In the Midst of Life

been thrown out of control by the attack, and the amount of insulin he had been taking for many years was no longer applicable. His urine had to be tested, and an insulin injection adjusted twice daily, otherwise he would have developed hyperglycaemia and acidosis. But, all things considered, there was a big improvement.
    I was so happy to meet him again and to be able to give him my friendship and professional care. Each evening we talked, and this was when he told me a little of his personal wartime experiences. But I am sure he left much untold, things that were too painful to put into words. I expressed my surprise, once, that he was not bitter. He said: ‘We have to forgive the unforgivable. But that doesnot mean forget. These things should be remembered. But if we do not forgive, we will poison our lives, and the lives of others, and evil will win.’
    I thought of my poor Uncle Maurice, who had spent four years in the trenches in France and Flanders in the First World War, and whose whole life had been eaten away by savage hatred and resentment. He spent forty years hating mankind. Dr Hyem’s philosophy of forgiveness was not only wiser, but kinder to himself.
    We could talk only for short periods because, firstly, it tired him, and secondly, I was night sister, with a whole hospital in my charge and many duties to attend to. Nonetheless, I was grateful for the opportunity to get to know him better.
    Sometimes he spoke of death, as my grandfather had. ‘My time has come and I am content. “Everything in its season”, as the prophet teaches us; “there is a time to live and a time to die”.’
    On another occasion he said, ‘I have seen so much horrific death in the camps and I think about the spirits of the departed more and more as I draw closer to them.’
    Little sentences or half sentences, here and there, built up a picture of his philosophy.
    ‘Why did I survive? I often wonder. Why did I have to bear the perpetual pain? To die would have been easier. I’m glad my time has come at last.’
    On another evening, he was reading his Hebrew prayer book when I approached his bed. He looked up, with a wry smile.
    ‘From ancient times Jews have described death as “God’s kiss”. Wishful thinking on the part of a people who have suffered for two thousand years at the hands of cruel men, I think. Death is only a “kiss” if it comes naturally. What do you think, eh, Jenny Lee?’ (He always called me by that name.)
    One evening, he said to me, ‘I know enough about the human body to know that one day, perhaps quite soon, I will have another heart attack and that will be the end of my life. I want it to be the end. I don’t want anyone messing about with me, trying to pull me back from the brink.’
    ‘It’sunlikely,’ I said. ‘This is a small hospital. We only have a resuscitation room with two beds, and I don’t think it is very well equipped. Anyway, you are seventy-eight and no one with any sense is going to try resuscitating a man of your age.’
    ‘That’s a comfort. Nonetheless, promise you won’t let them do it.’
    I promised, but said he should speak to the consultant and to the ward sister about his wishes. He told me that he had already done so.
    These were the last words that Dr Hyem spoke to me. I went off duty at 8 a.m. During the day he suffered a massive heart attack and was not expected to live. The onset had been sudden. He was reading the morning paper and gave a cry, clutching his chest, and collapsed unconscious. It was thought that a blood clot, which is always liable to develop if the circulation is sluggish, had probably lodged itself in one of the pulmonary arteries.
    Dr Hyem was treated as an emergency, with all the drugs and equipment available at the time, and he rallied.
    At 8 p.m., when I went on duty, Dr Hyem was semi-conscious, but stable. If it had not been for the drug treatment and oxygen he would have died, probably within an hour or two of the infarction. However, he was close to death. I looked at him with deepest sadness. To lose an old friend is not only sad, but always tinged with regret, regret for all the little things left unsaid or unfinished. I had planned, in my mind, that, as he seemed to be getting better, and as he lived quite close to us, he could become part of our family group. I knew that my husband, an intellectual if ever there was one, would like him and be endlessly fascinated by his conversation. Perhaps my little girls would