Weekday Blog - Friday September 14, 2012

The hospice, which lay three or four hundred yards as the crow flies from the rear entrance to Poole hospital, had the appearance of a large brick-built house. It was built in a style which complemented the residential area in which it was situated. In front of the building was hard standing for perhaps ten or twelve visitor’s cars, and there was a space reserved for an ambulance.

We were met at the door by a female member of staff. She was obviously expecting us. When Liz was wheeled out of the ambulance, the lady squeezed her hand and welcomed her warmly.

The building was bigger inside than it looked. It was decorated in pastel shades of pink and grey and there were fresh flowers everywhere. Apparently these were donated by an organisation known as Friends of Forest Holme. The atmosphere on stepping into the building was one of peace, calm and tranquillity. The lady who had welcomed us led us to a lift large enough to accommodate a hospital bed and several people. The ambulance attendant who had ridden in the back of the ambulance with us, wheeled Liz into the lift and rode up to the first floor of the two-storey building with us.

On the way up, we were informed that there were two wards; one for men, one for women, and that there were six beds in each. We were also told that there were more staff than patients. “That’s so we can give you all the care and attention you need,” the lady travelling with us informed Liz.

“Yes,” Liz said.

“That’s actually all she can say,” I explained. “That, and the word no. It’s because of the surgery she's had.”

“Yes, your doctor has given us the background. And don’t worry, my dear,” the lady said, patting Liz’s hand. “I’m sure we’ll work something out so we know what you need.”

If I had expected this to be like some kind of hospital, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Everyone she encountered on her short ride from the lift to the women’s ward greeted Liz with warmth and kindness. There were more fresh flowers. They were everywhere. It was almost like walking through a fragrant garden.

The ward was perhaps thirty feet square. Like the rest of the building it was decorated in pale shades of pink and grey, and it was very well lit. There was nothing gloomy about this room. There was a window running the full width of the room. Being late January – the year was 2002, it was dark outside.

There were three beds down each side of the ward and, with the exception of the bed they had allocated to Liz, which was at the far end of the ward by the window, all the beds were occupied. The patients’ ages seemed to range from around forty to over eighty, although one patient couldn’t have been more than twenty. Many of the patients had visitors.

I was asked to adjourn to the visitor’s room while they got Liz settled in and the resident doctor, who ran the hospice, had taken a look at her. A member of staff showed me where it was. We passed the men’s ward on the way. I have to say it looked a lot more depressing than the women’s ward. Possibly this had something to do with the fact there didn’t seem to be as much light as in the women’s ward, although this could have been an illusion on my part.

The visitor’s room seemed to be about the same size as the wards, and it was decorated in the same pastel shades. There was subdued lighting and groupings of comfortable chairs, and pictures on the walls of summer scenes with ladies in floppy hats taking tea on a lawn with the sea in the background, and photographs under glass of local beauty spots, like Durdle Door. And there were books and magazines, and a corner for children. This was a room where a visitor could spend time in quiet contemplation. I imagined a lot of visitors to this establishment used this room.

After about an hour, a member of staff came and told me I could go and sit with Liz. She told me they had given her medication for her seizures and that she was sleeping and would probably sleep for some considerable time. I chose a book and took it with me and sat quietly by her bed.

Liz looked peaceful. I was grateful for that.

Extract from my book WILL YOU TELL HER, OR SHALL I? A true story. My story. The story of how I lived with the ten-year terminal illness of my wife. Available on www.booksthepublishersmissed.com

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