In the Midst of Life

irrefutable.
    ‘And no one has talked to you about it until now?’
    ‘No. Far from dispelling my fears, the lies and evasions only added to my certainty.’
    ‘How did you react?’
    ‘When I saw the fearful condition of some of the other men in the ward, I decided that I must kill myself. I never want to get to that stage. Never.’
    ‘Suicide is not easy.’ I said.
    ‘No, it’s not. And you know something? I don’t think I have the guts. There is a window upstairs, thirty feet up, with concrete underneath. For many days I thought “I could do it today, there’s no one around. A quick jump and it will all be over.” But each dayI hesitated – “Not now. This afternoon perhaps, or tomorrow.” And then I realised I just didn’t have the guts.’
    ‘It’s not a question of guts,’ I said, ‘most suicides are associated with mental illness, and you don’t strike me as being mentally ill. You’re a realist.’
    ‘I like to think so. But I cannot face the reality of the last stages of this pitiless disease. If I get to that stage I will want someone to polish me off.’
    I didn’t say that nobody realises they are getting to that stage, because by that time they are incapable of recognising it. Instead I said:
    ‘You are having radium now. The side effects can be very severe, which is why you feel so ill and exhausted. But you must believe me, it
is
destroying the cancer cells in your body.’
    ‘I do believe you. That’s what keeps me going. I feel ghastly, but I have a mental picture of the cancer cells being bombarded with radium and giving up. It’s a battle. Them or me. And I intend to win.’
    ‘That’s the spirit,’ I said, enthusiastically.
    ‘It’s a fight to the death and I am a realist – you said that yourself. I have always had to fight, from my early childhood, and I always win.’
    Some people are like that – failure is never a possibility – but I said, ‘You would make it easier for yourself if you rested more.’
    ‘I don’t want anything to be “easier”,’ he said scornfully. ‘Life is not easy – never has been. I don’t go for the easy option.’
    The night nurses were coming on duty. I had to go. He squeezed my hand.
    ‘I’m glad we had this talk. I feel better for it.’
    ‘And I’m glad too. I must tell the Chief about it when I see him.’
    I slipped off the edge of the bed.
    ‘I hope you have a good night. What about some sleeping tablets?’
    He shook his head.
    *
    Thefollowing morning, when I came on duty at eight o’clock, he was up and dressed in his suit. He looked very thin, but smart. He had taken no breakfast, but had asked for strong coffee. I was not happy about this, and questioned him.
    ‘Don’t fuss me,’ he said. ‘I have work to do, and I must keep my head clear.’
    It was the same response he always gave to the idea of analgesics, and was the changeless resolve of a very determined man.
    Mr Anderson spent longer each day in his broom cupboard. The pattern became regular, and how he found the strength to work as he did we never knew. His nights were not restful because of the pain, but he always rose at 6 a.m., bathed and shaved and dressed, although the effort required was enormous. He went to his office at about 7 a.m. and returned to the ward at two, looking half dead with exhaustion. We did not know what he was doing, but something seemed to have taken possession of him, and was driving him on.
    I told the Chief about our conversation, and he was not really surprised. He talked with Mr Anderson, who was nearing the sixth week of his treatment, and they agreed that he should then take a holiday and return to the Marie Curie for check-ups two or three months later.
    The day of his discharge was quite emotional. We had all grown to respect him so much that his rather aloof ways did not matter; they were just part of his character. He tied up the loose ends in his office and asked Matron if it could be left undisturbed, because he might need it later, to which request she readily agreed. We knew that he was going walking and climbing, but from the way he looked, that would require a miracle. He was so painfully thin, his legs and shoulders had no muscle at all, and his face looked haggard.
    ‘Do look after yourself, you might fall or something,’ a nurse said as he was leaving. He gave her a roguish grin, irresistible to women.
    ‘Now what have I got to lose?’ he replied. ‘Tell me that.’
    She couldn’t reply, but