. No one takes any offense. On the contrary, they are very much at home with that blend of the known and the unfamiliar. Or, the unfamiliar ritual of the Catholic Church is understood and recognized in the blend with the Baptist expression.

  “So, it is certain that some parishioners of St. Hugo’s would be very much disturbed if they were aware of what was going on at St. Patrick’s Parish. And if they were disturbed enough, they would undoubtedly have recourse to Cardinal Boyle. And then he would have no choice but to take some action against what is going on at St. Patrick’s Parish.”

  Sister Eileen fell silent. The impression was that it was not a silence during which she was thinking of something else to say. It was an invitation for some sort of comment.

  “Wait a minute, “ Lennon said, at length, “I think I see what you’re driving at. You’re saying that you don’t want the authorities to know what’s going on in this hospital. And you’re also claiming that the authorities don’t want to know. And who’s likely to break the news to everyone? I am.

  “Is that it?”

  Eileen sighed. “That’s it.”

  “You want me to sit on this story! Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”

  “I think so.”

  “I don’t think you do. Hunters wait for a deer. Kirk Gibson waits for a fast ball. Priests wait for a repentant sinner. Reporters wait for a good story. And believe me, this is a good story. The story I came here to get was a puff piece—a good story, but not a news story. But what I’ve got here could take this out of the Michigan Magazine and put it on the front page with lots more news to come as people react to the story.

  “Sister, this is my job! If my editor found out that I was sitting on a story like this, he’d have my scalp. And he’d have every right to. It would be downright unprofessional.”