Heroes/Heroines are the ones who are there, when you need them.  “When you need them” was Mary LaVerdure for me. She fits high in my list of Heroines. I wove her into my last (scheduled) column for the Turtle Mountain Times.  I have so many memories of great men/women/children on the North and South Dakota Reservations that I’ll probably be typing or dictating till the end.

Here’s a column for 05/06/04.

Of course, I knew that one day I would write to you and tell you that these words would be my last.  Last written words, that is. 

At my age, 87 now, I’ve been a “friend” of several doctors.  One especially tried his best to help me avoid a Prostate operation.  Just now I’ve come from visiting him, and he said as discreetly as possible, “You are in general good health, but that gland in you is not.  I’d like to make an appointment for an operation on you very soon.  We tried other treatments, you know, and, till today, I thought that we were winning.  But now, I must say, ‘We are not’. 

“I’ve had to say this to many men younger than you, and I know you and your friends will be concerned.  Remember, though, that you are well acquainted with a Power who is better at these operations than we are.  I rely on Him for success.

“My Nurse will call you tomorrow with a date for the operation.”

I have been extraordinarily lucky in the teachers who trained me as a Priest.  Of course, there were the academic or theory courses in classrooms.  But of much more value were the person to person relations and instructions on the Reservations.

The ones who instructed me on the Reservations were the professionals.  There is one lady, in Heaven now, who took me as her grandson.  She was one of the many who helped us Priests by serving us passionately; cooking for us, cleaning our rooms, doing our laundry, helping in the clothing store, preparing the things for Mass and the other Sacraments.  She was a straight talker.  Listen!

I was walking on the path from the Church to the Priests’ House.  She met me and stopped me.  “Father Stanislaus, you’re new here, and I’ve been watching you.   You’ve been doing things the way we need them, the way we like them.  You don’t talk all of our language yet, but you are trying to.  It looks like you are going to be OK.  I just want to tell you, ‘If ever you need to know any body or any thing, you just ask me, and I will tell you.  If you listen to me, you’ll stay on the right road.  That’s all I want to say.’”  And she walked on.  She had work to do.  No argument.

I’ve tried to return her love, as best as I could, by doing things her way.  She was, as we say on that Reservation, KOOKUM, My Grandma.

My Grandma  followed me to South Dakota, always giving me advice.  She grew older and took sick.  She told me, “The Doctor’s going to operate on me.  There’s something coming loose inside me, and he’s going to attach it again, or something.”

The night before the operation she called for the Doctor.  He came immediately, thinking he’d have to allay the fright an old lady.

She spoke up.  “You are a young man, and I want to tell you something.  I didn’t get to know you very much before, but I’ve been watching you.  I think you are a good man and that’s good.  They tell me that you are a good Doctor, too, and I believe them, because they wouldn’t lie about something like that.

“Everybody makes mistakes sometimes, even you, when you don’t mean to, and you can’t help it.  So, tomorrow, when you are operating on me, if the knife slips, and you cut me, and I die, that’s OK.  Don’t get worried.  I will go to Heaven. 

“But, if the knife doesn’t slip, and I get better, that’s OK, too.  I’ll live, and I’ll pray for you that you can always be a good Doctor.

“Now that’s all I want to say.  You can go now.  I want to get a good night’s sleep, so I will be ready for the operation tomorrow.”

I saw the Doctor coming out of Grandma’s  room. He turned away from us down the corridor.  I watched him and listened.  His head moved in wonder.  His hands lifted high toward the ceiling, then snapped down toward the floor.  “My God, I can’t lose.  If the knife slips, she goes to heaven.  I win.  If the knife doesn’t slip, she gets well.  I win.”  His voice rose, his hands held still and high.  “In a business like this and caring for people like that you can’t lose.”  He boomed through a door.  He had to hide his tears.

For his farewell FATHER STAN SAYS: From 1939 to 2004 neither did I lose.  I’ve loved every minute of those years.  Bless You !