A Mass to Remember

When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit upon his glorious throne, and all the nations will be assembled before him.  And he will separate them one from another, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.  He will place the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.

Then the king will say to those on his right, "Come, you who are blessed by my Father.  Inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.

For I was hungry and you gave me food,

I was thirsty and you gave me drink,

a stranger and you welcomed me,

naked and you clothed me,

ill and you cared for me, in prison and you visited me.

Then the righteous will answer him and say, "Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink?  When did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you?  When did we see you ill or in prison, and visit you?"

And the king will say to them in reply, "Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me."

Then he will say to those on his left, "Depart from me, you accursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.

For I was hungry and you gave me no food,

I was thirsty and you gave me no drink,

a stranger and you gave me no welcome,

naked and you gave me no clothing,

ill and in prison, and you did not care for me."

Then they will answer and say, "Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or ill or in prison, and not minister to your needs?"

He will answer them, "Amen, I say to you, what you did not do for one of these least ones, you did not do for me."

-Matthew 25: 31-45

***

This scripture passage is the heart and soul of Catholic social teaching.  

I have heard and read it many times, but today I could not help but hear in it a lambasting of many Republican policies and attitudes toward the poor by Jesus himself.  There is no ambiguity here; all are called to help the unfortunate in concrete ways, to give willingly and without preconditions.  Period.

This dimension of Catholic faith, the emphasis on social justice, energized the life-changing legislative career of Senator Ted Kennedy.  Fr. Mark Hession of Our Lady of Victory Parish in Centerville, MA said during his homily, "These works of the Kingdom were daily concerns of the public life of Senator Kennedy."  I am so glad that reading was chosen as the liturgical centerpiece of his funeral Mass, which I "attended" from my living room via CNN's live coverage.  (Click here to see a pdf version of the Mass program.)

 I found Senator Kennedy's Choice of Mission Church - Our Lady of Perpetual Help on Mission Hill - less than half a mile from where I received my medical training - deeply moving and fitting.  It may have been a security nightmare for the Secret Service to prepare this place to receive four presidents and two thirds of the United States Senate, but it was the perfect place for Ted Kennedy's funeral Mass.  The basilica is at the heart of a community that embodies so many of the concerns of his career - civil rights, access to health care, social justice.  It had personal meaning for him, too:  he prayed for his sick child here.  Fr. Mark said it best during his well-written homily: "The senator's choice of this church for his funeral mass resonates with the meaning and the purpose of his life and work."

What a beautiful Mass it was.  I couldn't help noting the similarities between the Aquinos and the Kennedys, especially when Donald Monan, S.J., Chancellor of Boston College, opened the Mass with a description of the way private prayer was the secret strength behind Ted Kennedy's public life.  The readings chosen for the Liturgy of the Word  - Wisdom 3:1-9, Psalm 72, and one of my favorites, Romans 8:31-39 - conveyed perfectly the emphasis on justice and trust in God that has imbued the lives of the Kennedy family. Susan Graham sang Schubert's "Ave Maria" more exquisitely and expressively than I've ever heard it sung before, with perfect dynamics and consummate vocal control.  Literally pitch-perfect.

Most unforgettable and  moving, I think, have been Vicki Kennedy's extraordinary and exemplary grace and dignity throughout this week of public grieving, and Ted Jr.'s story of how his father encouraged him and helped him climb an icy hill shortly after he (Ted Jr.) lost his leg to bone cancer.  All the stories - moving, funny, striking, redemptive - put a human face on an iconic figure.  Ted Kennedy worked hard for the people, cared about individual suffering as well as global, and tried to be a good father to his children.  Instead of retreating from life because of past failures, he moved forward and tried to be a better man.  He worked tirelessly to better his country.  I agree with what President Obama said in his eulogy - we should celebrate what he became.

After the Mass we began our drive to New Hampshire for a weekend of rest.  We glimpsed Kennedy's motorcade on its way to Hanscom Air Base as we waited to merge onto 95 North from Route 2.  As we exited 93 North in New Hampshire, we saw a large American flag at half-mast at the first intersection.  Now we are watching the ceremony at Arlington National Ceremony.  We've heard the final correspondence between the Senator and the Vatican.  The gun salute and Taps just ended.  His grandchild is describing sitting on the porch with him in the early morning looking out over a sea of "freedom and possibility": 

"We talked and we talked, and the world was just right." 

Rest in Peace, Ted Kennedy.

"Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord

and let perpetual light shine upon him." 

- from the Prayer for the Dead

Saying Goodbye to the Age of Myths (But Wanting to Cling Just a Little Bit Longer)

My children's birthdays are occasions of profound happiness for me.  Today my son turns nine - his last year in the single digits.

This is one of those ages that makes me wistful, that tugs at some primal chordae tendinae, making them vibrate with joy and melancholy all at once. 

I was about this age when I first arrived in the United States.  I remember it as a time of discovery and wonder.  I watched 3-2-1 Contact, played with a leathery-smelling old basketball in our front yard, read novels by E.L. Konigsburg, Louise Fitzhugh, Madeleine L'Engle, and Katherine Paterson, and marveled at the way the seasons changed.  

My son loves books too, as I did at that age.  He can spend hours absorbed in books like D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths (in fact, we gave him their volume of Norse myths as a birthday present today, along with a book entitled Cool Stuff and How It Works). He dreams of being an astronomer but has also entertained the idea of being a zookeeper.  He has a healthy love of fantasy but has voiced some opinions about the workings of the real world as well. Already he sounds  a little more worldly in his own cerebral way, a little less magical in his thinking.  He has managed to maintain a very sweet kind of innocence for years, but I expect him to lose more and more of that in the coming year.  I am awed but also a little sad.

Because I had already found out the biological facts of life at a much earlier age (by accident, at a book store), I was able to prolong that idyllic childhood time, in a way, without an abrupt transition from "not knowing" to "knowing."  It was a done deal; I knew already; I could just enjoy the rest.  With him, though, I can see that the "loss of innocence" talks will occur as discrete events - much like his learning to crawl, and walk, and speak.  

The birds and the bees are already hovering.

"What's menopause?" he asked me the other day after hearing the word on television.

"Do you know what periods are?"  I asked.

"No," he said.

"Well, let me explain that first, then I can tell you about menopause."

"All right, I'm outta here," my daughter said, picking up the laptop and leaving the room. This is old hat for her.  

I pulled out a sheet of paper and drew a rudimentary uterus on it.  I explained that when babies grow inside their mothers, they're not just floating around in the abdomen; they grow in a special place meant just for them.  I drew fallopian tubes and ovaries - a little too large, not really to scale.  

"It looks like a moose," my son observed.  He was right; my fimbriae, tubes, and uterus indeed looked rather moose-like.

I explained about the ovum's journey and the monthly thickening of the uterine lining, and about how it was passed out of the body if the egg wasn't supposed to wind up growing into a baby inside the uterus.  Soon my husband and I will have to sit down with him to explain Part Two (what happens when the ovum does nestle into the uterine lining to develop into an infant, and how that comes to pass).  

Herein lies the bittersweetness of this age for me.  At some point we have to let go of the simplicity and innocence of that world in which the arrival and growth of a baby are accepted as blessings without biological mechanisms.  Our son will grow in knowledge and expand his ideas, and that is only right.  But oh, that trusting look of a child who needn't know too much just yet - whose questions are completely without guile or cynicism, and who is just as content to find answers in stories as in facts - that look will be gone. 

I don't want it to come too fast, but the time is upon us.  And we do celebrate it:  his wisdom advancing.

End of an Era

"My brother need not be idealized or enlarged in death beyond what he was in life, to be remembered as a good and decent man, who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to stop it.

Those of us who loved him and who take him to his rest today, pray that what he was to us and what he wished for others will some day come to pass for all the world."

-- Ted Kennedy's eulogy for Robert F. Kennedy, June 1968.

***

Please read this beautiful post about Ted Kennedy by Lisa Johnson, author of the blog Anali's First Amendment.

Nada Te Turbe

I've been thinking a lot lately about the what stresses me out most in life.  It's not the tough clinical scenarios, busy days, practical aspects of maintaining a household, or parenting responsibilities that get to me, I find.  It's the toxic nature of certain people.

I tend to get very strong "vibes" from, and have equally strong reactions to, other people.  I'm not claiming that the vibes I sense are always accurate - though my husband and I believe they are, actually - but only that they can create very strong feelings in me, and sometimes the intensity of these feelings causes me great stress.

Today I had the kind of day that might have been stressful for a number of reasons.  I had to come in extra early to relieve the night doc.  I was the physician in charge today and that, in and of itself, usually raises my blood pressure a few notches.  There's always a lot of busy work to do as the charge person, with constant interruptions by beeper tones, phone calls, surgeons with questions, nurses with questions, patients with questions.  Moreover, we had at least two clinically difficult patients in the rooms today, one of whom almost coded on me.  But I wasn't that stressed.  In fact, I was pretty calm and content.

And I knew why.  The absence of toxic coworkers made all the difference.  

There have been a few people in my work life, at other hospitals and at my current one, who are like poison to my day, for any number of different reasons - lack of integrity; pathetic or non-existent work ethic; arrogance; contentiousness; snide or critical speaking tones; biting hostility; back-stabbing tendencies; bullying; hypocrisy; narcissism; disrespect; a lazy or indifferent attitude to patient care.  When I sense "vibes" of this nature from other people, I tend to develop very strong feelings about their behavior patterns.  More than anything else, the effects of their actions on the quality of my day, and the feelings they inspire, are a noxious presence in my life - largely because I allow them to be.

I know, however, that I have some control over that.  That I can train myself to choose not to let my strong reactions to toxic people have such a hold on me.  I know I can be a little less perturbed by the scripts others are acting out and just focus on my own.  But like any spiritual habit, this effort to reclaim an inner peace, this way of living in the world with less reactivity and stress and greater mindfulness of what's truly at work, is going to take time and practice.

Pray more, said a voice in my head when I was meditating during Mass this weekend.  I guess that wouldn't be a bad way to start; after all, prayer - or meditation, or focused awareness, or connection to the sacred, or whatever label suits your understanding - does have the power to transform us, whether or not anyone seems to be listening.  I've been too content with the idea of my entire life being a kind of prayer; I haven't been proactive enough, like an athlete training to keep her body in shape.  It's time to stop neglecting that dimension of my life and start practicing a little better.

Guest Post: Notes on Copland's Fanfare for the Common Man

It is my great honor and pleasure to commemorate this Philippine holiday, the 26th anniversary of Ninoy Aquino's assassination, with this reflection by my talented friend Jeffrey E. Salzberg (used by permission; photos added by me):

I had an epiphany some time ago. I listened to Aaron Copland's Fanfare for the Common Man.

I'd heard it before, of course - it's long been one of my favorite pieces of American music, actually - but this time I really listened to it. And, for the first time, I understood it.

It helps to know the background. In 1942, the Cincinnati Orchestra invited 18 composers to submit new pieces expressing their feelings about America. At the time, Nazi Germany had conquered most of Europe. Much of Asia was under the control of Imperial Japan. Mussolini was carving out his own empire in Africa and southern Europe. Freedom and democracy, it's not an overstatement to say, seemed doomed.

Aaron Copland entered the competition.

Tympani - the cannons of war.

...And silence...Evil appears triumphant and unstoppable.

...But a single horn enters, playing the theme...a single man, who realizes that Evil must be opposed, even though opposition will surely cost him his life.

More cannons.

A second person, seeing the first, stands with him. It's still hopeless - what can two people do against such an overwhelming enemy? - but Evil must be opposed; it cannot be allowed to stand.

...But a third person stands...and a fourth...and a fifth. The tide begins to turn.

...And now there's a mighty army, invincible. Evil is vanquished.

...Because one person had the courage to stand against it.

-Jeffrey E. Salzberg, February 6, 2009

***

For more about Ninoy, please see my post about him from last January here, a Wikipedia article here, or an online tribute for him here.

Patient: "One Who Suffers"

[Picture source.]

We all have patients sometimes with whom we absolutely dread interacting.  

We had one such patient recently - a sullen, angry, hate-filled man who acknowledged others only rarely and, if he did deign to respond to inquiries at all, did so with unabashed hostility.

Imagine my delight when I was informed that five or six people had attempted to get an I.V. into this gentleman without success while I was in the operating room taking care of another patient. By the time I came out no one wanted to go near the man, or speak to him, much less try again.

When I approached the patient and introduced myself he didn't look at me or reply.  He ignored every question I asked.  When the first I.V. cannula I inserted entered the vein but then refused to advance further, he swore and threatened to leave.  I couldn't blame him; he had been made into a pincushion by several others, after all, and now by me too.  I finally managed to get the I.V. on the third attempt and was able to bring him to the operating room.

All the while despite his unpleasant manner and occasional sniping comments I made a special effort to speak with calm and respect, to touch gently, to be attentive to his comfort.  It wasn't so easy.  Gradually his manner softened a little.  As I was applying the last of my monitors I told him I would be giving him the anesthetic soon.

"Can you..." he began.

"Can I what?" I replied, trying to encourage him to ask what was on his mind.

"You could make it so I don't wake up, couldn't you?"

"I could, but my job's to make sure you do wake up."

"No, please, I don't want to."

All of a sudden he sounded scared, and very, very sad.  Not at all the hard, furious man from the preop area.

"Please don't wake me up. Just let me die."

"I can't do that."

"No one would ever have to know.  Please just kill me.  Please.  I know you can."

"But I can't.  It's not up to me," I said.

"But I don't want to wake up.  Please."

All the layers of anger and hate he had put on over his hurt and fear had lifted like veils.  When I saw his face, his true face, all I could see was suffering profound enough to make his life unbearable to him, and my own negative feelings melted away. I felt unkind for having resented his earlier demeanor so, and clueless for not having remembered that hostility almost always conceals some kind of fear or pain.

"All I can do is give you a brief rest," I said.  "That I can give you."

The disappointment in his sigh cut deeply.

We still have so much to learn from you, I thought as the anesthetic took hold.  So much to learn.

Sometimes the ones we think we don't want to take care of are the ones who teach and take care of us.

Bracing Ourselves

This is one of my favorite pictures of my daughter.

The first thing I noticed when the orthodontist e-mailed it to me, of course, was the beautifully patent airway, a dark passageway beside the column of stacked cervical vertebrae.  

After that I couldn't help admiring the specter of her facial features over her bone structure, so lovely and young yet also with the timeless look of a wise old soul, a spirit that has known lifetimes of joy and sorrow, or one that is innocent of it all - a pure heart.  She is Nefertiti looking out across the Nile toward Amarna, she is the Little Match Girl of Andersen's tale, she is Mary with her secret garden, she's the Princess of Genovia.  She's all these and none of these.  She's the girl we love most in all the world.

She has a will of iron and a heart of gold.  She is bubbly and carefree, yet capable of a depth of feeling that might seem well beyond her years.  She's a "Tween" through and through:  on the phone rhapsodizing about Twilight's Edward one moment, hugging her teddy the next; pushing our rules to the limit, and sometimes overstepping them; developing political opinions and a social conscience; sweet and loving with us, certainly, but also possessed of a tone and attitude that sometimes send her stomping up the stairs and us throwing up our hands wondering how to get our messages through.

She got braces this past week - a reminder that time just keeps flowing onward, and we have to try and keep up.  Every adolescent needs braces of some kind.  Little guiding supports, pushes and tugs to maneuver things into place and get them in the best possible alignment.  We're just trying to figure out how to apply ours without too much hurt and discomfort, and with some hope of compliance.  

Already I've messed up.  Pushed a little too hard, shown sometimes more anger than understanding, perhaps expected too much.  

I wonder if she'll look back and resent this period of tested limits and battling wills, or whether like a patient I had today she'll look back on her parents' "strictness" with an understanding that it sprang from a deep caring about her choices and her well-being, her health and her character.  I hope she does see someday that the "tough love" that sometimes drives her up the wall is the same love that lights up my face whenever I see her, that makes me hug her extra hard for no reason at all, and that keeps her always in my mind and heart even when I'm faraway.