Dying to One's Self...
"In my 20 years as chaplain,
I've only seen this twice ."
The mother is the trustee of God to
her baby. (Caryll Houselander
noted author)
Though I sleep, my heart is
awake. (Song of Solomon 5:2)
A Memoir by Robert R. Schwarz
Lester did his five years in prison, and for the next six years was either a resident or patient in two Veteran Administration hospitals and four of their nursing homes . My brother was forced out of two of these homes for unacceptable behavior ; the two other shelters I found unacceptable after my two visits to each of them. One of the hospitals discharged Lester when his mental and physical health "improved" , particularly his emphysema which twice required emergency treatment. ( Lester dreaded to have his throat sucked out, but still did not quit daily smoking two to three packs of cigarettes . ) Then there were two hernia operations and a fall on ice that broker an arm , which never regained full mobility.
Though nowadays I believe that all things work together for good to those who love God (Romans 8:28 ) , back then I felt nothing good could come from my brother's unceasing suffering. I often fretted over not seeing any redemptive consequence to it. But when Lester later became bed-ridden , I began to discern something wonderful was happening during the interactions between Lester and his visitors, who numbered perhaps 25 and who took the one-hour or mor drives from their homes to the V.A. hospital in North Chicago , near Waukegan. Some I suspect had never been at the bedside of a psychotic person, let alone an ex-felon , nor had said a prayer in "public", as several of them did for Lester. I was also pleased to see at least one busy nurse and two physicians take time to engage my brother in casual conversation. Two V.A. nurses, Kim and Kali , were Christians , causing me to hope that the challenge of helping Lester would uniquely benefit them and other veterans in their care. As for Lester's other visitors, there were:
Spencer… Lester's son, a handsome , unassuming family man who played football, as a tackle, for his college and later did missionary work for a year in Taiwan. Spencer flew in from Dallas to see his father , whom he had refrained from seeing for 14 years.
We were standing outside Lester's intensive care unit room when Spencer told me, "I'd like to be with my father alone . " I closed the door and , looking through the room's glass window, I saw my nephew kneel at his father's bedside and pray. He then rose , pulled a nail clipper from his pocket and began trimming his father's finger nails. I knew it was a relationship reborn.
Lisa and Tim…my brother's daughter and her husband. They flew in from Montreal. Lester hadn't seen Lisa in 20 years, and she had come to reconcile with her father . At dinner that night with my wife, Mary Alice, and me, Lisa disclosed why she had refrained from all communication with her father for two decades . With tears , she said , " I was afraid that I might have inherited my father's illness."
I asked her if she still held any ill feelings about her father, who had divorced her mother when the first symptoms of his illness appeared, causing years of hardship for the mother, "No," Lisa said. "And "I'm grateful for what Lester's father did to get that Social Security check to us every month and for my grandparents faithfully sending me $100 each month from my father's VA disability pay."
Lisa and Tim visited Lester twice more before departing after our much needed family reconciliation.
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| My two "coffee" friends , the Rev. Richter (left) and Karl |
Karl…my 55-year-old morning coffee buddy , a gentle , people-loving man who often gushed forth so much cheer to my brother that Lester once had to tell him, " Shut up, Karl." Karl , whose many health issues disabled him from any employment, was a walking miracle whose diagnosis by any physician would likely be, "death in a year."
Several months after his first visit with Lester, Karl's life was transformed . He began volunteering alongside a pastor , helping physically and mentally handicapped adults. Soon after that, Karl became successfully active with Alcoholics Anonymous.
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Aji with my brother |
Aji…a 38-year-old Iranian immigrant taking English lessons from me to elevate himself from the tedious work of cleaning grease traps at a Burger King. In Iran, he had been educated up to the sixth grade. I never heard Aji express discontent. " I like to work," he would tell you. "No prejudice here. I stay if it what God wants. "
During each of his visits with Lester, he'd go to the window and , with arms raised, he'd pray for Lester in Farsi. The occasional nurse who entered the room took a moment to stare quizzically at Aji , but never asking a question that obviously nagged her and other nurses.
Philip…a boyhood friend of Lester and mine who never married—nor, likely, dated anyone—and whose only passion was selling clothes at a large department store. Philip's meekness, he once told me, made him too uncomfortable to ever worship in the midst of a church congregation ; but for years he had kept a portrait of Jesus on his night table. "It reminds me to pray for people with problems who need cheering up," he told me.
Susan…was a devout , middle-age Catholic wife and mother from the school of street-corner evangelism . She once flew to California, then hitchhiked a pilgrimage to a remote Mexican village ; there she appeared unannounced one day at a church rectory, asking the priest if she could help maintain his small, run-down church .
On her first visit with Lester, she went immediately to Lester's bed, took his hand and leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Lester glowed and, with some struggle, rose from his pillow and returned the kiss. ( I personally loved it ! ) Susan remained a prayer warrior for my brother.
Patricia…a cheerful, steady-minded African-American nurse in the hospitals' mental health unit who became Lester's " girl friend". Lester wanted to marry her but instead was persuaded to give her a friendship ring . She was to become a frequent visitor, sometimes staying an hour, holding Lester's hand . She, like most of my brother's visitors, became a nurturing person in Lester's room. At dinner one night, Mary Alice and I told Patricia of our gratitude
Don…my good church friend and early mentor in the faith who had given Lester a crucifix to hang on his room wall. Don remains an indefatigable , on-fire prayer warrior and a leader in the international Opus Dei prelature.
***
The dragon waits at the side of the road,
waiting to devour us. We go to the father
of souls, but first it is necessary to pass
by the dragon. (St. Cyril of Jerusalem )
Upon recollecting these visits, I fretted no more about my brother's suffering not bearing good fruit. My new fretting was about that invisible and relentless enemy so patiently waiting for my brother to drop his guard and cave in .
The wooden crucifix which now was nailed to the wall facing my
brother's hospital bed showed Jesus , not crucified but with arms
raised in victory or, as some might see Him, in freedom. When two
years ago in a veteran's retirement home in Kenosha, Wisconsin, I had
asked Lester where in his room he wanted me to fasten this same
crucifix. " Put it where I can see it
when I wake up in the morning." , he said. I saw that he was
as pleased with the presence of the sacramental as I was.
But, a week later, when I walked into his room, the crucifix was missing. I was alarmed. I went to the wall where it had been screwed in . "Oh, no ," I mumbled , feeling sick. Obviously , the crucifix had been crudely yanked away.
Though I expected no good explanation from Lester, my tone pleaded for one. I looked down at my brother and said, "Lester, Where is it?! What happened to it ? "
" I don't know. Maybe somebody stole it," Lester replied. Neither his voice nor face had emotion.
I was too agitated to deal with his lie and left the room .
I sensed a full-court press by the enemy and took the elevator down to consult with one of the chaplains, Fr. VanderHey . We talked for an hour . " I've seen your brother only twice, " he said. " I prayed once over him and asked if he wanted me to turn his television channel to the in-house chapel services. He said no."
"You told me you were to ask him if he wanted to join the church ? " I said.
" I didn't No. Like you, I want him to make a decision that is one-hundred per cent his. But I did explain a few things about the faith."
" Did he have any questions?"
" I'm afraid not," the priest said. "He just kept saying ' I see what you mean . ' "
I brought up the topic of Satanic influence. I recall him quoting from the Bible, two quotes, one from Bible the chaplain made , Your adversary the devil, prowls about like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. He smiled knowingly when I then quoted from Milton's poem , "Paradise Lost"—Lucifer's words of rebellious hatred when God cast him from heaven: Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.
I charged back into my brother's room, grabbed his hand, and in a loud but pleading tone, asked him, " Les, is there anything you feel sorry about? ANYTHING ?
My brother replied amazingly quick , as if prepared for my question.
" You asked me that once before. Like I told you, Robert: I'm sorry f
or all the bad stuff I've done." But then he laughed as if he had suddenly changed his mind.
***
At my home that same day (May 27, 2011 ) came a hospital call reporting that Lester's blood pressure was dangerously low and that he had been returned to an intensive care unit. Mary Alice and I rushed back to the hospital , me driving and praying very hard. I took Fr. VanderHey away from a conference, and the three of us a few seconds later were at Lester's bed . I called in a nurse and asked if my brother's oxygen mask could be removed for ten minutes. She said " for five minutes" and asked me why. When I told her, she said " no more than ten. "
I leaned over my brother and said, " Les, do you , right now, want to become a Christian Catholic ? It's hundred per cent up to you, kid . "
He nodded yes.
The scene turned melodramatic. With the nurse keeping an eye on Lester's monitors for pulse rate and oxygen level, Fr. VanderHey read my brother's solemn profession of faith, and Lester in a gurgling, soft but audible voice, repeated it. Next came the Nicene Creed. Whatever lung strength remained in Lester he now was using to blast out words as if coming from an exhaust pipe.
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My brother affirmed the professions with an " I do " , remaining wide-eyed and attentive with a new face suggesting sanity, something I hadn't seen in decades. For a moment I was startled, then choked out a few words I can't remember today. A glance at Lester from the nurse told me that she too knew that this event was sacred and the most important event in this patient's life.
Fr. VanderHey remained silent before asking us , " Can your brother swallow."
" Barely," the nurse said.
" Please do it NOW, " I urged the chaplain.
" Give him half a host," Mary Alice advised. The priest placed the Eucharist ( a wafer-like piece) on my brother's tongue.
Fr. VanderHey then pressed his thumb into a small compact of holy ashes and made the sign of the cross on Lester's forehead. Then he sprinkled holy water over my brother to administer the Anointing of the Sick and the Apostolic Pardon. Looking at all of us , Fr. VanderHey said: " Lester Schwarz gets a clean slate, receives forgiveness of all his sins up to this point in his life."
Lester looked serene. So did the nurse as she quickly fitted my brother's oxygen mask back on. I placed on Lester's chest the blue-colored rosary which had been hand-made by my friend Don Knorr. My brother grasped it.
In the hallway, Fr. VanderHey reflected out loud on my brother's background , his spiritual combat and the intractability of paranoid schizophrenia . "In my twenty years as chaplain, I've only seen this twice !"
***
Lester lived several months more ! I had him moved to a hospice when his lungs began filling with fluid , giving him the pain of drowning. Morphine was administered but only in doses that allowed him some mental alertness. Visiting him one night in a nursing home, I waited awhile until a nurse flushed his throat and then removed Lester's respirator for a few minutes. My brother motioned me to come close. He pulled my arm towards him . " I love you," he whispered. Then , pointing at a wall , said , "I broke it that time and threw it in the waste basket. Robert, I'm sorry "
I was suddenly compelled to ask my brother, " If a doctor could heal you today and return you to the outside world, would you go ? "
My brother shook his head no and meant it.
Was Lester saying he was in the world but not of it anymore—and actually preferred it this way, even it he were young and healthy ? Was he--as some mystics have said--DYING TO SELF yet fully and truly alive and at peace ? Did he now crave--as all of us do all our lives-- for that infinite Something to satisfy our deepest longings ? Yes, yes, yes.
Lester's body systems began to shut down ; they no longer could assimilate his intravenously-fed nutrients . At 7:45 one evening, I whispered the 23rd Psalm into his ear as I had for my dying mother, then kissed my brother on the forehead and asked God to make all that was good about my brother remain alive in me. In that moment I experienced a joy of a great truth blossoming into reality : My brother was now actually alive , living joyfully forever !
Over
his grave at All Saints Cemetery in Des Plaines ,Illinois , I
began to imagine my brother arriving in heaven and
being led by Jesus to Mom and then to Jesus, who tells Lester,
Now,
Lester, Behold
your mother.
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The End
All comments are welcome at
rrschwarz71@comcast.net
© 2017-18 , 2023 Robert R. Schwarz
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