In the Midst of Life

pretty scary, but as you can see, it can be successful.’ He held out his hand towards Dr Hyem, who looked peaceful. ‘Not every attempt turns out as good as this one. In fact, if I’m honest, most fail. But it’s worth having a go, just to get a result like this.’
    He continued with his checks and adjustments, saying as he did so, ‘New techniques for resuscitation are being pioneered in America. Some of our teaching hospitals are using them. Statistically, they are more effective. I would like to try them myself, but we don’t have the equipment here in this backwater.’
    He’s a good man, I thought, and a dedicated doctor. He can’t have had more than a couple of hours’ sleep, but still he felt the need to see his patient before starting the day’s routine.
    He patted Dr Hyem’s hand. ‘Well, you’re doing nicely, Dad. I’m pleased with you. We’ll have you running around again in a few days. I’m off to get some breakfast now, and I’ll come in and see you later in the day.’
    As he left he said, ‘I’ve got a morning in theatre. Tell SisterTovey I’ll be here around lunchtime.’ Then to Dr Hyem, ‘Doing nicely. You’re doing well. Keep it up.’
    Such energy, such confidence, is invigorating.
    Sister Tovey, the ward sister, to whom I gave the night report, felt differently. She was a woman about twenty years my senior and was nearing retirement. She had been nursing throughout the war, with two years spent in Egypt, receiving casualties from the fighting in North Africa, a great many of whom died for want of adequate medical attention. She was a woman of vast experience and few words.
    ‘Dr Hyem told me he wanted no resuscitation,’ she said.
    ‘He told me that also.’
    ‘And he told the cardiologist. I know, because I was there at the time.’
    ‘It must be recorded on his notes, then.’
    Together we looked, and there, written quite clearly on about the fourth or fifth page, were the words, ‘In the event of cardiac arrest, do not resuscitate.’
    ‘I suppose they didn’t see that,’ I muttered.
    ‘More likely didn’t look! These resuscitations have to be carried out at lightning speed. There’s no time even to think. Just get on with it, that’s the message. I don’t like it. Not a bit.’
    ‘Well, he’s alive,’ I said.
    ‘What for?’ she demanded.
    The question seemed callous. But was it? Or was it realistic? My first doubts, momentarily dispelled by the registrar’s breezy confidence, returned. I did not reply.
    ‘What for, I say? Congestive heart failure? Renal failure? Liver failure? I must speak to the cardiologist about this. I don’t like it.’
    ‘Well, he seems to have recovered and his condition is stable. There is nothing more I can say or do. I’m worn out. I must go home and get the children off to school. Then I must go to bed.’
    We parted, and my mind was in turmoil as I drove home. The events of the night were screaming in my poor tired brain. Had it been a triumph, or a tragedy? The registrar’s confidence and SisterTovey’s doubts were struggling with each other. That dreadful cry, like all the ghosts and ghouls of Hell, kept sounding in my ears. But it was probably not a conscious cry, I told myself, just the involuntary emission of residual air in the lower lungs escaping through slack vocal cords. He was alive, and his condition stable, that was the main thing. One should not drive after a night like that, when the mind is in such a state. It was surprising I did not have an accident.
    The children restored my equilibrium. I defy anyone to get too serious when there are children around. Their laughter, their squabbles, their endless questions, their intense passion if a crayon or a book is lost, flying around the house to get a pair of gym shoes – all these little things brought me back to normal. We ate breakfast together, and I found, to my surprise, that I was hungry. Then there was a knock at the door, and a little friend arrived, then another, and the girls raced off together to the primary school down the road. I went to bed and slept, reflections on life and death eclipsed by the vitality of children.
    Dr Hyem did not die, but he did not live, either. His heart had been in failure for a long time, and now all his vital organs began to fail too. The slow gradations of decay set in.
    Failing circulation, caused by a congested heart, creates ‘back pressure’, affecting all the organs of the body. In Dr Hyem’s case it