The question of suffering in the world has perplexed the wisest of philosophers. The topic occasionally arose in a ‘tea and toast’ with the monsignor. Frankly, when we would later confront death in the face, both us were far too glib.
Late at night when Mgr John Sheridan’s many hospital visitors went home or were taking well-deserved respite, I would struggle with the IV pole as a walker to go the short distance to his room- Douglas Kmiec
Taking account of the short distance involved, including the closeness of the ravine, the time elapsed from leaving the highway to impact was little more than four seconds. It took me longer to type this sentence. The short slide at 1.37 p.m. on August 25, 2010, took Mary’s life instantly and resulted in Mgr John Sheridan and I being taken by helicopter to the trauma unit at the University of California-Los Angeles (UCLA). After multiple operations, I survived. John did not.
Three weeks later when our ‘tea and toast’ sessions would be at end, I turned to notes of our earlier conversations. There John had observed unemotionally:
“Suffering in one form or another, or at one level or another, is or can be our most obsessive obstacle to inner peace… The horror of seeing innocent humans suffer without any apparent meaning can stun to silence or leave one constantly questioning the providence or existence of God…
“Our Christian faith has not reached into every corner of the planet, nor been accessible to every human being, nor is it just an attempted explanation of human suffering but it is the one faith whose symbol is the cross, and at whose heart is an innocent human being dying on a cross.It is in the light of thatunique human, the God/man himself, moving into the centreof our sin sodden world and taking on the burden of us all. And it is in the light of our belief, our total confidence that Godescort us through it all. In the light of that faith we can livein hope and love awaiting our resurrection.”
Mysterious? I think so, and not solely because of the voice giving it. Many enjoyed John’s pleasant voice with its hint of Irish; its almost innately jovial quality.
Yet, there were times when we could make out neither hide nor hair of his homily, concluding that “only God and Sister Mary are meant to get everything he says”.
Style aside, how preciselywhat was it about innocentsuffering that transformed into the light of belief and a totalconfidence in God awaiting the resurrection?
God will be our escort, John tells us. Good, it’s obviously best to avoid ambassadors in theMulholland canyon.
Late at night when John’s many hospital visitors went home or were taking well-deserved respite, I would struggle with the IV pole as a walker to go the short distance to his room where the nurses and residency doctors in training kept constant watch.
Death comes for us all, and Jesus’ life, death and resurrection surely prevents its final victory, but the death of one’s best friend still hurts like hell.
It is “His will that is to be done, not ours,” I would remind myself, in between the silent cries screaming loudly in my soul. Often, I would simply hold the monsignor’s bandaged hands.
John’s precious hands – they were the same hands that bled from almost any touch given John’s age and skin grown fragile and thin. Once John had been asked to give a prayer at a celebrity’s star placement on the Hollywood walk of fame.
Unfortunately John’s personal “stigmata”, as Sister Mary impishly reported the following day, nearly ended the ceremony when the mayor shook the monsignor’s hand so vigorously at the event’s beginning that paramedics were needed.
Several years earlier, Sister Mary was in Ireland visiting her family and John insisted on making our tea. While at a small table near the entry door examining an essay John thought fascinating, I looked up just in time to see the uneven launch into space of teacups and platters, jellies and jams and butters and knives and goodness knows what else out of the tiny kitchen.
This was astounding enough, but these unnaturally airborne objects were followed by pirouetting John, who in short order followed the gravitational pull to the floor.
Rushing to John’s side I was relieved to see that, while stunned and dishevelled, the monsignor seemed less pained than annoyed. It was a miracle he missed the abundant hard edges that surrounded him in that tiny galley space. With no one else around, I picked John up alone, and while nothing fell off ordangled unbecomingly, blood was spouting much too freely for a simple Band-Aid.
A local care centre patched him up, but recommended an X-ray and some other checks. These would be done at St John’s Hospital in Santa Monica about eight miles away.
A newbie doctor started to order up an ambulance, which I could see added to John’s annoyance and embarrassment. “Look,” I said, “that’s unnecessary, isn’t it? I can take Johnwithout delay.”
The young doctor replied, “You’ll get better service arriving by ambulance.” “Doctor,” I responded, “if you tell the administrators at St John’s that Mgr John Virgilius Sheridan has had a tumble and is on his way, I can assure you that everyone, save a doctor in surgery, will likely line up waving their stethoscopes in greeting on 20th Street as we arrive.”
The young doctor frowned, but John was relieved. In terms of the predicted, honoured reception, I wasn’t far off. A platoon of religious sisters met the car gushing (do nuns gush?) over the patient, who now was playing the scene for all it was worth. Imagine, if you will, a prize footballer raised high on the shoulders of admiring teammates or the Holy Father in the papal throne.
Moving John swiftly through the admissions area, a young administrator uttered the blasphemy of youth: “Wait one minute there sisters this man must be properly admitted.”
All I can say is that the resulting look from the good sisters moving John into his room was akin to the many received in Catholic grammar school as I or my classmates related that our homework wasn’t quite finished. Looks may not kill, but they do silence. The admissions clerk was not to be heard from further.
Ducking into a restroom for a minute, I returned to John’s room only to find the good monsignor now surrounded by a veritable mob of giddy hospital staff of every variety overwhelming him with their delight by his visit. It wasn’t clear anyone had bothered to ask why John was there in their joy-filled midst and had actually treated him.
John, of course, was much too busy to tell them, of course, lest he interrupt a good story or any one of a dozen recountings of how he baptised them or gave them First Communion.
Exasperated, I raised my voice above the melee to inquire. Sure enough, no one there seemed to focus on the fact that John had just attempted Swan Lake in the course of morning tea.
Tests were further delayed as John proceeded to make one of his patented, over-stated introductions.
“Why, yes, this is the Doug who singlehandedly changed Supreme Court and legal history working for President (Ronald) Reagan.” Suitable sighs followed, and eventually, the necessary tests.
That somewhat whimsical story and others akin to it drifted unpredictably into my sleep-deprived consciousness in our final moments; happier times that supplied momentary smiles to catch the tears welled up in my eyes. They still do.
The precise cause of the accident is unresolved, but because one cause may be the onset of a momentary blackout from medication, I have voluntarily stopped driving. The roughly 10-mile round-trip to university office is accomplished by bicycle supplemented generously with rides from my wife Carol and our parishioners.
Dressed in coat and tie and bike helmet, I must look pretty silly on my cycling days; it certainly is a change from the flag-flying, chauffeured embassy life of the one-time ambassador. But as with some continuing mental distress of the accident, all is offered as gift.
More difficult than cycling is a faith-testing doubt that has seemingly stolen the faith of my bride and today threatens our marriage of 38 years in ways no temptress ever could.
Doubt not as to the essentials of the Nicene creed, but doubt nonetheless – derived from the inexplicability of how three people so much in love with each other having spent much of their lives, and the morning hours of that very day, completely dedicated to and in the service of Our Lord should come to this unkind end.
Knowing full well the monsignor would disapprove, I pray each day to resist doubt’s corrosive effects. But dear Lord, I might as well confess here and now – that which took place in the canyon seems as imprudent as your wager with the devil in Job’s case.
Any priest reading these words should feel at liberty toe-mail me the appropriate penance.
Next week: Spending Christmas and New Year’s Eve in St James Hospital; when your nurse is a part-time comedienne, the full-time nurses have angelic voices, and the hospital chef cooks up five-star Michelin meals.
Interested in a copy of the book upon publication? E-mail: ambassadoorbook1@gmail.com.
Prof. Kmiec is the former US Ambassador to Malta.