Eulogy for a Nun

Tonight I write to honor my aunt, Anna Marie Petocchi, also known as Sister Mary Dominica, who died on Saturday at the age of 92. And I know I want (need) to write about her, but oddly I can't seem to find right words to express who she was and all the reasons she will be missed. It all seems like snippets in my mind.

• Every special occasion I would receive a card. It might be a birthday, a holiday, you name it, but about one to two weeks before the date, a card would arrive. It was often a computer-generated, dot-matrix printed card, always signed with "Pray for, your Aunt Anna" and invariably contained money -- not a lot, sometimes a few ones or a five, but always money. When I was in college and working several jobs to make ends meet, this would often fund my groceries. But it continues to this day, even as I'm married and working and making a comfortable living. No matter how old I was or what I was doing, I was never too old to be loved and taken care of.
• Each Christmas and gift-giving holiday, I would have the same conversation with Aunt Anna. She would say, "I need nothing, do you hear? Nothing. I need nothing." I would still get her something. However, Anna took her vows of poverty and charity very seriously, and one always knew that whatever was given her would instantly be regiven to someone else. We always joked, with love, when we picked out a gift for Aunt Anna, "So, do you think Cousin is going to like this?" And if she ever asked for anything (postage stamps, a phone card, a woolen winter hat) you'd better believe we got it for her! How amazing to want so little, to give so much, and to take such joy in the small things of every day life.
• Every birthday without fail I would pick up the phone or check voice mail only to hear a creaky little voice singing happy birthday. Followed by the words, said slowly and clearly, "Hello, Colleen and James. This is your aunt, Anna." As if we didn't know the one person who never, ever forgot.
• When she introduced me, she would say "This is my niece. She has a big job over at NC, you know. A big job. " Even the last night I had a full conversation with her, the night she was annointed, I was introducing myself to another nun at her bedside and Aunt Anna (who had been dozing quietly) suddenly piped up from next to us with "Big job at Nazareth" before going back to sleep. It's not a "big job," by the by, but her pride in us was amazing, and humbling. She took nothing for granted, and celebrated all steps, big and small.
• Anna had such immense faith, and she believed so deeply. She was always praying for one or another of us -- often all of us! -- and we knew that, if Aunt Anna was praying, things would start happening. I can't tell you how many people have told me they know my name from the prayers Aunt Anna offered up for us on the prayer list! How astounding to have such care and faith that, if it is asked, it will be answered.

There are so many other stories to tell: her hot water with dinner, playing cards with my grandmother (her sister and an unabashed cheater, which made Anna crazy!), sitting on the porch with her and Aunt Addie, picking her up from the Motherhouse with her eight million gift bags for other people, her exclamation of "Laws!" (never "Lord!" -- never to take His name in vain), fond recollections of her many years of teaching. I think that it speaks to what kind of person she was that so many of her nieces and nephews -- Peggy & Bob, Nancy & John, Susie & Freddie, Derrick, Bob, JoAnn, me & J, more -- came to her bedside immediately when she was in need and continued to be by her side until the end. Even more people -- cousins and former students and nurses and even the mail delivery person! -- came to the calling hours to pay respects. Not only that, but so many sisters came, touched her arm, held her hand, comforted her in some dark moments. What a person to inspire such love and devotion!

And so I realize that tonight, even through her death, Aunt Anna has continued give us the gifts we all need. I am so very thankful I was able to sit with her these weeks, spending last days and hours with her; it has been a gift beyond measure. I believe I can now say I know a little more about living and dying than I used to. In watching the other sisters as they held and comforted Aunt Anna, I am beginning to grasp the concept of grace. In observing the caretakers meet Aunt Anna's needs with love and compassion, I appreciate the value of service toward others. In time spent in communion with Aunt Anna and the other nuns, I have relearned a bit about faith and trust. And tonight, as I sat with my many aunts, uncles and cousins, and met some cousins for the first time, and saw with joy and humility my own dear friends come to share and support (Kim and Steve, I'm looking at you), I was reminded anew of the value of holding friends and family close, and the unbreakable strength that comes from that.

That was my aunt, teaching and loving even in her last moments, her last breaths. I am grateful for having known her, and I will miss her every day. That is all.

Another Tuesday

With a quiet woosh the doors opened and out I went into the walkway where dimmed lights bounced off the worn, polished wooodwork. Women lined the narrow hall -- sixteen or seventeen ladies, some in wheelchairs, some with walkers, some helping others to stand or lean against the walls. No one smiled. A few reached out to grasp hands briefly as we walked by.

The fourth tall oak door on the left opened, and there she was: Aunt Anna, also known in the greater world simply as "Sister," smaller than I had ever seen her, a tiny broken doll of a woman, curled into herself on the reclining chair. She was covered in a hand-knitted blanket, oxygen strapped across her face, moaning quietly, a staccato "Oh. Oh. Oh." as she suffered through the cancer that had invaded her bones and now ate her organs one by one.

Cousin Peggy, eyes rimmed red and a beautiful smile in place, leaned over closely. "Aunt Anna, Colleen and James are here." Aunt Anna's eyes opened from mostly-closed to half mast. I hurried closer and grasped her hand, 92-year old skin like soft over-worn leather against mine. She squeezed. "Colleen. Colleen, good, good."

Her words were the softest I had ever heard her speak. All my life she had been forceful, known her mind and never hesitated to speak it. She was a teacher, of the old school: full of kindness but no-nonsense, direct, crisp, to-the-point. Now her words were softned and slurred, as if every syllable was a struggle. She held my hand tighter, suprisingly strong for such a small, wasted body.

"Glad you're here. God bless you both, Collen and James. God bless you. May you live good, long lives. A good life, a long life. God bless you." It was a final benediction, the last in a long line of graces this woman had granted me.

"Thank you, Sister." I took a moment. This was it. What to say? "Aunt Anna, I love you. I love you very much."

She looked at my, turned her head with eyes wide open. "Thank you," she said, voice firm and clear.

I sat for minutes or hours or days, holding her hand in mine. Through the door the hallway ladies watched in silence, in sadness, keeping vigil over their own. Occasionally the moans would start again and I would rub whatever part of her I could touch without inflicting more pain. Sister Fran came over with an eyedropper filled with liquid morphine, tucking it gently into Aunt Anna's cheek so she could swallow, a mama bird giving vital sustenance to its charge. A single drop of the medicine lingered at the corner of her lip, vivid purple-red against her gray pallor. I wiped it away.

"Oh. Oh. Oh." Her moans increased as we waited anxiously for the meds to kick in. An ancient bright-eyed nun in a white shirt and pink cable-knit cardigan shuffled in with her walker, going to Anna's other side. She took Anna's hand and begin to rub it, massaging her arm in comfort. The pink Sister pressed her forehead against Anna's. A necklace of worn crosses dangled off of her neck. "Father, Jesus, Mother Mary, I am devoted to you," she intoned. "Father, Jesus, Mother Mary, protect me from pain." Line after line she prayed, tenderly rubbing Anna's brusied, marked arms with her own wrinkled, gnarled hands. Anna's cracked lips followed along with the prayer over and over again. She never missed a line. She made no sound. The moaning stopped.

Much later, after the nuns trickled away for the night, Aunt Anna finally slipped off to sleep, open-mouthed and barely-closed eyes, head lolling to one side. Her blunt-chopped white hair -- hair that, in my 33 years on earth, I had only ever seen out of her habit not even a handful of times -- was secured back in a child's yellow plastic headband, sticking up crazily in tufts and whisps from her face. Blankets were tucked gently around her shoulders, encasing and mummifing her as she shivered with cold in the 85-degree room. We walked slowly to the elevator, exhausted, wondering if tomorrow we would be back for more of the same or if tomorrow would begin the plans for Aunt Anna's final rest.

The elevator arrived and I stepped in, looked out at it all: the endlessly long hallway studded with tall oak doors, the family hospitality cart with its dixie cups and Saran-wrapped pitchers of cranberry and orange juice, the lone finch in its cage kept company by the little ancient nun in pink, feeding tidbits from a plate of salad scraps on her lap. She looked up and smiled. "Have a safe journey home, now."

The elevator dinged closed.