Why Lord, Why?

As I rolled that old lady back to her ward, with my strawberry and vanilla head lowered to the limit of its capability, I silently begged the ground to open up and swallow me. But I suspect there was not a hole deep enough, willing to ingest me and so the ground kept its mouth firmly shut.

Lourdes; the miracle capital of the world and the spring break destination for priests to toss aside their collars while the new age nuns let their veils down for seven sinless days of soirees in this hub of holy hustling. Celebrity Bishops descend on this small, once unknown, French town to be worshiped by the millions of pill popping pilgrims who flock by the plane loads to catch a glimpse of their favourite congregation captivating charmers. Pre 1858 Lourdes was just a regular dirty French town inhabited by roughly 4000 locals and was a rest area for travellers on their way through to get to the waters at Bareges, Cauterets, Luz-Saint-Sauveur and Bagnères-de-Bigorre. In essence Lourdes was the McDonalds truck stop of the 19th century in France. That was until Bernadette Soubirous, with a little help from the Virgin Mary put this tiny town firmly on the map.

While walking home from a long day at her local school, 14 year old Bernadette, a previously un liked miller’s daughter, claimed a vision in a grotto who identified herself as the ‘Immaculate Conception’, and not a nodding Santa, appeared to her. Skepticism was as rampant as scurvy in those days but after extensive exploration in to Bernadette’s allegations, by the local C.S.I team (Catholic sightings investigations) it was accepted that she did indeed, witness the apparition. As there was no Big Brother back in 1858 and Davina Mcall was still only a baby, it was hard to gauge Bernadette’s popularity, post vision, in France but after eighteen more appearances’ she was ordained a saint and is now regarded as an A-list personality to the catholic church. She is voted as being the 4th best Saint in Jesus magazine every year behind Mother Theresa, ‘The Peoples Saint’, St. Patrick, ‘the patron Saint of alcohol’ and Saint Lucia, ‘Thomson’s number one holiday destination’.

131 years after Bernadette’s miracle I was brought to Lourdes for the first time and over the coming years frequented this raucous, religious town. As you walk through the big black iron gates to the scene of the sightings you are greeted by a roaring, fast running river, made passable by a series of swaying bridges. On one side of the river you have the enormity of the cathedral built at the request of Miss Soubirous and on the other side standing humbly is the hospital which holds hundreds of sick and dying people each season. Crutches of the cured hang triumphantly close to the statue of Our Lady where a herd of hobbling unhealthy humans, believe they were abstained from their ailments and threw aside their walking aids. A torch light procession piles through the streets each night with hymns and prayers bellowing from speakers, as pilgrims march side by side, swaying to the sound of music. During the day activities are arranged for the sick people who get a couple of hours away from the hospital, like the ‘stations of the cross’, an audience with one of the many Bishops or a brisk dip in the icy cold holy water baths which are so cold they see your balls disappear, like two David Copperfields. As the sick and elderly have all types of illness it was down to people like me to assist in the hospital as a helper. As an eleven year old helper my first request was from an old man in a wheelchair who just made a return from the bathroom, to help him back into his pants! I did not understand what he meant until I looked southwards towards his pants and realized what was normally tucked away warm and cosy, was now peering out at me eagerly awaiting re housing.

I was a helper, therefore had to help. Not understanding fully the term ‘pins and needles’, when he told me he had pins and needles in his hands, I thought it was a needless threat and felt even worse about the idea of helping him but he had weapons and I had a duty! With some careful maneuvering I managed to repackage his goods without having to hold or touch them and without being pierced violently by the sharp objects he admitted to be hiding in his fists. About two years later I was asked by a nurse to attend to a lady who wanted to go to an afternoon audience with a Bishop from her town. It was to be an hour of his greatest hymns and touching stories from his past!!! As I arrived at the ward to collect the lady she was in a wheelchair and we took off down the corridor to meet with the other helpers and patients. It was like the start of the grand prix as we waited for the flag to be lowered before we could all leave the hospital. My passenger was, I would imagine, in her early sixties but still sharp in the mind and was a nice old soul. As we arrived and subsequently sat through this hour long sing along, I saw people standing up out of their wheelchairs as they were not exclusively set aside for the paralyzed but were offered as a way of travel to the elderly and tired folk who could not walk that far. As ‘Come all ye faithful’ rocked out, my mind wandered as to which category my little lady fit into and wondered would she swap places if the Bishop went into overtime? With a resounding Amen, I quickly snapped out of my thoughts and raced to the front of the queue. After jostling for a front line position leaving other helpers eat our dust, we arrived back to the underground hold of the hospital where older helpers awaited our return. It is where they kept the wheelchairs and walking sticks over night and where the young helpers such as myself, normally parted, tip less and tired from our day with our patient. As goodbyes rang out around the basement and like a zombie movie, people moved slowly and creepily towards the lifts and back to their rooms.

A long minute passed as I waited for my lady to vacate the chair and leave me return for refreshments in the canteen but she clearly did not associate my fit of coughing with my need for her to relinquish her seat. As another awkward moment passed and with everyone now going up in lifts, I decided I must address the situation more sternly with this selfish, lazy old woman. I said ‘so are you going to get out here or what?’ …. She did not even have to reply as I could see the huge sadness descend over her eyes but unfortunately she did reply ‘I’m sorry darling, I am paralyzed, I cannot walk, that is why I am in the wheelchair’. With her feet wrapped in a nice knitted blanket and my feet resting firmly in my mouth I pressed the lift button and returned her to her bed. As the vision of old man balls and the dejected words of someone’s grandmother washed over my mind I thought, if only I was there 131 years earlier, my French would now be great!!

Dedicated to all the wonderful men and women who help the sick people of Cloyne every year….