I liked Jerry. I had liked him from the outset, and not just
because we both played golf. It
was more to do with the way he looked after Liz. He gave her an extra spoonful
of oral morphine whenever he thought she needed it. And, invariably, he would
then give her a conspiratorial wink as if to say we’d better not tell anyone
about it. This would amuse her. He went the extra mile to make her comfortable
and he gained gold star brownie points from me for this. Jerry wore a starched
white jacket with a fashionable half-belt in the back, and short sleeves. He
was a good-looking man with black hair, blue eyes and Popeye-like forearms. He
was very popular with the ladies, although he didn’t seem to notice.
The nursing station, which also served as Jerry’s office,
was on the ground floor close to the lifts. It was a small glass-fronted room,
which Jerry referred to as his goldfish bowl.
When I arrived for my morning visit, Jerry was at his desk
looking through some prescription forms. He told me Liz was asleep and
suggested we have coffee in the Red lounge. He said for me to go up there and
he would arrange coffee and bring it up.
I preferred the Red lounge to the other lounges. It was
rarely busy, so it was ideal for a quiet chat. It was a square room of perhaps
thirty feet by thirty. It was a high-ceilinged room with brass chandeliers and
ornamental ceiling roses. There were double doors at each end to allow for
wheelchair access. A window at one end of the room overlooked the gardens and
the golf course. A window at the other end overlooked the car park at the front
of the building. The windows were leaded, and the curtains were made of
luxurious red and gold brocade, complete with swags and tails.
I had the room to myself. I sat at a table with two
high-backed armchairs by the window overlooking the golf course. On the course,
four men stood on the eighteenth green. One was holding the flag; one was bent
over his ball preparing to putt. At varying distances behind them four more men
waited for the green to clear before playing their shots.
Jerry walked in with a bone china coffee service and a plate
of mixed biscuits on a tray. He put the tray on the table and stood by the
window to watch the golfers. He looked down at me and asked if I had been
playing much.
I picked up the coffee pot and started to pour. “No, I
haven’t,” I said. “I haven’t felt much like it recently.”
“You should play,” he
said. “You would be with people. You spend far too much time on your own.” He
sat down and added a splash of milk to the coffee I had poured for him.
“I know,” I said, “but I don’t have the enthusiasm. I don’t
seem to have the enthusiasm for anything at the moment.”
“Hardly surprising, considering what you’re going through.”
“I know. By the way, I’ve just started having counselling.”
“I’m glad to hear it. It’ll probably do you a power of good.
I wanted to talk to you about what happened this morning. Liz was using the
commode and we think she had a seizure. She’s been fine on the commode up to
now, and that’s why the nurse thought it would be safe to leave her for a few
moments while she went to check on the patient in the next room. But when she
got back Liz was lying on the bathroom floor. We think she’d banged her head on
the wall. I can’t tell you how sorry we are about this. It will never happen
again.”
“Forget it, Jerry,” I said. “It was an accident, and
accidents happen. No one’s blaming you, or your staff.”
“All the same, we’ll be a lot more vigilant from now on.”
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. Now an Amazon Kindle book. www.amazon.com
Twitter: Maximillian19
FB: facebook.com/Booksthepublishersmissedcom
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