A Time to Die Read online

  Benoît interpreted his illness as God’s way of catching him since he had rejected his vocation. The sclerosis led him to enter religious life. He had asked himself questions for many years. But he always put off making the decision. The electrician loved life, the world, and he did not see any reason to enclose himself inside four walls. Simple, upright, transparent, he had always had a deep faith, but he wanted to practice his trade and stay with his friends. One day, he confided to Father Emmanuel-Marie: “It was thanks to the illness that I entered.” The first tremors of pain allowed him to take the big step.

  When he arrived, the canons had just taken possession of the abbey walls. Lagrasse was dilapidated, the roofs were leaking, drafts of air blew everywhere. The novice was familiar with early construction sites, the heroic times when the religious restored the old monastery with their own hands. He repaired some of the electricity in a large eighteenth-century building built by the Maurists.

  Brother Vincent remained marked by the lessons and good sense of his peasant childhood. One day, a mouse entered the study hall. He got up and crushed it with a simple stomp of his heel.

  The year 2006 was that of his first religious vows. The illness had expanded its domain. The young man began to tremble. His right hand had been the first to go. He decided to be left-handed. Soon, both hands had failed him. From then on, he had difficulty holding his tools. For him, not being able to use a drill or screwdriver was a suffering. Without faltering, he passed on his knowledge of electricity to the brothers so they could take over and work without him.

  Brother Vincent thought that the disease would last thirty years. He dreamed of a peaceful existence. The canon knew that he was vulnerable, but he was convinced that religious life would enable him to overcome his suffering.

  During the course of our discussions, Father Emmanuel-Marie remembered with emotion the moment when God made use of the discovery of the illness to accelerate the decision of the young Norman: “Heaven brought down the psychological barrier of a man who had his share of weakness, egoism, and fear. Brother Vincent said himself that he had lacked generosity. The beginnings at Lagrasse were difficult. We were twenty-four brothers. The canons lived two to a room, without heating. The brothers slept in the hallways or in storerooms, and we did the dishes in an old bathtub. The window panes were broken, the cold reigned supreme. The winter of 2005 was glacial, wet, and windy. Brother Vincent lived roughly and courageously during that pioneering period. But the destitution accelerated the progress of his disease. He thought that monastic life was going help him: it did the opposite.”

  Father Michel, sub-prior of Lagrasse, a brilliant and cultured religious, has always thought that the story of Brother Vincent was part of a plan willed by God. This canon from Marseille knew Brother Vincent from his arrival onward, during the time when the brothers had embarked on an ambitious project to restore the abbey. They had a sense of youth, fullness, power: “Brother Vincent entered without reserve into this adventure. He passed his days with his box of tools and his ladder. He drilled holes in all the abbey walls. At Lagrasse, they are one and a half meters thick. Our life was harsh. In the beginning, we occupied two small rooms. We had to install running water. From a human perspective, the situation might have seemed crazy. We were supported by the charity that bound us together. The canons had no idea what the weakness or sickness of a brother might be like. When the symptoms of multiple sclerosis became more evident, the disease entered for the first time into our lives. We had to purify our ambitions.”

  In the beginning, Brother Vincent was not accepted with perpetual vows in mind, but as a simple regular oblate. The canons did not know if he could stay, and the young Norman was well aware of the axe that threatened him. The novice changed in character. His caustic and keen humor was not the same. He who had loved to make people laugh with little strokes of irony, aware that his candor and humor were pleasing, covered himself in a respectful modesty and reserve. Doubts tormented him.

  With the support of Brother Pierre, his uncle and coreligionist at Lagrasse, he began to take serious steps with doctors to benefit from care that would improve his condition. Brother Vincent dreamed of being cured. He was made for happiness. He loved the joys and sorrows of community life. In a way, he was not born to be sick.

  In 2008, Brother Vincent had a hard time accepting the help of a cane. His legs began to play bad tricks on him. He moved with difficulty and stumbled against the walls. The trembling of one hand, then of the entire arm, made it impossible for him to walk straight. One morning, one of his legs finally let go; he could never again walk properly.

  After much equivocation, the canons decided to organize his move from a room on the second floor to one on the first, in order to bring him closer to the places of community life. He was deeply upset about it. But he no longer had the strength to climb two floors.

  His energy and tenacity were never lacking, as Father Emmanuel-Marie testified: “At that time, he received care at a center specializing in multiple sclerosis and muscular diseases. He was in a unit with about fifty other patients. In one week, he had visited all the patients. Brother Vincent had a passion for evangelization. He said rosaries, distributed medals, talked about the saints. But he returned drained, exhausted, and empty. After ten days of hospitalization, he had lost eleven pounds. Our little brother wanted to live. He was incapable of resting. During his visits to Toulouse, he did all he could to convert the medical teams. We found him with two or three nurses seated on the edge of his bed. They were listening to him speak about his faith. On the other hand, if he had to respond to questions in order to evaluate the progress of the disease, he lied so as not to show the extent of his suffering. Brother Vincent did not want to complain. The doctors often told him they dreamed of patients who possessed a little of his joie de vivre.”

  Little by little, Brother Vincent began to understand that his condition would never improve. He was thirty-five. In the prime of life, how could one accept that the end of his life was so near? Brother Vincent was no exception to this rule. He fought. For a long time the combatant had the last word.

  The symptoms of sclerosis are small stones that become more and more painful. Pain infiltrates every corner. Little by little, the body resembles an old quilt that’s been mended all over. Disease, disagreeable and malicious, is very theatrical. It is the knife making noise on a plate in the refectory when the hand trembles, the book that goes flying in the choir of the church, the repeated falls in the hallways. The canons became firemen who put out fires. The spiral of a cursed hourglass constantly leaped before their eyes. Each deterioration called for a solution in order to continue to believe. A missal wedged under the arm in an attempt to read and sing in the choir, prepared meals, weighted utensils, a new room; life tried desperately to regain the upper hand.

  In this respect, Brother Vincent’s ceremony of final vows was an intense moment that left a mark on the canons of Lagrasse. They were gathered in the Chapter room. Brother Vincent was in the middle of the room. He could not hold the candle or ritual book. At the moment when he pronounced the words that would commit his life, all his limbs trembled. Brother Vincent had the character of heroes who do not want to surrender. He loved God with all his might, but he wanted to remain on his little piece of earth.

  During a walk in the hills of pines and cypresses that surround the abbey, I remember a conversation with Father Michel. I asked him if monks had a difficult time parting with earthly pleasures. His answer was simple: “Religious life does not prevent us from loving the earth. We love it differently, and perhaps more, because the earth is more beautiful with the eyes of faith. Nature is more beautiful, souls are more beautiful, human relationships are more beautiful. Brother Vincent had extraordinary adventures through his apostolates. How can one mourn such intense joys? He loved to convince men of the existence of God. He converted his nurses by helping them discover spiritual writings. Since he could no longer read, they would sit beside him daily to read h
im a few pages. Brother Vincent chose titles that matched their personalities to make sure they would be touched.”

  The mystery of Brother Vincent is the same as that of all human life. Men are drawn upward, but their bodies and their intelligence keep them on earth. Human laws are true for all, even men of God: fear of death, fear of grief, fear of forgetting are instinctive in each of us.

  In 2012, the descent to the infirmary was a new trial for the brother. The canons knew he would never reenter the communal rooms. Father Michel presented to Brother Pierre plans for a new infirmary equipped especially for Brother Vincent. Brother Pierre looked at him with sadness and said: “We’re not going to put him in a hole, are we?” Brother Pierre was hanging on; he did not want life as they had known it to end. In moments of doubt, the imagination easily turns toward “those mourning-chambers where old death-rales ring”,1 as Baudelaire says.

  One day, in the new medical room, Brother Vincent exclaimed: “I have just asked God to be able to go quickly to heaven. But I told him to do as he pleased.”

  Yet, the sick man did not want to speak of death. He was not ready. On multiple occasions, when Father Emmanuel-Marie asked him if he would like to depart, he showed his desire to stay alive.

  Beginning in 2013, Brother Vincent had difficulties communicating. His mind went blank at times. How can you accompany someone toward the hereafter when he can no longer speak? The brothers tried to help him construct sentences. They suggested responses. For a while, he was able to pronounce the first syllable of words. At the end, when he could no longer say anything, facial expression and touch replaced sentences.

  In May 2015, his father died from a heart attack. The canons were afraid that he would die of sadness. He was so upset that he was constantly choking. The young man could have let himself die. No doubt he was hanging on so as not to leave his mother alone. The following winter was particularly violent. Nights of anguish succeeded each other without respite. Brother Vincent always put off the moment of going to the hospital. He was afraid. He knew he could die there where he did not feel as well surrounded as at the abbey. He decided to await God in his monastery.

  With astounding aplomb, he lied by omission to the doctors in order to leave the hospital. Brother Vincent tried hard to make them believe his condition was improving, and he achieved his goal. He left in an ambulance explaining to the medical staff that he was well. After two days, he returned.

  All the canons knew the extent of his suffering. The infirmarian at Lagrasse gave the doctors a radically different description of that than Brother Vincent had. He had incredible strength of conviction and took it upon himself not to reveal anything. His smile, his joy, his peace broke down all the barriers.

  At the monastery, Brother Vincent enjoyed the constant attention of the canons. When he was doing poorly, a brother slept next to his bed, on a simple mattress on the floor. Brother Vincent was reassured by this presence. The brothers came to accept being awakened multiple times in the night. And, around five forty-five in the morning, they left for the church for the office of Matins.

  Over the years, the monastery acquired exceptional medical competence. But the attacks of the sclerosis became more and more barbaric. Brother Vincent struggled with mucus that choked him and could be fatal. He never agreed to a tracheotomy, refusing several times this difficult intervention that the doctors recommended. Brother Vincent was afraid of dying during the operation. He did not want to be mutilated. Sometimes, the infirmarians had literally to turn him over by holding him by the feet to help him spit. Horror moved into the room. And yet, Brother Vincent maintained this painful decision and asked pardon for all the efforts made on his behalf.

  The little invalid became a puppet deprived of muscles. He was falling apart. Brother Vincent prayed he would not die during a choking fit. People affected by the same pathologies often have similar fears. What could be worse than dying by suffocation? The sick desperately search for air, their muscles contract. In those moments, Brother Vincent’s facial expression could be terrible. He was relieved when the canons installed a sophisticated breathing assistance system in his room. But his terrors never disappeared. The dread of suffocation and the fear of lonely nights were twin anxieties. Brother Vincent needed the physical presence of the community. They had to find the balance between overprotection and brotherly help. Alone, the sick man did not close his eyes at night, but he was able to rest if the religious stayed near his bed. Only then, he slept like a sparrow.

  In recalling Brother Vincent’s suffering, Father Emmanuel-Marie was full of emotion: “He was afraid. He was afraid of dying alone while choking. Mental sufferings are as important as physical ailments. The day when he stopped speaking, how could we understand his distress, his discomfort, his pain? He often said: ‘I gave everything to Jesus. He has taken everything. I thank him.’ This is the fruit of a long road, a perilous route, the education of a soul. He did not surrender himself out of generosity but out of love. The acceptance of his sickness was asceticism. I told him several times that he should let go. When his father died, and he was so weak, I encouraged him: he could depart. He knew that the canons were torn. But we were ready. I sensed that he wanted to fight. Fifteen days before his death, I asked him not to stay if his reason for living was the community’s pain. Brother Vincent searched me with his big eyes, then he stared into space for a long time. Finally, he blinked to signify he had understood. I did not know what he wanted, but he had heard me. I took his hand and told him the brothers would greatly mourn his death; most importantly, it was his choice, his freedom, his decision. Deep inside, I hoped God would come for him.”

  The brothers now had to provide delicate palliative care. Every day, they feared they would make a mistake. They knew the difference between end-of-life care and more aggressive life-prolonging treatment. In these situations, it is possible to make someone suffer by miscalculating his hydration, an excess of water causing the production of mucus. Every day, the infirmarians risked inflicting extra suffering on the sick man. His doctors questioned whether the mismanagement of the quantities of water did not lead to extra suffering.

  Father Emmanuel-Marie would never forget the days when every moment was a battle: “In forcing a body to stay alive, we are not helping the soul. But I did not have to make the difficult decisions. Brother Vincent helped me. I told him he could leave to keep us from artificially keeping him in his body. ‘You are no longer made to stay on this earth. We have shared extraordinary moments. You have been a Christ child, like an infant whom we had to swaddle, and a suffering Christ, in the throes of unjust suffering.’ ”

  A monastery is not a hospital. The community had the crushing responsibility of a man who was going to die. “We made a good decision by keeping him within our walls”, Brother Emmanuel-Marie confided in me. “The choice was not easy. Would we be up to the task? Could we respond to his needs? Would we be able to ease his suffering? Brother Vincent hollowed us out. The final weeks were the breaking point. The corporeal shell was used up like a fabric that no longer has any fibers. One could still wear the clothing, but it was ripping everywhere. His flesh could no longer hold his soul. It was too damaged. His death was the liberation of a soul that had become a prisoner. Facing the disease, Brother Vincent was like a little lamb led to slaughter. We tried to protect him as best we could.”

  In the final weeks, he no longer prayed. It would be more accurate to write that he could no longer pray. For the canons, when a man suffers martyrdom, he still prays. The suffering body itself becomes a prayer. The brothers reassured him on several occasions because he was worried about no longer knowing how to pray. He could not finish a rosary. He stammered, he stumbled, he gasped. The sick man wanted to say his prayers as if suffering had not taken hold. It was not easy to make him change his mind.

  Brother Vincent wanted to live his death and go to the end of his road. He did not want anyone to steal his death from him. He was living with multiple sclerosis in a confrontation
al manner, and he was rousing himself to respond to the violence of the medical treatments. God had accepted that his body was crumbling, but he allowed him the freedom of his own end. Brother Vincent departed in his own way, surrounded by his loved ones, protected and cherished. The more he advanced toward God, the less his brothers understood him. Physically, the canons, the doctors, the infirmarian, were close to him; spiritually, Brother Vincent moved farther and farther away. No one could join him.

  Brother Vincent had waited to die until his mother was at his side. The season was not an easy one for leaving the work of the farm. Marie-Josephe Carbonell returned from Normandy on a Saturday. That evening, she stayed alone with her son. Saying the rosary by his bedside, she sensed that he was praying intensely.

  On Sunday, April 10th, around nine o’clock in the morning, his mother came into his room. All of a sudden, the infirmarian sensed that he was about to die. The young Brother Benoît was keeping watch. He ran to find Father Emmanuel-Marie to tell him that he must come as quickly as possible. His uncle, Brother Pierre, was in the courtyard. He was able to be present at the moment when Brother Vincent gave up his soul to God.

  Brother Vincent died with great ease. Listening to Father Emmanuel-Marie, it seemed to me like hearing a man speak about the death of his own child. “I leaned over him, I knew his last moments were approaching. I told his mother to take his right hand and his sister to take his left. His body was burning hot. I recited the prayers of the dying, and I gave him the sacrament of the sick. Suddenly, we sensed that he was at peace. The little brother seemed more at rest, carried away on a journey that transcended him. We were certain that he was going to leave us. He had become transparent. The times of crises, the times of suffocations went away. He was no longer swimming in that ocean of suffering which was his prison. Brother Vincent had no fear. His departure was sweet. The day before, spasms had distorted his face. At the hour of death, he was radiant.”