Hello friends,
Here is a
simple flower arrangement I made with some deliciously sweet-smelling cherry
blossoms that I pick along the way in my neighbourhood. As soon as I enter my
kitchen, the scent is so amazing!
Speaking as a novice in flower arranging, I
think everyone can be creative with flowers. I am certain that I am every
professional flower arranger’s nightmare
as I just do what comes from my heart and I am aware that I break all the
rules! Surely, I would love to hear your comments about it!
I am glad to be back with
another extract from Chapter Five, a continuation from last week’s. It is to me
the meeting centre of rivers from different streams, like a divine resolution.
But you need to read it yourself and make your own decisions, just as we see
Nicole making hers in this extract! Meanwhile, let’s read…
Eventually,
after eight hours, all the mayhem caused by the nature of
the emergency abated. Only then was she able to look at her patient.
|
According
to handover, he was thirty five years old. She dabbed his face with a flannel.
He was still unconscious and looked completely lifeless.
The old ventilator had to do all
the breathing for him. There were complex lines crisscrossing over him;
ventilator tubes, multiple intravenous lines and electrodes, which attached him
to the heart monitor. A chest drain was also in place because his left lung had
collapsed.
Nicole noted with sadness that
throughout the numerous interventions, constant monitoring, and probing, Father
Angelo Giordani lay there, motionless and defenceless, oblivious to everything.
Although exhausted, she wondered
about his life, his family and about being a missionary priest. She needed to
get more information from his friend, the other stricken missionary priest, and
she also resolved to find out as soon as she could if anyone had even bothered
to update him on the situation.
She thought of her patient’s name
– Father Angelo Marcello Giordani –
and repeated it several times to herself. She was certain that she had never
heard a more beautiful name. Softly, she called out to him but was aggrieved by
his lack of response.
It was Friday, January 5. As
Nicole wrote the date in his nursing notes, she remembered that it was the eve
of the Epiphany, when the church celebrated the visitation of Casper, Melchior,
and Balthasar, the three wise men (or the Magi) from the East, who, by
following a star, were led to the Christ Child in Bethlehem. Nicole wondered
what became of their lives after their discovery of Christ.
Sorrowfully, she pondered over
the destiny of this priest, who had come dramatically, from a different East,
by a very different method and in a very different manner.
Nicole was scheduled to be off
for the next six weeks as she had outstanding annual leave. This meant that her
leave days would more than cover the one month’s notice she was required to
work before her planned resignation.
The letter!
She suddenly remembered! Putting
her hand into her pocket, she took out the resignation letter, which she had
written earlier that very day. With the letter in her hand, she slowly looked
up. And for some moments she stood, painfully deliberating in silence, whilst
sadly studying Father Angelo.
The ventilator was making his
every breath; the beeping of the cardiac monitor was monitoring his every
heartbeat.
The choice was entirely hers. She could choose to walk away from it all and never come back…Carefully,
she wiped away the sweat that trickled from his dark brown hair. He had short
black stubble around his mouth and over his chin, which extended to the sides
of his face. She found herself looking into the face of abject hopelessness
Would there be anyone willing to
sacrifice their time and remain by his side and care for him from their heart,
here in this place?
As she intensely deliberated over
this, she instinctively became extremely concerned and even protective. It was
all too clear that she could no longer resign.
She knew that she could not leave
him.
“Heavenly Father,” she prayed,
“You brought this priest son to me at the time of my weak and most miserable
moments and put me in this position where I find no strength to walk away from
him. But what then, my Father – what guarantee do I have that if I decide to
remain here at St Michael’s for his sake, that you will also allow him to
remain in the land of the living for my sake?”
Sighing and turning back to her
patient, she said sadly but firmly, “Father Angelo, I can never leave you! I
pray that it will be the same for you.”
A quick decision was made.
Glancing once more at him, she took a deep breath, tore up the resignation letter
and threw the crumpled up shreds into the bin. She made the mental note to
phone home to tell her mother that she was staying at the hospital overnight.
She prayed inwardly that the phone would be working. Thankfully, her two little
girls were spending the weekend with Samantha, her aunt. Her seventeen-year-old
twin brothers were due to join them the following day.
Yes, she thought she would linger
on and make sure the antiquated ventilator did not pack up. For the sake of
Father Angelo, she would not resign.
She would not walk away.
***
“Nurse,
Nurse Nicole, my apologies!”
Nicole turned to see the
Franciscan priest friend enter with the other two Portuguese medics from
Mozambique. He was still clutching the small bag, looking at her with moist,
red eyes. Wordlessly, she beckoned them in.
For some time, they stood around
Father Angelo, taking in all that was happening to their friend, from head to
toe. Their look of compassion and sorrow was immeasurable. They stood in
silence blinking back their tears. Nicole watched, with eyes resting on each
one of them in turn and finally moving back to the patient.
When she looked up again, she saw
all three pairs of eyes looking at her. She took the Franciscan’s hands in hers
and held them tightly. He responded by grasping hers for some time and then he
tearfully raised her hand to his lips.
“Nurse Nicole!” he acknowledged
in an unspoken bond. The two medics repeated his actions, saying her name in
the same manner.
After some time, in reasonable
English, he explained, “Please excuse me, Nurse Nicole, I have to leave my
brother, Padre Giordani…Angelo. I, er…have no means to remain. There is no one
else except myself in charge of the mission. In the morning, Epiphany, I have
to go back to receive truck with food to feed the mission children or … or they
starve and much worse, tomorrow it is weekend. Forgive me…”
He looked straight into her eyes.
“Forgive my, er…impudence, even presumption…I wrote on hospital document for,
er… name of Next of Kin, I wrote: first, Nicole Anderson then, second, myself, Padre Carlos Rodrigues, because I am now going back to Mozambique.”
He awaited her response and
seeing her nod in acquiescence, he breathed a sigh of relief and continued, “He
has only one living blood relative – his mother, Sofia. She is in Italy. Not so
well you see. His father is dead, brother is dead – younger brother – motorbike
accident, some years ago. So now when I go – when we go,” he indicated to the
two other medics, “he will have only Nurse Nicole Anderson!”
He turned to his companions and,
in Portuguese, he interpreted this solemnity. They, in turn, nodded in
acknowledgement. He continued with the same seriousness, “Nurse Nicole
Anderson, I saw everything you did out there! I saw you make Sign of the Cross
on our Angelo. Ah! I saw!” He pointed
expressively to his eyes.
“And I knew. I knew your heart.
You will look after our Angelo. You see, our Angelo is so special, a true
brother. Padre Angelo and myself, we trained at the same seminary in Rome. I
always tell him: I always say, ‘Angelo, your father may be Italian and your
mother may be, er …Scottish-Italian but you are more Portuguese like me.’
Myself, I am from Lisbon, Portugal.”
Nicole smiled at hearing this.
“My father was Scottish,” Nicole stated.
Padre Carlos’ eyes lit up. He
translated what she said to the other two medics with such joy. “Ah! So you,
too, are Scottish! Like our Angelo! And what is the other part?”
“Zulu. My mother’s father was
Zulu and my mother’s mother was Scottish. Complicated ingredients.”
“Zulu-Scottish!” he grinned and
slapped his hand joyfully over his brown habit and repeated, joined by the
other two.
“Scottish-Zulu! My first time to
hear!” Padre Carlos shook his head. I always thought Angelo was the strange
one: Italian-Scottish. Scottish-Italian. But Zulu-Scottish! Scottish-Zulu! This
is wonderful! An answer to prayer!” He looked at his companions and then back
at her. “You are both Scottish blood. Your blood and Angelo… the same. Perhaps
even the same clan!” They all laughed.
“So now, Nurse Nicole, you are truly Next of Kin.” He became
very solemn. “This man, this priest, is
your flesh and blood!”
He turned to the little bag.
“This is all his possessions. You keep. I already wrote it down in the office
of the matron. Here is his most important possession – his crucifix. Please,
please put it back on him when all this goes.” He indicated to all the
electrodes and tubes on Father Angelo’s chest.
“The Franciscan habit… you keep!
I am sorry, it needs a wash.”
He put
his head to one side apologetically. “That’s Franciscan earthly treasure –
after Bible, crucifix and rosary.”
From a green plastic bag, he
extracted a neatly folded purple garment, which lay in one corner of the bag.
“Then next, so important, is this! Priestly
stole!So important! Nurse Nicole. You must understand the mission of a
priest, like Christ, in union with proclaiming the Gospel, He came to set
captives free – with His Blood.”
***
The question I am leaving with after reading this passage is: Would
you choose to walk away or stay when God places a certain responsibility in
your hands? This passage touches my heart as it shows how God’s will operates
in ways more complex than we can perceive.
Cheers!
Olivia
