In the Midst of Life

chance.’ He looked up and smiled once more.
    The effort to speak had made him breathless, and he leaned back on the pillows panting, shallow breaths, his nostrils dilated with the effort to take in more air. An oxygen cylinder was beside his bed, and I turned it on and placed the mask over his face. He breathed the life-giving gas for a few minutes, and then pushed it away. I adjusted his pillows, and he leaned back comfortably and closed his eyes. I whispered: ‘I must go round the wards and see my other patients, but I will come back; be assured of that.’ He nodded and smiled and patted my hand. ‘Jenny Lee,’ he whispered, ‘a happy chance.’
    *
    Ahospital is a lovely place to work in at night. Staff is reduced to about ten per cent of the number required during the day and there are no routine admissions or discharges, no routine surgery, no moving of patients to special departments for treatment, few telephone calls. All is quiet. I refer here to the general wards of a hospital, and
not
accident and emergency, where day can blend into night, and night is usually more hectic than day.
    I went quietly around the hospital, taking the night report from each nurse in charge, seeing a patient here or there, checking a drug, adjusting some treatment, mentally noting this or that to be checked on the next night round, and then returned to the male medical ward, where I sat in the office reading Dr Hyem’s notes. Congestive heart failure was the diagnosis. Long-term diabetes, for which condition I had treated him in the first place, had caused generalised atheroma of the arterial circulation (atheroma – from the Greek for ‘porridge’). Just as a plumber may say, ‘Your central heating won’t work because the pipes are all furred up,’ so it is with the circulation. The arteries become congested and the heart, which is the central pump, gets weaker and cannot work properly.
    I paused in my reading to ponder what I knew of his past life, his moral strength, his suffering, his mental anguish, and his heart’s grief at the loss of his wife and children in the Nazi gas chambers. ‘His heart’s grief’ – can the heart grieve, or is it just a pumping mechanism to circulate blood and oxygen throughout the body? Is mankind just a series of reactions to chemical and biological stimuli, or are we more than that? Will we ever know? Perhaps it is better that we can never be sure.
    I continued reading. Dr Hyem had had several warning attacks of angina pectoris, which can best be likened to cramp. It is painful but not fatal. For years he had been inhaling the fumes of amyl nitrite and taking digitalis, which is a very ancient extract of the foxglove plant, known to mediaeval monks, and cultivated in their herb gardens. At the same time, atheroma of the blood vessels caused sluggish blood flow, and his heart’s efficiency was compromised. This led to other problems.
    Oxygenis the key to animal life. If every cell in our bodies does not receive sufficient oxygen, it will die. That is what had been happening to Dr Hyem for several years. Due to lack of oxygen, the functioning of his lungs, kidneys, liver, pancreas – all his organs – was affected and their efficiency seriously diminished. This is the end result of congestive heart failure.
    Eventually, Dr Hyem’s labouring heart could take no more and he had collapsed in a shopping area. An ambulance was called and had brought him to hospital where we were able to treat him. In these days of high biotechnological medicine, the treatment available back then does not seem much – morphine sedation, bed rest and an oxygen tent, amyl nitrite, digitalis, heparin (an early form of clot-buster), mersaryl (an early diuretic). It may seem very little, but it was enough to pull him through, at least temporarily.
    I turned to the second page of his notes, and read, ‘Next of kin – none.’ That was all. Dr Hyem, a Viennese Jew, living in the wrong place at the wrong time, had lost his entire family – murdered. At the end of life, all that could be recorded of these atrocities was ‘Next of kin – none.’
    Within a few days Dr Hyem improved. His heart rhythm had stabilised and his breathing became easier. The oedema lessened somewhat, and the cyanosis all but disappeared. He was able to get up and sit in a chair. He could walk to the lavatory. He could take a bath, with a nurse’s help. He could talk without exhaustion, and even read a little. His diabetes had