In the Midst of Life

in most general hospitals. It has become an international movement – over one hundred countries now have their ownhospice care, and look to the teaching of Cicely Saunders as to how they should be run.
    Dame Cicely Saunders died of cancer in 2005 at the age of eighty-seven, in St Christopher’s Hospice.
    It is interesting to compare the lives of Cicely Saunders and Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. They were about the same age - Cicely the elder by eight years - and they died within a year of each other. They both had war experience, when death was all around. With no known contact between each other, they both saw the needs and suffering of dying patients in English and American hospitals in the post-war era. They both identified the cause as the widespread denial of death by the medical professions and society at large. The work undertaken by both of them was groundbreaking. It is one of those fascinating instances where two people with brilliant, insightful minds identify the same problem at the same time and work towards different but complementary solutions. Cicely started the hospice movement in 1967 when St Christopher’s Hospice was opened. Elisabeth published
On Death and Dying
in 1969. The contribution they made to medicine and to society wasimmeasurable.

DR CONRAD HYEM
     
    In 1957 I worked in Poplar, East London, with an order of nursing nuns and was required to visit a Mr Hyem, who lived in one of the tenements known as Canada Buildings. They were densely populated and regarded as slums.
    I climbed the stone stairs, went along the balcony to his flat, and was taken aback by a small brass plate on the door stating: ‘Dr Conrad Hyem, Doctor of Philosophy and Psychology’. The day book had called him ‘Mr Hyem’, so I assumed the ‘Doctor’ was the wit of some Cockney joker, to amuse himself and his mates. I raised my hand towards the knocker, but at that second the beautiful soaring tones of a violin sounded from within. I stood outside the door, holding my breath, staring unbelievingly at the door. A woman called out:
    ‘Go on. It’s only the Doc. ’E’s lovely, ’e is. ’E gives us all a toon. Jus’ knock. ’E’ll soon stop.’
    I shook my head and put my fingers to my lips, breathing ‘ssshhh’, and leaned closer to the door. The music was beautiful, full-bodied and rich, filled with that plaintive yearning which of all instruments the violin can achieve to perfection.
    ‘Makes yer wanna cry, ’e do, sometimes,’ the woman sniffed appreciatively. ‘But jest give ’im a knock, ’e won’t mind, ’e’ll soon stop, ’e will.’
    Again I shook my head. How could I disturb such a musician, his inner thoughts and emotions? He might never recapture that moment. The final cadence approached, and the last note died away, and I rapped on the knocker.
    A tall, silver-haired gentleman opened the door. He was well-built and solid, but not fat. He smiled at me, and the gold fillings in his teeth gleamed in the sunlight. He was wearing well-cut trousers, a plain, high-necked jumper and thick horn-rimmedglasses, and when he smiled, his eyes crinkled attractively at the corners. His hands were beautiful; white and smooth, with polished nails – certainly not the hands of a dock labourer. Nor was he the Cockney humorist I had imagined. I knew at once that he really must be a doctor – of some sort.
    ‘You must be the nurse I was told to expect.’
    He spoke beautiful English with a soft guttural accent, which I took to be German.
    ‘A small matter concerning my diabetes?’
    He opened the door wider and with a slight bow said, ‘Be pleased to enter.’
    If I had been surprised to find a musician and scholarly gentleman in the seedy purlieus of the Canada Buildings, it was as nothing compared with my astonishment on entering his rooms. It might have been the study of an Oxford don. Every wall was lined with books from floor to ceiling, thousands of them, mostly leather-bound, some of them with gold tooling down the spine. In front of the window stood a kneehole desk, probably antique, with a beautiful surface of red leather, tooled in gold. A red, leather writing chair stood before the desk and the room held no other furniture save a rosewood music stand. All the shelves were made of warm mahogany, and the lovely smell of wood and leather filled the room. Dr Hyem noticed my reaction, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.
    ‘You like my sanctuary, then? This is my retreat. A man can live very