What’s a crucifix doing on the wall?
The nurse told me I was in a Catholic hospital. I could have figured that out. I checked into Amita Health Saint Joseph, after all. I assumed Amita appropriated the name for brand continuity. Ok, it’s Catholic, but do they have to display a crucifix on my wall?
A friend came by and said there’s a cross on the wall.
“That’s a crucifix, not a cross, “ I said.
She shrugged as if it makes no difference. But maybe she just didn’t know the difference.
“It’s a Catholic hospital,” I said, “only Catholics hang crucifixes. Protestants hang crosses.”
“What’s the difference?” she asked.
In the late afternoon, the overhead fluorescent from the hallway shed enough light on the crucifix for me to see it from my bed. I said a few words.
Thank you god for replacing my decaying hip with a shiny new titanium rod and ball and clean ceramic joint.
He didn’t answer. That’s ok. He never does. Specificity was key in my gratitude. I needed to state out loud exactly what just happened to me, to visualize the medical miracle of supplanting the largest joint in my body.
Jesus’ body hanging there with nails through his wrists and in his crossed feet started to take on a living drama. The nerve block and painkillers from my surgery were wearing off. We were in agony together. I fumbled through the sheets for the control button and banged on it to call a nurse.
She came. Later than I’d hoped.
“I’m in a lotta pain,” I cried out.
“I have your painkiller. Oh look, your ice pack slipped to the floor. I’ll refill it. Be right back.”
I looked at Jesus.
How could you bear this? I can’t stand it.
I later opened my eyes to Sister Leticia peering down at me. After introductions and medical pleasantries, she fumbled through a sheaf of papers until she pulled out the Do Not Resuscitate form.
“I’m here to talk to you about your papers. Do you have one of these?”
“Oh yeah, I have a POLST.”
“You do?”
She thumbed through her pile and pulled out a blank POLST, “Does it look like this?”
“Yes, I’ve got a copy here in my purse.”
We spread my papers out on the bed—what I’d brought and those accumulated a few hours earlier when I checked into the hospital.
“There it is!” exclaimed Sister Leticia. She found the holy POLST among Amita brochures and post-op instructions.
POLST stands for PRACTITIONER ORDER FOR LIFE-SUSTAINING TREATMENT. It’s a DNR signed by a doctor and witnessed by a third party. Some say it’s too final, a death warrant. Sister clucked with excitement at the sight of my POLST. She could then forego the talk on the tender subject of medical interventions to save my life if I stopped breathing or slipped into unconsciousness.
Sister Leticia ducked out of sight before I could ask if she, as a Catholic, approves of my choice about my body.
I looked at Jesus.
He seemed ok with it.
At Sacred Heart Academy the high schoolers were graded on their verbatim delivery of the 1700-word Passion of Christ from the Gospel of John. Seventh graders were required to sit through a recitation of the Passion as part of Religion class. I never listened at Sunday Mass, so my first hearing of Bible passages was the torture and execution of my friend Jesus. These bloodcurdling passages sparked a morbid curiosity about the rest of the Bible, but I didn’t have a Bible to read on my own. My parents, indwelled with a long lineage of Irish-Catholic hatred for non-Catholics, refused to have a Bible in the house “like those Protestants.”
be gods themselves (who wouldn’t?). Then, that couple had two boys and one of them killed the other. Most of the rest of the Old Testament describes violent gangs warring over territory, an angry God, and thousands of flawed people wandering in the desert.
Regan Burke 