Mary Bea Sullivan

Well, I am slogging through a Clinical Pastoral Education application so that I can work for free in a hospital this summer.  Can you tell I don’t have a great attitude about this?  Anyway, my poor opinion of spending the summer as a volunteer chaplain-in-training is a bit mortifying to my dear, chaplain husband.  In order to be accepted into a program, I am required to rehash lots of life’s adventures and glean what has been learned along the way.  Since I am a bit sick of myself and my story, what should be intriguing, is not.

Yet I did unearth a gem in mining my past– time with Flossie and Florence.  So, instead of writing my application, I’m going to tell you about these two fabulous women.  I met Flossie and Florence in 1983 during my junior year of college.  I went to the University of Dayton, a Catholic school, and one of the requirements was a semester of service learning.  For reasons I cannot explain, I chose to be a Hospice volunteer.

Florence was dying of cancer and her sister Flossie was her caregiver. The first time I drove up to their house, I was afraid. Even though I had been given basic training from Hospice, I wasn’t exactly sure exactly what it would be like to be with someone who was dying.  It didn’t help that they lived in one of the seediest neighborhoods in Dayton.  I remember sitting in my little white Pontiac Sunbird afraid to get out of the car.  The broken metal gate swinging on its hinges in their front yard seemed like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Eventually I mustered up the courage to ring their door bell.

As soon as I entered their home I was struck by two things–the strong odor of their many airedale terriers, and Flossie and Florence’s loving welcome. Thankfully, the latter overpowered the former. Flossie and Florence were characters.  They had actually been vaudeville performers in their younger days.    They laughed frequently and were grateful to have a new audience for their wild and bawdy stories. I was not, and am not, a prude, but some of what they shared probably wasn’t appropriate for my young ears.

I loved Flossie and Florence.  They opened me to a side of town and a dimension of life that I had never known.  Sometimes it was hard to see them suffer.  As Florence’s condition worsened, Flossie’s humor and care carried them both.  I admired their bond.  They required little of me,  simply wanting me to show up.  It seemed important to them as they relived their glory days, that I witnessed all they had shared.

On the night that Florence died, Flossie called for me to sit with them by her bedside.  It was late and I was nervous about going into their neighborhood, about being with dying.  I stayed for a few hours, caressing Florence’s parched lips with vaseline and ice chips.  Her lungs rattled for hours, the Hospice nurse was surprised how long she hung on.  Finally, he said to me, “I have been with many folks who have died and when they wait like this, usually there is a reason.  I could be wrong,” he said,  “but I think she doesn’t want to die in front of you Mary.’  Relieved and saddened,  I left.  Fifteen minutes later, when I walked in the door of my home, my roommate greeted me with a hug and the news that Florence had died.   (This was pre-cell phones folks.)

Little did I know Flossie and Florence would prepare the way for me to be with others in their dying.  Little did I know that Flossie and Florence would be the foundation for my starting Project Compassion, an end-of-life care non-profit  15 years later.  And now, as I reflect on this story I am given two brand-new gifts from Flossie and Florence.

First, if I just got on with it and write this application, I will be in a position to meet many more Flossies and Florences this coming summer. 

Second, my children, Brendan and Kiki are in the exact same year of college that I was when I embarked on this adventure.  My mom would’ve freaked  if she knew how bad that neighborhood was, or how late I would go to their home.  Sometimes I cringe at the risks that Brendan and Kiki take.  I want to protect them from bad neighborhoods and people I have not vetted.  I’m not saying I think they should disregard common sense (this is my disclaimer in case they ever read this, which I seriously doubt), but it does me good to remember the risks I took to be with Flossie and Florence and all the good that came from that experience.

When did you take a chance?  How were you rewarded (or not)? Is there something you are resisting in your life right now?  Feel free to share your thoughts below.