Open Writing

All Change

I had applied to a Nursing Agency, and I informed Miss Constance that I was looking for other work.

“Oh, well,” she said. “Remember we want a month’s notice.”

She was obviously broken hearted.

“I’ll try my best. I am not intending simply taking the odd day or night, but if a really good long term job comes along, I will have to act quickly.”

She gave me a withering look.

“A contract is a contract.”

I agreed hastily, and set to my day’s work.

Christmas Day was a Sunday that year. It had already been decided that the Friday before Christmas was the last day I should work until the following Wednesday. On the Tuesday before Christmas the Agency offered me a long term night duty post in Orthopaedics at the beginning of the New Year.

I broke the news carefully to the dragons. I also told them that I was willing to make up the time from my contract and help them in any way I could. I was unprepared for the response.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. McLean. We wanted a month’s notice. You agreed to it. You have broken your contract, and therefore your word. That shows a certain lack of (sniff) moral fibre.”

She made her point by looking me up and down disdainfully, as if I were vermin dragged in by the cat. “We have no further interest in you. The 23rd of December will now be your finishing date.”

She turned smartly on her heel and left the room.

Things changed for these last few days. There was a frisson in the air, something that felt like disapproval or disappointment, but was never voiced.

At long last Friday came. They appeared to be in a relatively good humour. Maybe it was Christmas or maybe it was the thought that they were soon to be rid of me.

“We have a Christmas present for you, Mrs. McLean,” beamed the Wing just before lunch. “You will receive it after our meal.”

I said thank you in anticipation and felt rather dreadful not having anything to give them. The atmosphere had been so difficult; I had presumed they would not have been bothering with the likes of downstairs girls.

We had our last lunch together, and as usual I served them the pudding. They had wanted apple snow. This is made by stewing some apples then, when they are cool, whisking the whites of a couple of eggs through them. These egg whites made all the difference.

As I started in the kitchen for my last clear up, I heard them ascending the stairs to their private sitting room. Then I heard the Wing shouting. Yes she was definitely shouting. It was a sound I had not heard before in that house. I opened the kitchen door, to ascertain what was happening.

“Can you hear that, Mrs. McLean? Can you hear it?”

I listened. There was the sound of Christmas carols.

“Yes, I can hear Christmas carols,” I responded.

“Well, enjoy them Mrs. McLean. That is your Christmas present.”

It was extremely well done. Even in my resentment, I realised that they knew exactly what strings to pull to make someone feel diminished in stature.

I took up their tea tray, and knocked on the door to say goodbye.

“Goodbye,” they said in unison, heartily.

I realised that I had been played out.

**

So I started back at nursing, while looking after Faither on the side.

The Waiting Pigmy did not have her sorrows to seek. Faither, with a terminal condition, was deteriorating. She was very reluctant to see it and would not discuss it with him.

“Do you mind if I talk to you, lass?’’ he asked. “I want to know if you’ll help me. There are several things that are very important, and I need to know if I can count on you.”

I nodded my assent.

“I want to die here, in your home with you to looking after me. I do not want to go into hospital again. More than anything, I want to die with dignity. Can you do that for me? I know I am asking a lot.”

“Oh, Faither,” I replied thoughtfully. “You’re saying that you don’t want any further treatment?”

“That is correct,” he answered, clearly.

“But when the time comes, you may not be lucid enough to express these wishes,” I responded.

“I trust you, lass. If I am unable to say I’ve had enough will you say it for me?” he appealed.

“That’s a whole bundle of trust. Are you sure?” I asked, overwhelmed now by this imminent responsibility.

“I couldn’t be more positive. I’ve watched you caring for others. You won’t get it wrong. I will be much happier and confident that I’ll not be required to suffer any humiliation or distress.”

And so it was decided.

The objective of Dying with Dignity was accepted and embraced by family and friends alike. They all welcomed the fact that it could be discussed. With the subject open and an aim in view, relatives from far and near came to say goodbye.

My home seemed to have turned into a sardine tin. It was indeed fortunate that I worked nights and that we had two spare bedrooms and a bed settee. It was challenging, coping with the occupants of this rapidly changing house. But it was company for my mother in law and took the intensity out of her concern.

One morning, returning from nightshift, Faither was very confused. It had been a bad night.

I sat with him, and realised that we were approaching the end. I became certain that “Time” should be called, and invited the doctor to pay a house visit. He arrived in minutes.

“That’s some case of pneumonia you’ve got there” he said, “We’d better get him to hospital.’’

“No,” I said. “He doesn’t want or need any more drips or antibiotics. I know that would make him temporarily better, but then he’ll start going downhill again. The man is done. What he needs now is rest.”

“You mean you don’t want me to treat him?” he asked in surprise.

“You’ve got it in one,” I replied.

He hesitated, taking in the mood.

“It’s very unorthodox, but you appear to be united,” he said, glancing at the Waiting Pigmy. She was putting an extraordinary amount of effort into supporting me enthusiastically with her head movements. “I’ll have to get the chemist to order some morphine for me.”

I knew that withholding the morphine temporarily was to give everyone time to consider, probably including himself. He read my look, and was quick to reassure.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back at 11 am.”

“I don’t mind giving it,” I offered, realising he was in a difficult position.

“NO. I’ll give it. It is my responsibility,” he answered. So saying, he departed.

He returned at the arranged time. Dignity was duly delivered.

“I think I’ll have a cigarette now,” said Faither.

“Och, Andy, you know you shouldn’t,” said his wife.

I lit it for him. After two puffs, he handed it back to me.

“That’s enough, lass,” he said, and I went to stub it out.

“Nip it” he instructed – meaning he may come back for it later.

I nipped it.

And with these words, he was gone. His wishes, stated simply, fulfilled.