In the Midst of Life (14 page)

Mr Roberts’ wife and two of their eldest sons came with him. She was an unexceptional woman, apart from two trusting brown eyes that forced the word ‘integrity’ into your heart. She said that they would prefer to look after her husband at home, but they had only one room and had to climb sixty-four stairs to reach it. The Chief said that we would look after him well, and that they could visit any time, day or night. Doctors, I have found, make these rash comments without the slightest thought to the practicalities involved!

Mr Roberts said, ‘My days are numbered, so I thank you, kind doctor. My family will continue my life that is running away from me.’ He squeezed his wife’s hand and said ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ His wife whispered, ‘Blessed be God in his wisdom.’ The two boys said ‘Hallelujah’ and then one of them let out a howl. His mother said: ‘Abraham, you stop your noise right now. The good sister no want your noise in her nice quiet ward, you hear me?’ From such a small woman the effect was surprising and instantaneous.

The Chief smiled and left, saying, ‘I leave it in your capable hands, Sister.’ The wife left also, as the two youngest girls were due home from school, but the two young men said they were doing the night shift at a nearby warehouse, and could stay. As it was close to visiting hour, I agreed.

In those days, visiting hours were very strict. Too strict, I felt, but hospital discipline had to be maintained. I was glad to relax the rules when I could, but the Chief’s comment about unlimited visiting day or night was going a bit too far. Three o’clock came, and the visitors who had gathered outside were admitted. One or two wanted to see me, but mostly I was left in peace to check the drugs and equipment and to complete what little paper work there was to be done. At four o’clock I asked a nurse to ring the bell to inform people that visiting hour was over; almost simultaneously the clip, clip of high-heeled shoes was heard in the corridor, and three women walked straight into the ward. The eldest one was smartly dressed in a suit, and the two younger women wore pretty
dresses. They all had hats and white lace gloves. I called to them, and they turned.

‘We come to see our daddy,’ one of the girls said.

‘But visiting time is over,’ I replied, ineffectually.

‘We come any time, day or night. The doctor, he say.’

‘Yes, but—’

The older woman stepped forward and folded her arms.

‘No but! Who are you, anyway?’

‘I am the ward sister,’ I said, hoping I sounded confident.

‘You!’ she said scornfully. ‘You too young to be ward sister. In Kingston, ward sister is a big, strong mamma, fifty years of age, a woman who know how to handle men. Not skinny girl like you, no way.’

I was completely squashed.

Visitors were beginning to leave and we were blocking the doorway. I stepped aside and the three women took it as a sign that they should proceed to Mr Roberts’ bed. The two men stood up. One of them kissed the two younger girls, calling them sister Faith and sister Mercy, and the other said to the older woman, ‘Well, well, Aunt Adoration, what you doin’ here? Long time no see,’ and he shifted on his feet with a smooth, boneless motion.

‘You no smirk at me, nephew Zachariah. I come to see my brother Elias, is sick man. You no smirk, or I wipe that smirk right off your silly face.’ The boy sat down and shrugged effortlessly, his shoulders moving like running water.

They brought a chair for the woman, who sat very close to Mr Roberts.

‘Brother Elias, the Lord, He send a visitation—’

‘Is you the visitation, Aunt Adoration?’ said the boy.

You be quiet, saucy puppy. Brother Elias, the Angel of Death come visit you, but you be strong in the Lord and be not cast down, hallelujah.’

‘Hallelujah,’ chorused the girls.

Several visitors, still lingering, looked at them. It was time to
intervene.

‘It is ten past four, and visiting hour is over. We have work to do, so I must ask you to leave.’

The older woman settled comfortably in her chair, and took off her gloves, before replying.

‘The doctor, he say we can visit any time, day or night, his wife tell me. I come all the way from Notting Hill to sit with my brother Elias.’

She removed the pins from her hat and stuck them into the felt, and removed her hat, a gesture loaded with meaning. ‘No way.’ she muttered. ‘Skinny girls, huh. Mercy, pass me my bag.’

From the bag she removed two small cushions, one of which she sat on. The other she placed comfortably at her back before glaring at me.

‘No skinny girl tell Adoration Consolation da Silva what to do,’ she announced, and waved her hand to shoo me away.

The girls giggled behind their hands, exchanging glances. The boys looked up to the ceiling and whistled silently. I was floored. It was time to see Matron.

‘What!’ she exploded, ‘the Chief said these people might visit any time, day or night?’

‘Yes. I was present when he said it.’

‘Doctors! We could run this place very much better without doctors,’ she muttered, as she accompanied me back to the ward.

It was a fighting start, but unequal from the outset. Matron had the advantage of being the older woman, but she was also a softie, and no match for Mrs da Silva, who won on points. Eventually, it was agreed that when essential work had to be carried out, the ward would be closed and the family could wait in the visitors’ room, which was on the ground floor.

The five people disappeared downstairs, and I went to Mr Roberts’ side. He was a very sick man, and looked exhausted and grey. He could hardly move, but he murmured, ‘Thank you, Sister.’ I checked his urine drainage bag, which was heavily bloodstained, and resolved he must have more potassium citrate and more fluids. I examined his supra-pubic wound, which looked clean and
comfortable. I asked if he had any pain, and he breathed, ‘No more than usual.’ What did that mean? Pain is unquantifiable, and no one can assess the degree to which another feels it. He seemed to me to be a man of great courage, and as time went on we all began to recognise his outstanding qualities. Later, the Chief said to me, ‘I have seldom seen a man approach death with more nobility.’

We had finished serving supper, the drug round and the essential bed changing and dressings, so I thought I would go to the visitors’ room to see if any of the relatives were still there.

There were now not five people, but eight. I said that two could come upstairs to say goodnight to Mr Roberts, and Aunt Adoration stood up. But at that moment Mrs Roberts came in, accompanied by two younger girls aged about thirteen or fourteen, so I said that she should come up with her daughters. The aunt blustered about being first, but Mrs Roberts said quietly, ‘Hold your peace, sister Adoration. Do you not remember our dear Lord’s words “and the first shall be last, and the last shall be first”? Hold your peace. Come with me, Daffodil, and you also, Ruby, and we go softly, not to disturb the quiet of the evening.’

Mrs Roberts was the only one who seemed to understand that a dying man needs rest and tranquillity, and, above all, peace in which to approach the ending of life.

That was only the first day. During the next three weeks the stream of relatives was constant. One woman, a cousin I think, turned up with three small children, who were sweet and pretty, but a perfect nuisance. I couldn’t let them into the ward, so they raced around the ground floor. We let them out into the gardens, which were normally reserved for ambulant patients, and they shrieked and whooped as they chased each other around, to the anger of the gardener who regarded his garden as a sanctuary for the sick. We tried to limit visitors to two at the bedside, but frequently there were four or five. Brothers arrived from Birmingham, a sister from Bradford, and the sons and daughters who lived locally came every day.

Poor Mr Roberts had no peace, but he never complained and,
as far as we could see, never showed any irritation. He was always courteous, and even though he could barely move or speak, he would open his eyes and smile, and perhaps murmur, ‘It is kind of you to come. You are welcome,’ and then drift away again to where senses and perceptions are beyond our understanding.

We all knew what would happen, and it did. Other patients, and particularly their relatives, started to complain. ‘Why is he allowed unlimited visiting time, when we are confined to the specified hours? It’s not fair.’ And it wasn’t, I had to agree.

It was difficult for us, because at the same time we had a similar problem with Mr Winterton, who was an alcoholic. Alcohol is not allowed in hospitals, but you cannot withdraw all supplies from a true alcoholic and expect his body to adjust overnight. He will go berserk. So, a daily dose of whisky was measured out for Mr Winterton at each drug round. This soon attracted the attention of the other men, some of whom called out good-naturedly, ‘Come on, Nurse – splash it around, be a sport.’

Others complained, ‘If he can have whisky, why can’t we?’

‘Alcohol is not allowed in hospitals.’

‘Yes, but…’

It was a circular argument. We even turned a blind eye to his wife bringing him extra supplies in a hip flask. She was a glamorous and interesting woman – an actress, who earned a lot of money on the stage – and she was devoted to him. Mr Winterton had real charisma, and all the nurses, myself included, felt it when he turned on the charm.

One day I had a telephone call from a woman enquiring about Mr Winterton. You have to be guarded about supplying information to anyone who rings up, so I said that the patient was comfortable and that his wife had just visited.

‘I
am
his wife,’ replied the voice.

Silence from me!

Yes,
I
am Mrs Winterton. The woman who has just left is not his wife. Did she tell you that she was?’

‘Yes
.’

‘Well, she isn’t. I am. What does she look like?’

I described her.

‘I know her. She’s an actress, and a very good one at that. She is also either a saint or a fool, I don’t know which. She has kept that worthless man for years, moving him from one hotel to another along the coast. When the police pick him up drunk and disorderly, she sorts it out and pays the fine, then moves him on to another seaside resort. She has saved me a lot of trouble.’

It’s hard to know what to say to a story like that. After deep thought I said, ‘Oh.’

‘Well, I had better give you my address and telephone number, so that you can inform me when he dies.’

That was the end of the conversation.

We still called the glamorous woman who brought in illicit bottles of whisky Mrs Winterton, but I looked on her with very different eyes. A saint or a fool, which was she? And is there much difference? The Orthodox Church has a concept of the Holy Fool – one who is a fool in the ways of the world, but wise to the ways of God. Are we all ‘fools to love’? Not so; I think the opposite – that the lover is all-wise and sees in the beloved the goodness that no one else can see.

We could not halt the metastases in Mr Roberts’ emaciated body. The treatment was proving to be worse than the disease, so after three doses of radium the Chief proposed a halt. He spoke to Mrs Roberts, who said: ‘I know. God’s will be done. The Lord God say, “Can you command the sun to rise, or the sun to set? Can you move the moon from her course? Did you set the stars in motion? Can you number the days of a man?” I know what you saying, and I see it clear. He is my husband and the father of my children, and I will speak with him. He is ready to die, and will be grateful.’

We stopped all active treatment and increased his sedation and she asked us: ‘Is it always right to reduce pain? I am not sure. We are born in pain and some of us will die in pain – is this wrong? If there is pain and suffering in this world, there must be a meaning to it. Some of us have to learn this
meaning.’

I said, ‘We always try to relieve suffering.’

‘Yes, I know, and because I am not sure about the right or the wrong, I must leave it to you to decide.’

Then she laughed, a big chuckle that surprised me.

‘There is one thing, Sister, that I am quite, quite sure about. Quite sure. He does not need food. Your nurses bring him food, they try to feed him, and he push it away, he turn his head. They try again. It is a nonsense, a child’s game. He cannot eat, and does not want to eat.’

She chuckled again, and her face creased with merriment.

‘Does a man need porridge or scrambled eggs when he come to the Pearly Gates? No way. He need a clean mind and a pure heart.’

I laughed with her, and said that it was hospital practice to feed patients, even to the point of force-feeding.

Her merriment vanished. ‘You not goin’ to force-feed my husband,’ she said emphatically.

‘We will not try to feed your husband any more, I assure you. But what about drinking?’ I asked.

‘I give him water, it trickle out his mouth. A nurse give him water, he try to swallow, but the water, it choke him. Does he need water, Sister?’

I said we all need water to live.

‘But he is dying, not living. It is different.’

I said that if he had no water his death would come more quickly.

‘But does that matter?’ she asked innocently.