Price Of Love

Daniel David O`Sullivan lived for all of 14 minutes and 23 seconds before taking his last breath in the loving arms of his weeping mother, while his father planted a kiss on the still damp, matted hair on crown of his head.

“Well he was a sickly baby anyway,” the midwife announced as she turned away.

The shocked attending nurse was relieved to see that the O`Sullivan`s grief had seemingly deafened them and they hadn’t heard her, she was doubly relieved when the older woman left the room.

As the midwife strode down the corridor, younger nurses dropped their gazes, stepping aside as the she strode by. She was under no illusions of their opinion of her, she`d overheard more than one doctor on more than one occasion refer to her as that “cold hearted bitch.” But she also knew that there was no-one else they`d rather have in the delivery room in an emergency. And if they thought she was such a bitch, she wondered what they would have thought of Sister Immaculata.

Indeed what would they have thought of Eileen Kavanagh, a farmer’s daughter who, at the tender age of fifteen had not only found herself in the family way, but in the clutches of the Sisters of Mercy; an order that competed only with the Christian Brothers for the title of “World’s most ironically named organisation.”

What would they have said if they`d seen that vision in black hovering wraith like between the terrified girls legs, her face as narrow as her mind, twisted into a curdling scowl, cursing her every time the child shrieked in pain, “This is God`s punishment for your wickedness,” she`d spat. “Only good catholic women enjoy the glories of childbirth, its agonies are reserved for whores like you.”

What would they say if they knew that Eileen had never been allowed to hold her new-born son? Had only glimpsed him briefly, before he was whisked away, handed over (Sold like a piece of human livestock, would be a better description,) to an American couple who would give him a good catholic upbringing, something Sister Immaculata claimed one such as Eileen could never do.

What would they think if they knew that Eileen had been given less than five minutes to say a final goodbye to her weeping grief stricken mother and her stoic shame-faced father.
Later, once she`d pledged her life to the service of God, Sister Immaculata gave her a name that, as she put it, “Befits your station, perhaps like your namesake you too can find the grace of our munificent lord, though I sincerely doubt it.”

What would they say if they knew that thirty years later she had traced her son to California, that he was happily married with two beautiful girls of his own, and that he had rebuffed her, refusing to meet with his birth mother under any circumstances.

Perhaps they would empathise, sympathise even; but at sixty three Sister Mary Magdalene could just about endure their contempt, but she would never tolerate their pity.