The first time I saw her was terrible — her parents brought her in because she had stopped eating and she was in one of the rooms having a tube worked down her nose. I had paused on my way down the hall to visit Sylvia Embree dying of lung cancer because I could hear the doctors and nurses shuffling around, barking orders and crying out whenever one of her flailing limbs connected. And the girl, this little fourteen-year-old girl was shouting with great authority that Our Lord would bring down his wrath upon all their heads. She had such a deep and outraged voice for a child. I have to say I was impressed and stopped to take a peek. The moment I stuck my nose in the door, young Dr. Pat looked up and told me, “Sister, you could help.” They’d never asked me to help before. I stepped over the threshold like a kitten. “No, really, Sister,” said Dr. Pat. “Please.” He took his hand off the girl for a quick instant to wave me over.
