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Shorts
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| Her Final Words | |
| By MikeMorris | ||||||||||||||
| 05 September 2006 | ||||||||||||||
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This bit of scribble may be prefaced by the fact that I have family and many friends who are members, happy and devoted members, of religious orders. Nor could the end be long, thought Sister Elizabeth. Her friend’s quiet, thready breathing had become a succession of gentle sighs. Was she, in these final stages, realizing that the world she was leaving was truly a vale of tears and the life opening before her the one reality? The voices of the other nuns, hushed and reverential, began another decade of the rosary. “Praying their sister into Heaven” they called it. Yet, this time, they were praying, too, for their Mother; Sister Norah had been their Mother Superior at the convent for 22 years. She had guided their daily lives with the same love that they now returned with gratitude and not a few tears. And those years had been years of great change. Old habits, she punned mentally and wryly, had gone. Vocations had fallen; now the youngest nun was in her fifties and no postulants were coming forward. Had they outlasted their purpose? Were they an anachronism in the “modern” world? Had they, in a sense, ever been anything else? The change of rhythm of the prayer brought her back to herself. The Rosary had finished. She was aware of the other nuns’ eyes on her. As the most senior sister remaining she must take the initiative. “Mother ?” Perhaps there was a flicker of understanding “Is there anything you need? Can we get you anything?” The head on the pillow moved gently from side to side but the eyes remained closed. Then the right hand moved slowly. Was she beckoning her closer? “Is there anything you wish to say?” Elizabeth bent her head to try to catch the words the frail lips were forming. It was no use. Norah’s voice, once so strong and full of authority, had left her. Sister Imelda gently tugged on Elizabeth’s sleeve and with her eyes indicated the water jug on the bedside table. Elizabeth poured a glass and held it for Norah, as Imelda supported the patient’s head. Norah took the smallest of sips and once again tried to speak. But the words would not come. Wearily she waved away the water and sank back on the pillow. But her hand pointed towards the door and seemed to mime a pouring action. “Maybe she wants milk,” whispered Imelda. “You know how she always loved the cold milk of a morning”. We’re already speaking of her in the past tense, thought Elizabeth. “Good idea, sister,“ she said. “I’ll bring her some” And she left, returning almost at once with a glassful from their own cow, Patsy. Elizabeth could remember when the convent had kept six cows and the cowman, Denny, had come twice a day. Now only Patsy was left and when she went, she wouldn’t be replaced. Either. But Norah couldn’t manage the milk. She smelled, tried it, and she sipped the tiniest drop. And tried to speak. But only a harsh croak came out, unintelligible and disturbing. She seemed too, to becoming agitated. “Mother,” said Elizabeth, “Have you something to say? Something you want to tell us?” Norah seemed to be nodding. Elizabeth stood up. “Excuse me again, sisters. I will only be a moment.” Leaving the room, taking the milk with her, Elizabeth went downstairs to the sideboard. There, in one of the cupboards, was a half empty bottle of brandy, reserved for the rare occasions when the Bishop visited them. She poured a generous measure into the milk. She had heard or read somewhere that, in extremis, brandy could act as a stimulant. Perhaps in this case it would help poor Norah. Maybe she would now be able to say those words of encouragement or advice she so wished to tell her charges. Her final blessing perhaps? Whatever it was, it was likely to be vital to the life of the community. They must, if possible, hear it. She came into the sick room. Some of the sisters were weeping quite openly. They knew, of course, Norah was at last going home, but, Oh, they would miss her. “Mother,” she whispered. “Try this.” With Imelda once again supporting her, Norah tried to sit up. She took a tiny sip of the milk. And then another. And then, holding the glass in both hands, drained it. She spoke. “My daughters,” she began. As one,”Yes, Mother?” “My very dear daughters…” “ Yes, Mother” “My very dear daughters, whatever you do….” “Yes, Mother, Yes?” “Whatever you do…” “Yes, Yes, Yes, Mother. Please give us your final advice!” “Never ever, sell that blessed, blessed cow!”
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