Bad News Travels Awkwardly

Nursing is considered a helping profession. Nurses are compassionate, and empathetic, and helpful.  They are trained to be sensitive to the feelings of others. My father and mother trained to be nurses; they met at nursing school. After graduation, my mom became a mom, but my dad continued working in the nursing field.  He is considered to be very helpful by everyone who knows him.

Both sides of my family also have a long history of nuns.  Nuns are helpful sorts, and we have nuns out the wazoo in my family. They're almost genetic.  Being a nun is all about service to others. Nuns are pretty empathetic, unless they are working at a grade school. With that sort of background, and that sort of career choice, you'd think that my parents would be good at delivering bad news.

You would be wrong.

Neither of my parents are good at delivering bad news.  My mom tends to minimize, if she mentions it at all.  It's been difficult for me to keep track of family members over the years; my mom either never tells me when aunts, uncles, etc., have passed away, or she mentions it in passing. Most of the time, if I mention a relative's name in passing, my mother looks at me like I am insane.  

"Aunt Dorothy died six months ago!"

"What?!! When?!! How?!!" 

"I just don't know why you can't keep track of these things."

To be fair, I gave my mom lots of fits growing up.  I got a double dose of the empathy gene, so I'm a crier.  Any bad news would have had me bawling for hours.  To my reserved and stoic mother, I must have been a complete mystery. By waiting to tell me bad news, she avoided the inevitable waterworks.  I was too confused to cry by that point.

My father, on the other hand, is all about ripping that band-aid off quickly.  He usually waits until I am doing something else, like eating or working on a crochet project. That's when I am a little distracted. He tends to make small talk before he drops his news like a brick of lead. 

"Oh, by the way--your dog has heartworms and the treatment will probably kill her. Gotta go. Bye!"

Then he leaves the room while I sit there, my spoonful of cereal/soup halfway to my mouth, my eyes filling with tears.  Phone calls are no different--everything seems completely mundane, and then the hammer: "...your dog died last night.  Call you next week.  Bye!" 

I've learned to adjust to these surprises as a matter of survival, and face these sudden news flashes with a little more dignity than when I was a kid.  I have even tried to find a bit more empathy for the two of them in my middle ages; they did their best, whether it was good or bad.  Everyone feels uncomfortable sharing bad news, no matter who they are or what they do. 

But it's not the news delivery--it's what a person does after that that counts.

WOE: Vows

Write on Edge Prompt:  A stand-alone scene, fiction or memoir, in 500 words or less, involving a handwritten letter.  This was very out of my comfort zone, and I have no idea why this particular story popped into my head. 

Sister Mary Catherine, of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart Franciscan order, had been a nun for over forty years.  She had walked the stage at Jonesboro High School, received her diploma from Principal Dickerson, hugged her family, then marched across the street to the convent and never left.  


In quiet moments, Sister Mary Catherine could often be found reading an old letter to herself.  The other nuns whispered that the letter seemed to have a profound effect.  Reading the letter seemed to lift Sister Mary Catherine's spirits, and the others were of the opinion that the letter was from a family member offering encouragement.  

No one was ever able to speak with Sister Mary Catherine about the letter, however.  The day she had entered the convent, she had also taken on a vow of silence.  Vows of silence are a tradition for those called to the monastic life; the silence is often used for reflection and meditation and prayer. No one ever expected that the good sister would remain silent for over forty years!  Sister Mary Catherine did not even speak her confessions aloud, but wrote down her sins and passed them to the priest for his perusal. 


Over time the letter became tattered from being folded and unfolded numerous times a day, and the ink faded into the paper until it was no longer visible.  Sister Mary Catherine still went through the motions of unfolding the paper carefully; her lips moving silently over words put to memory long before they disappeared from the page.  As her health declined, and as the cancer gnawed on her bones, that letter seemed to provide a measure of hope.  The other Sisters of the Sacred Heart cared for their dying sister during her last year, and though they longed to hear the words that Sister Mary Catherine prayed silently, they respected the nun's silence and never pried.  

Far too soon, the priest came to sit at her bedside, to hear the last confession and administer Last Rites.  The Mother Superior sat holding Sister Mary Catherine's hand, offering what little help she could.  After a sip of water and some coughing, the dying sister began to speak aloud, in a whispered voice cracked with disuse, finally sharing the words from the letter. 

"Dearest Kate, I tried, but my life is emptiness and nothing without you.  We cannot openly be together, I know, but when you said that you would never speak my name again, I underestimated your devotion to me, to us.  I cannot live without you.  I now go to a better place, where no one will deny our love, or hate us because of that love.  Look for me in heaven, in the light of God's love, where we can be together once again.  I love you.  Marlene."