Lessons from A Bedside
Breda Casserly founded the luxury chocolate company Leonidas, then sold it to work with the dying. In this powerful extract from her new book, she describes her extraordinary journey
Twenty-five years ago I had a deep experience of God, which gifted me with a great desire to serve Him and my fellow human beings. It’s a private experience I’ve treasured in my heart and leaned on throughout my life, an experience that really changed me and my view of the world.
At that time I was in the handmade chocolate business, as the owner of Leonidas Chocolates in Galway. I felt safe and comfortable within my business knowledge and the company’s success. But at the same time I felt unsettled within myself, feeling that there must be more to life than what I was experiencing, more challenge for personal growth. I now understand my inner turmoil was a desire for a deeper satisfaction in life. This is often called ‘hope pain’, an emotional pain that one experiences when there is a lack of hope and where one asks, ‘What does the future hold for me?’
I was also experiencing something curious that I know now to be ‘meaning pain’, where it’s natural to ask oneself, ‘Why am I here?’ I responded to these questions and many others by studying Theology as an undergraduate at NUI Galway, for two years, then three years undertaking postgraduate studies in Pastoral Theology at All Hallows College, Dublin, giving myself time to explore my life in a more meaningful and deeper way. I didn’t necessarily feel called to a religious life or order, however, I did feel the need to be part of a praying community so I joined the Secular Franciscan Order as a lay Franciscan.
I remember it as an especially challenging time, because I continued to work in the business, albeit with the support of a very good team. Despite these challenges, it gave very good balance to my life at the time. There is a very beautiful old saying, ‘When the student is ready, the master arrives’, and in a sense this is what happened for me.
Having completed my studies and returned to work in the chocolate business full time, a simple telephone call came, on a very dark, wet and windy autumn evening. It was a local diocesan priest, Father Noel, who I knew very well from my community. ‘Breda, I had a 35-year-old mother of two young children come and visit me a couple of days ago,’ he explained. ‘Orla is a patient in your local hospital in Galway; she has been given a cancer diagnosis and was told she has just a few months to live. As a child she had received the Sacrament of Baptism, but never received the further sacraments of First Confession, First Holy Communion and Confirmation, and has asked to receive them before her death. What I’m asking of you is can you visit with her to prepare her to receive the sacraments?’
I was taken aback. At the time, the thought of visiting a hospital made me very uncomfortable. And I’d never prepared someone for the sacraments before, let alone for the end of life. I was struck by the huge contrast between our lives – mine was so full of possibilities, preparing for a busy festive season of selling lots of chocolate gifts, while hers was sadly ebbing away. I had no idea what I could ever offer her. But Father Noel wouldn’t accept any excuses. ‘Stop all this nonsense and just go,’ he said simply. ‘This young woman needs your help.’ What I had not shared with Father Noel was that my sister Teresa had died in the very same hospital where Orla was now a patient. Teresa’s husband, Paddy Joe, had also died there, some years later. My sister, also a young mother, had been given a similar cancer diagnosis to Orla, and passed away at Christmas time. Fifteen years before Teresa, my sister Mamie had died at the age of twenty-six when her daughter was just two weeks old. Mamie had been diagnosed with a cancerous brain tumour in the early stages of her pregnancy.
My conversation with Father Noel about Orla brought memories of my sisters and the last days of their lives rushing back to me. And I had been with both Teresa and Paddy Joe at the moments of their deaths, an experience I was not in a hurry to revisit. Indeed I had a deep fear of death and an even stronger fear of a cancer diagnosis. I was just 14 years old when Mamie died and at that young age had the stark and uncomfortable realisation that a young person can die. It really brought me face to face with my own mortality, which I believe is a very common reaction.
Hesitantly, I made a decision to face my fear. I hoped that, as well as offering some help to Orla, I would also find some healing and peace through this experience. The next four weeks were to change my life forever. Although managing my work commitments during such a busy time stretched me both mentally and physically at times, the experience with Orla expanded my soul to a deep understanding of spiritual and emotional pain. Both Orla and I became teachers for each other, as she shared her life story and her deep soul pain around letting go of her family, in particular her two young children.
When we talk to patients at end of life about ‘letting go’ of people, we are trying to help them process the idea of leaving these people behind, allowing them to share their concerns and worries, and reassuring them that things will be OK for them after they’re gone. And often, patients are simply looking for permission just to let go of life to death.
‘I was awake early this morning, Breda, thinking of my children,’ Orla noted one morning I was with her. ‘How do I let go of them? My heart is broken. I can’t understand how God would let me die. Will
‘I had a deep fear of death and of cancer’
they remember me? Will they even remember they had a mum? No one could care for them as much as I could.’
Any words of mine in response would be inadequate and could not offer any consolation. Those were big questions, which no human could answer. But Orla was expressing a need to be heard at a deep level, and listening to her empathetically and actively was the best thing I could do for her. I realised through this process that there is a window of work at the end of life that is so important to the soul for healing before death.
This soul work presents a reality to the patient, and indeed their family, that to face death means to face the ending of hopes and plans, and an understanding that sadness around that reality is appropriate and should be faced and shared. A patient can and does experience their own unique grief at letting go to face their death. This work calls for a listener, and can give a greater freedom and strength to the patient in facing what is to come.
‘What is the purpose in life? I grew up, became a mother, and now, I’m going to die,’ she said, almost disbelievingly. Through many conversations, we explored together the meaning and purpose in life, and truth be told, we realised it was difficult to come to any reasonable conclusion. It’s difficult to understand why a young woman would die at the age of 35, leaving two young children behind. We came to understand that life and death are not opposite, that mind and body are not separate, and that emotional pain is felt in all areas of the body. We talked about how Orla’s physical pain was affecting her emotionally, but also how the opposite was true – her emotional pain was affecting her physical pain.
On Christmas week, in an isolated room, with the support of the hospital chaplain, Father Tommy, Orla received her much-longed for sacraments. The moment was joyful on the surface, but beneath was a profound sadness with a lingering awareness of limited time. It was emotionally painful but filled with gratitude that her spiritual need was fulfilled.
I recall Orla was wearing a beautiful white dress, a gift from her mother. She reached out her hand to me. ‘Will you stay with me, Breda?’ she asked softly. ‘Will you teach me how to pray?’ I felt very inadequate in the face of this request, as it was difficult enough for me to pray in my own life. But I realised that Orla’s desire to pray demonstrated that she needed a sense of comfort for her final weeks.
Orla passed away some weeks later. I attended her funeral, quietly seated at the back of the church. As I drove the two-hour journey home afterwards I reflected on the incredible journey life had presented to me and felt a deep gratitude for the grace and strength to stay the course with Orla. She had become and continues to be the most important teacher in my life.
Over that Christmas period, I addressed in good measure my grief at the loss of my lovely sisters. I allowed myself to reflect on my memories with both – Teresa’s passion for country music and the many hours of her teaching me to drive, and Mamie who, as a nurse, had such a kind sense of care for others. I thought of their love for their very young children, and what unbearable sadness they must have felt in their final days at the thought of leaving them.
For the first time, I gave myself permission to really feel the pain at these losses. I talked with members of my family about their lives and the sadness we all felt. This unburdening and sharing with my family made me more settled in myself than I had been in years. Although I only knew her for a short time, my friendship with Orla has impacted greatly on my life. I had grown emotionally and spiritually through those brief months and felt an inner calling to ministry as a result.
I began to explore the idea of becoming a pastoral care chaplain as a lay person. A fortnight after Orla’s death, I bumped into a local priest, Father Hugh, on Shop Street in Galway. ‘How was Christmas for you, Breda?’ he said. ‘From a business perspective it was great, but I found for myself, there was a lot of unrest within me,’ I admitted candidly. I shared with him my work with Orla, and my realisation that
‘My mind was whirling with questions about my future’
I’d like to explore the role of healthcare chaplain further. My mind was whirling with questions about where my future lay. Should I leave my business, after twenty years of success? Should I embark on an unknown future? But Father Hugh was very encouraging of the idea of me exploring this new path. ‘I myself have studied Clinical Pastoral Education at Kerry General Hospital. The director of the programme, Father John, has written his doctoral thesis on spiritual pain. Truly, it’s an excellent programme. And Tralee is such a lovely town.’ Father John was welcoming and encouraging and offered great support through the next ten months as I began the process of selling the business, letting go of twenty years of working in a busy but very happy career. I signed the legal document to hand over my business to its new owners on 5 December 2007, and drove to Tralee on 31 December 2007 to begin studies in Clinical Pastoral Education. I had a whole new energy, thinking about what the future held for me.
▪ Extracted from Lessons From A Bedside, Hachette, U14.99