One of my daughters is suffering from some sort of throat illness--tonsillitis, laryngitis, some sort of painful throat distress that seems to go on and on. I had the same problem growing up--frequent painful sore throats. At times my throat and tonsils were so infected I couldn't swallow. The lymph nodes on my neck would be totally swollen. I'd be so sick I couldn't talk, couldn't think, couldn't function in school--all I could do was suffer.
Sometimes, when I got sick enough and desperate enough, my dad would take me to his doctor, Dr. Landsman, on Euclid Avenue near E. 260th in Euclid, Ohio. Dr. Landsman was one tough son-of-a-gun. I remember feeling so sick and so sorry for myself--and Dr. Landsman would sort of kick me in the rear into one of his patient rooms. I was so stunned that I started to smile and laugh--for the first time in a week. When he saw my swollen tonsils, he knew exactly what to do. One time it involved two shots of penicillin, one in each cheek. And then he'd advise me to gargle with salt water many times a day. And then I would recover, usually within about 3 or 4 days. Dr. Landsman, who had seen people blown apart on the battlefield, knew that I wasn't going to die from tonsillitis. But he did appreciate my suffering--and did what he could to alleviate it (and what he did almost always helped). Dr. Landsman was a great doctor even if his treatments were normally pretty basic. This reminds me of what Dr.Tom Dooley said about his medical practice in Southeast Asia--he practiced 19th Century medicine, but in a medieval society where 19th Century medicine was a great advance. If you think about it, our Moms all practiced the most ancient art of medicine--and it almost always worked!
As a Catholic I grew up immersed in the idea that we all suffer, that suffering was part of life, and that suffering could be redemptive. We were told to offer it up for "the poor souls in purgatory." I don't do that anymore, but I still strongly believe that suffering is redemptive. And I try to bring my spirit into solidarity with the suffering of the world, and remind myself how puny my own suffering compares to that experienced by so many people.
We Catholic Christians, when we suffer, think about Jesus on the Cross. We can't escape from suffering. But it always comes to an end, and it makes us better people because it teaches sympathy and love for others.
Showing posts with label Dr. Tom Dooley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dr. Tom Dooley. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Dr. Tom Dooley's Letter to Fr. Hesburgh, President of Notre Dame
This past summer I stopped in South Bend, Indiana, and visited my Alma Mater, the University of Notre Dame. Linda and I visited the famed Grotto of Our lady of Lourdes while on campus, saw the statue of Dr. Tom Dooley, and read the famous letter he wrote about 49 years ago to Fr. Ted Hesburgh, then president of the university. Here is the text of that letter. Hardly a more beautiful thing has ever been written:
Hong Kong, December 2, 1960
Dear Father Hesburgh,
They've got me down. Flat on the Back . . . with plaster, sand bags and hot water bottles. It took the last three instruments to do it however. I've contrived a way of pumping the bed up a bit so that, with a long reach, I can get to my typewriter . . . my mind . . . my brain . . . my fingers.
Two things prompt this note to you, sir. The first is that whenever my cancer acts up . . . and it is certainly "acting up" now, I turn inward a bit. Less do I think of my hospitals around the world, or of 94 doctors, fund raising and the like. More do I think of one divine Doctor, and my own personal fund of grace. Is it enough?
It has become pretty definite that the cancer has spread to the lumbar vertebrae, accounting for all of the back problems over the last two months. I have monstrous phantoms . . . as all men do. But I try to exorcise them with all the fury of the middle ages. And inside and outside the wind blows.
But when the time comes, like now, then the storm around me does not matter. The winds within do not matter. Nothing human or earthly can touch me. A wilder storm of peace gathers in my heart. What seems unpossessable I can possess. What seems unfathomable, I fathom. What is unutterable, I utter. Because I can pray. I can communicate. How do people endure anything on earth if they cannot have God?
I realize the external symbols that surround one when he prays are not important. The stark wooden cross on an altar of boxes in Haophong with a tortured priest . . . the magnificence of the Sacred Heart Bernini altar . . . they are essentially the same. Both are symbols. It is the Something else there that counts.
But just now . . . and just so many times, how I long for the Grotto. Away from the Grotto Dooley just prays. But at the Grotto, especially now when there must be snow everywhere and the lake is ice glass and that triangular fountain on the left is frozen solid and all the priests are bundled in their too-large too-long old black coats and the students wear snow boots . . . if I could go to the Grotto now then I think I could sing inside. I could be full of faith and poetry and loveliness and know more beauty, tenderness and compassion. This is soggy sentimentalism I know. Cold prayers from a hospital bed are just as pleasing to God as more youthful prayers from a Grotto on the lid of night.
But like telling a mother in labor, "It's okay, millions have endured the labor pains and survived happy . . . you will too." It's consoling . . . but doesn't lessen the pain. Accordingly, knowing prayers from here are just as good as from the Grotto doesn't lessen my gnawing, yearning passion to be there.
I don't mean to ramble. Yes, I do.
The second reason I write to you just now is that I have in front of me Notre Dame Alumnus of September 1960. And herein is a story. This is a Chinese hospital run by a Chinese division of the Sisters of Charity. (I think) Though my doctors are British the hospital is as Chinese as Shark's Fin Soup. Every orderly, corpsman, nurse and nun know of my work in Asia, and each has taken it upon themselves to personally "give" to the man they feel has given to their Asia. As a consequence I'm a bit smothered in tender, loving care.
With a triumphant smile this morning one of the nuns brought me some American magazines (which are limp with age and which I must hold horizontal above my head to read . . . . .) An old National Geographic, two older Times, and that unfortunate edition Life . . . and with these, a copy of the Notre Dame Alumnus. How did it ever get here?
So Father Hesburgh, Notre Dame is twice on my mind . . . and always in my heart. That Grotto is the rock to which my life is anchored. Do the students ever appreciate what they have, while they have it? I know I never did. Spent most of my time being angry at the clergy at school . . . . . 10 P.M. bed check, absurd for a 19 year old veteran, etc., etc., etc.
Won't take any more of your time, did just want to communicate for a moment, and again offer my thanks to my beloved Notre Dame. Though I lack a certain buoyancy in my bones just now, I lack none in my spirit. I must return to the states very soon, and I hope to sneak into that Grotto . . . . before the snow has melted.
My best wishes to the students, regards to the faculty, and respects to you.
Very Sincerely,
Tom Dooley
(Tom Dooley died on 18 January 1961)
Hong Kong, December 2, 1960
Dear Father Hesburgh,
They've got me down. Flat on the Back . . . with plaster, sand bags and hot water bottles. It took the last three instruments to do it however. I've contrived a way of pumping the bed up a bit so that, with a long reach, I can get to my typewriter . . . my mind . . . my brain . . . my fingers.
Two things prompt this note to you, sir. The first is that whenever my cancer acts up . . . and it is certainly "acting up" now, I turn inward a bit. Less do I think of my hospitals around the world, or of 94 doctors, fund raising and the like. More do I think of one divine Doctor, and my own personal fund of grace. Is it enough?
It has become pretty definite that the cancer has spread to the lumbar vertebrae, accounting for all of the back problems over the last two months. I have monstrous phantoms . . . as all men do. But I try to exorcise them with all the fury of the middle ages. And inside and outside the wind blows.
But when the time comes, like now, then the storm around me does not matter. The winds within do not matter. Nothing human or earthly can touch me. A wilder storm of peace gathers in my heart. What seems unpossessable I can possess. What seems unfathomable, I fathom. What is unutterable, I utter. Because I can pray. I can communicate. How do people endure anything on earth if they cannot have God?
I realize the external symbols that surround one when he prays are not important. The stark wooden cross on an altar of boxes in Haophong with a tortured priest . . . the magnificence of the Sacred Heart Bernini altar . . . they are essentially the same. Both are symbols. It is the Something else there that counts.
But just now . . . and just so many times, how I long for the Grotto. Away from the Grotto Dooley just prays. But at the Grotto, especially now when there must be snow everywhere and the lake is ice glass and that triangular fountain on the left is frozen solid and all the priests are bundled in their too-large too-long old black coats and the students wear snow boots . . . if I could go to the Grotto now then I think I could sing inside. I could be full of faith and poetry and loveliness and know more beauty, tenderness and compassion. This is soggy sentimentalism I know. Cold prayers from a hospital bed are just as pleasing to God as more youthful prayers from a Grotto on the lid of night.
But like telling a mother in labor, "It's okay, millions have endured the labor pains and survived happy . . . you will too." It's consoling . . . but doesn't lessen the pain. Accordingly, knowing prayers from here are just as good as from the Grotto doesn't lessen my gnawing, yearning passion to be there.
I don't mean to ramble. Yes, I do.
The second reason I write to you just now is that I have in front of me Notre Dame Alumnus of September 1960. And herein is a story. This is a Chinese hospital run by a Chinese division of the Sisters of Charity. (I think) Though my doctors are British the hospital is as Chinese as Shark's Fin Soup. Every orderly, corpsman, nurse and nun know of my work in Asia, and each has taken it upon themselves to personally "give" to the man they feel has given to their Asia. As a consequence I'm a bit smothered in tender, loving care.
With a triumphant smile this morning one of the nuns brought me some American magazines (which are limp with age and which I must hold horizontal above my head to read . . . . .) An old National Geographic, two older Times, and that unfortunate edition Life . . . and with these, a copy of the Notre Dame Alumnus. How did it ever get here?
So Father Hesburgh, Notre Dame is twice on my mind . . . and always in my heart. That Grotto is the rock to which my life is anchored. Do the students ever appreciate what they have, while they have it? I know I never did. Spent most of my time being angry at the clergy at school . . . . . 10 P.M. bed check, absurd for a 19 year old veteran, etc., etc., etc.
Won't take any more of your time, did just want to communicate for a moment, and again offer my thanks to my beloved Notre Dame. Though I lack a certain buoyancy in my bones just now, I lack none in my spirit. I must return to the states very soon, and I hope to sneak into that Grotto . . . . before the snow has melted.
My best wishes to the students, regards to the faculty, and respects to you.
Very Sincerely,
Tom Dooley
(Tom Dooley died on 18 January 1961)
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