Good news! We have started an apostolate! The connection I tried to make with an orphanage for handicapped children (where Jacqui lives) hasn’t worked out up till now—but when God closes a door, He opens a window and through a meeting I had at the orphanage, God lead us to Haus St. Barbara, a nursing home in the 23rd district (45 min. away) run by Caritas—Erzdiocese Wien (like most every orphanage, nursing hime, rehab center, etc. here in Wien). Every Friday from 1-3 pm we spend our time visiting people in Station 7, visiting them in their rooms, walking up and down the corridor together, going out to the garden for the afternoon “Kaffee und Küchen”, playing dominoes, and most of all listening, or just holding hands. When you look in their eyes, you see their beautiful souls, souls sometimes filled with hope and love, but sometimes darkened by loneliness and desire to escape this life. Visiting our friends there has made me realize the power of loneliness, but also the opposing power of time spent loving. One woman, Frau Margherite, said that her children simply don’t have time to visit her and that she has concluded that they don’t love her or care for her anymore. Thus, she asks me, what is her purpose anymore in living. She says that not being able to be independent or self-sufficient, needing to be served and cared for has only left her feeling like a burden and her dignity is taken from her when she is rendered dependent. He is always asking me if she can go home now, or sleep somewhere else because she has such fear to be here—she just wants to be home, but she thinks that her children have stolen everything from her and sold her house and abandoned her in this nursing home (which is not the case according to the nurses), but to live everyday under this illusion must indeed be full of pain. So we are there to be with her, to reassure her that she shouldn’t run away to jump of Wiener Berg and that her life has value. As I hold her arm and walk down the hallway with her I squeeze her arm tightly to show her I am there. As several tears drop down her face, I tell her that her life has value and that is why I am there with her. Despite anything you say, the presence of her own children and grandchildren cannot be replaced, thus I find I can only be faithful in visiting her and hopefully be able to lead her to a little hope through my presence.
Our visits have very strongly made me realized as well the return of the aged to their youth—to being children. Frau Herta Weiser (or “Mama”) has no teeth. She is unable to really walk because dizziness never leaves her. One afternoon she was sitting alone in the hallway and Martin (one of the male nurses) pointed to me her way and told me to forget the other thing he asked me to do—just to simply go sit with her. He then advised me, “But don’t try to talk so much. Its difficult to have a conversation with her, but hold her hand, stroke her arm—she craves physical touch and being really able to feel your presence with her.” So I sat there, just holding her hand…not even talking. Her hand didn’t lay limp in mine. She acknowledged my presence by squeezing my hand and every once in a while looking into my eyes and smiling, and then once again looking away. Every once in a while her silence would be broken by her exclaiming “Mama” (hence her nickname) to people who would walk past. Then she looked at me and told me that I had beautiful eyes, and teeth, just like her own mother’s. She herself has the most beautiful blue eyes and she just looked into mine and then laid her head on my shoulder. “Mama” was no longer 80, she was 16 months old and needed love and presence. Someone to be there at her level and her capacity, in her life with her. She needed physical presence, she needed touch to know love. Every once in a while she hushes me and then tells me very quietly that she is scared. I always ask her why she is scared to which she says, “I don’t know, I’m just scared”. I assure her that there is nothing to fear and then usually she doesn’t say anything more. But last time I was with her she said, “Ok, I won’t be scared anymore. Just don’t leave me. If you’re here I wont be scared.” It was truly a return to childhood, infancy—needing simply the knowledge, the touch of someone’s presence. She kept crying for “mama” and I prayed a Hail Mary in my head.
The importance of family couldn’t be more highlighted by the experiences we have had in apostolate. The old need to be taken care of by the young, those whom they took care of in their infancy. Losing respect and responsibility for and love toward the aged is surely the sign of a devolving society. There is so much to learn in this little Station 7 of Haus St. Barbara. In the German course I took last month, we did an exercise on aging: If there was a pill that would make you not age, would you take it? Even if you would still die in the end, you would be young, energetic, and good-looking up till your last breath. Would you want this? The common consensus of the class was yes. I wasn’t so sure, because as wonderful as it sounds, there seems something wrong with artificially abrupting our nature (even if our aging and pain does arise out of original sin’s corruption of the life God first gave man). But in the end, even I said “maybe”. And then I had this experience at apostolate—where if I looked at with a worldly vision, the answer “yes” would only be more affirmed. Who wants to live like these elderly, with such suffering and pain. It is truly a suffering you cannot escape because you are constantly being oppressed by the limits of your body, things you cannot control, and sometimes you are left alone to endure them. You are completely dependent, after having known the bliss of independence and self-sufficiency. It is seen as a torment to grow older. But with a vision of Christ and His words, “Become like little children” echoing in my ears, I couldn’t answer the question affirmatively. To become like little children—there is a humility, dependence, and surrender. Visiting these new friends of ours has made me realize that what we see as a curse of our mortality is actually a gift for our eternal life. Our bodies are forcing our souls into surrender, into holiness, because unlike children, this second childhood is harder to accept. The humility is more painful and the fear of surrender greater.
It is interesting that our presence isn’t looked upon at first with suspicious eyes, seeming to ask, “Why are you here spending time with me? Am I a charity case? Do you pity me?” Instead, with an arm grasping for stability to walk, eyes searching for a look of love, they welcome the company. To the weak voice yelling “Mama”, peace comes with presence. Like a baby crying in the dark…”Thank you for hearing me, my screaming. I just didn’t want to be alone. I just need to know that you are here, to be held, to be looked at. Please, just stay here with me.”
Before I was getting ready to walk with two others down to the garden, I was sitting with Mama and something she said made me laugh. She looked at me very seriously, and then her eyes lit up, and then she herself smiled. She said to me, “When you smile, then I am able to smile”
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