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Cate went five and a half months without any seizures. But in early May she began to have dozens and dozens of seizures daily. As I mentioned earlier, at that time, she was diagnosed with Infantile Spasms, a dire seizure disorder. I vividly remember Catie’s appointment with her pediatrician shortly after her neurological diagnosis. Dr. Petersen, the sweetest, kindest doctor you could ever find, looked at me and said “Mrs. Roche, we were all so sorry to hear that Caitlyn developed this.”
“But, he added, while smiling at Catie, “She does look good, and not all kids who have this diagnosis, do poorly even though it’s a big concern.”
Catie’s overall health was great. She seldom had even a cold. Developmentally, she learned everything we took the time and effort to present to her in a manner by which she could take it in and process it. We had to make allowances for her overall low muscle tone, her impaired left side, seizure activity and the ongoing sleepiness from the medication.
To get around her difficulties we needed to work with her on her terms. When she was most rested, most alert and not seizing. We had to provide support for her left side and back, and speak in a super animated tone, with lots of expression and enthusiasm. I used to call it “aerobic education”. It was tiring because you had to give one hundred percent, but the fact that she drank it all in with such gusto made it easier. Cate was a happy girl. She was so attached to both Mark and I. And, truth be told, I was her life line. I nursed her, I was with her all the time, I taught her, prayed constantly for her, and advocated like a lioness. She would cry when I left the room for months and months. It was both satisfying and also an enormous responsibility. Both of us loved her so deeply that there was no question but that we would try anything and everything that was medically and educationally sound. We were also determined to explore any and every orthodox spiritual course. We’re Catholic and we trusted the doctrine available to us. We were very aware of flawed Catholic people (As you’d find in any group), but the soundness of time-tested dogma was a safety net as far as we were concerned. Mark was busy with Tee-ball and soccer, and Paul and Matthew were in need of constant supervision and attention. Life was full. Sometimes to overflowing.
We had also moved into a new home that we built the year before Cate was born. There was still no lawn! Our mudroom was properly named. The boys loved watching the construction workers still building nearby. They had dump trucks and cement mixing trucks and cranes. They had access to water. In order to save all the established trees in the backyard we had to have several truckloads of fill dumped off. Every possible evening for two or three weeks, both Mark and I, wheel-barrowed it all over our property behind the house. The kids played ‘King of the Hill’ and “working mans”. We couldn’t spread that dirt fast enough because dust was blowing through the screens and open doors constantly. The three boys were filthy. Our driveway and walkway were not done either, so gravel was finding ways to end up everywhere inside their clothes and shoes and the house. It’s a good thing I’m partial to little boys.
The big day finally arrived. Besides our hopes and prayers for Caitlyn, Mark and I were in desperate need of a break from it all. We had never been to Europe. In fact, neither of us had ever even flown. (I was nervous, but feeling pretty safe with the likes of Father DiOrio on board and praying for our safety!) The flight to Lourdes was almost eight hours. The two of us passed Catie back and forth for the duration. Mark dozed for twenty minutes or so, I didn’t catch a wink. When we landed at the tiny Lourdes airport many of our fellow passengers on our charter flight looked wide awake and ready to explore. Quite a few were immediately joining a tour to see where St. Bernadette lived and went to church. Not us! We couldn’t make it to our ‘Hotel Christ Roi’ (Christ the King) fast enough.
When we finally arrived in our room, there was no crib set up. The two of us were in full zombie mode so we quickly made a bed on the floor with blankets and pillows. Within minutes, all of us were in dreamland. Suddenly, two French maids burst in without knocking. They were loud and dramatic, with arms flailing this way and that. They were also seemingly disinterested in the fact that Mark and I were in bed together. Thankfully, we were decent, but, really? The French don’t knock?
“Oh cher! Regardez la petite fille!” (Oh dear. Look at the baby girl!) They moved closer to Catie and bent down, “Comme elle est mignonne!” (How cute she is!) “Elle a besoin d’un berceau.” (She needs a crib.)
They nodded to us. “Au revoir. Nous serons de retour.” (Goodbye. We’ll be back.)
Mark, sitting up to do a reality check, muttered “What the hell was that?”
I interpreted the invasion for him. We cracked up. “It could have been a lot worse!”
Since we were awake, we decided to head down to the Grotto. It was a short distance away. The town of Lourdes is unique. It’s quaint, with old stone and stucco buildings, many cobblestone streets, window boxes overflowing with flowers, and special “carts” galore being pushed by nurses and other volunteers bringing the sick and disabled to the baths. Everyone there, besides the locals, who run the hotels and shops, is a pilgrim. Many are “malades” (sick people). The rest are either loved ones or nurses or doctors. These malades are treated like rock stars. There is a red strip down the main roads in town reserved especially for those in wheel chairs seeking healing. Cars are NOT the priority. People are almost all friendly, courteous, helpful and praying. I’ve described it before as “the world in reverse”. Total respect and deference are given to the “poor in body, mind and spirit”. The “beautiful people” have to get over themselves while visiting Lourdes.
After about a ten-minute walk, with Catie peeking out of her carrier on her Daddy’s shoulders, we arrived at the entrance to the shrine. We had no sooner passed through the gates when Mark and I looked at each other in astonishment. It was as if we’d passed through a “force field”.
“Irish, did you feel that?”
“I did. Wow! God is definitely in here.” We entered the “domain” many times during that week we were there, but never again did we feel that astonishing Presence of holiness, grace, love and power that greeted us the first day. That was our welcome from the Blessed Mother and her Son.
We made our way past the basilica and headed straight for the baths. There were separate lines for men and women. The rooms were entirely made of stone. There was a large ante-room where you undressed to your slip. Then volunteers from all over the world and France wrapped you in a blue “shroud” (like a large towel). Two French women then escorted you by each hand into the baths. They move you rather quickly (I believe this is because the water is ICY cold!) while reciting the ‘Hail Mary’ in French as you submerge in the narrow pool as deeply as you want. The mountain fed spring shocked me for an instant. My body actually shuddered from the freezing cold holy water. But then, it’s as if you’re lifted up and filled with a heavenly peace.
As you exit, you just remove the shroud and don your clothing. There are no available towels. There is no need for them. Everyone is instantly dry. When I went in, a volunteer held Caitlyn. After I dressed, they brought Catie to a small pool off to the side. Her limbs flailed when her little nine-month-old body entered the frigid water. Once she was out, she fell deeply asleep. We went back every day that week.
Near the baths there are many faucets where pilgrims can collect holy water to drink and to bottle. Everywhere you walked people were reciting the rosary. Prayers for Our Lady’s intercession were ascending in Italian, Spanish, Vietnamese, Filipino, English, . . . . you name it. We briefly entered the basilica and went upstairs where there are nuns who pray constantly. The atmosphere there was charged from the ongoing adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. We were so blessed to be within this precious, holy shrine.
We left the domain and visited some shops as we headed back to the hotel for a bite to eat. Two couples from Yonkers, N.Y. were assigned to the same table as us. They were long-time friends. Bill and Margaret Finneran had come because Bill, a lawyer, and one-time Grand Marshall of the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, had suffered a stroke. The other couple, Richard and Irene Gill, came because they wanted to give thanks for the healing of liver cancer Irene had received through the intercession of Father DiOrio five years previously. These four New “Yawkers” were hilarious. Richard was always asking to hold Catie. Then he’d sit her on the edge of the table and make her little legs kick up and down to him singing the classic Sinatra song “New York, New York”. Cate loved it. He also brought her large pretzel sticks to teeth on at every meal, because as he put it, she’s a “New Yawker”. She likes them. Cate did love both Richard and his pretzels.
The food at the hotel was delicious and the place was quite elegant. However, because we all had assigned tables, they kept the same cloth napkins on the tables for the three daily meals. But somehow, apparently unbeknownst to the waitresses and waiters, they seemed to migrate around the table after each meal.
One lunchtime Bill said “I think this might be your napkin Richard, because I KNOW I wasn’t wearing lipstick at breakfast.” The napkin thing became the big joke among us. Irene bought a bag of paper napkins downtown and was secretly passing them around under the table. We had so many laughs as we guessed who would get what cloth at the next meal. Gotta love New Yorkers.
Every night there was a Eucharistic procession through the shrine. Everyone held a candle and they sang Ave Maria. At each “Ave”, every pilgrim raised their candle to the sky. Only one of us could hold a candle because the other one held Catie, so with each “Ave” we lifted her to the heavens. The faith and pain present there were equally palpable. There was a mother of five young children on our pilgrimage. She was there with her husband. He looked so deeply sad and frightened as he cared for the love of his life, a gorgeous black haired, blue-eyed young woman, who had advanced Lou Gehrig’s disease. We also spent quite a bit of time with Monica and Nolan, a middle-aged couple from the Midwest. Nolan had leukemia and passed away a few months after we returned home.
It wasn’t all pious or sad or serious. There was faith and fear and hope, all alternating at any point in time within and amongst all of us. Each pilgrim had come there for a serious reason. That said, in-between the tears and prayers there was also FUN and good French food, wine and solidarity.
On the last day, our New Yorker friends had a gift for Cate. They had bought it a few days earlier while we were all on a little side trip to neighboring Spain. It was a hand woven little blue bib with a front pocket. Inside the pocket was Catie’s very own little napkin. I still have it.
In Between Two Worlds 