From the nightstand, the cell phone blared its shrill alarm.
It was four o'clock in the morning and ninety-five year old May Caton began the struggle to awaken. She was in bed in her corner of the room at the Santa Maria Nursing Home. Next to the phone on her nightstand was a picture of her and her youngest son, Patrick, who had died very young of cancer. Occupying most of the space was the small inhaler machine which nurses used to deliver the medication she needed to help her breathe. On the wall next to her bed hung a cork board on which were pinned pictures of her other children and their families. There was also a framed document, an official blessing from Pope Pius XII given to May and her late first husband some sixty years earlier. The phone would continue to sound for another fifty seconds or so. Her eyelids were crusted shut, her mouth was so dry she could barely move her tongue. She brought her right hand out from under the covers and rubbed her eyes. The action helped to stimulate consciousness and May began to be aware of the phone alarm. Several days earlier, feeling especially old and ill, May had again spoken to her son Eugene about her fear of death. “What will happen to me?” she asked him. “I haven't been perfect, you know.” Lately, Eugene and his mother talked often about death and what comes next. She was a devout Catholic and had raised her children in that tradition. For one reason or another, all of her children had left the Church and she felt responsible for their straying. Eugene was an atheist and had always been the most recalcitrant of her kids. He and May used to have terrible arguments about religion. Now when Eugene visited her in the nursing home, he tried to downplay their differences and assuage her fears of divine retribution for her sins. He knew his mother's vision of Heaven, where all is eternal bliss and lost loved ones are reunited. If she made it to Heaven she would see her baby boy, Patrick, again. And her mother. And her two husbands, of course. May held many images of Hell, too, but rarely spoke of them. Eugene knew what she feared and always tried to assure her that she would go to Heaven. He himself believed death was death and that was that. It always made him sad and a little angry when he thought of his mother facing death with such fear for no good reason. On this day, May once again asked, “What's going to happen to me, Gene?” Contemplating his response, Eugene looked away from his mother. His gaze fell on the papal blessing hanging on the wall. He had an idea. “Well, Ma, you have this plenary indulgence here. I'd say you don't have a thing to worry about.” “What do you mean?” she asked. “Do you remember getting this blessing from the Pope?” Eugene asked. He watched his mother as she struggled to see the document. “Yes”, she said. "Father McMahon brought it back from his trip to Rome." “It gives you a plenary indulgence. You know what that is”, Eugene reminded her. “I think so.” May was tentative. “Let me read it to you, Ma.” At the top center of the document was a profile picture of Pius XII. Hand-painted illuminations surrounded neat calligraphic text. Below the text were several words handwritten in Latin, the date 20 Nov 1952, and a signature. Eugene guessed that the Latin was a declaration of papal authority and the signature was that of the Pope's representative for such matters. He read the text slowly and clearly, pausing appropriately to allow the words of this holy document to have their full effect.