Shadows of the Workhouse

That he was getting weaker every day was put down to the temporary effects of the radium, which would pass when the treatment was completed. Everyone – that is, all the medical and paramedical staff, which must have totalled at least thirty people – kept the illusion going, though there was no corporate decision to do so.
    Nausea is an unpleasant side effect of radium treatment and was something that Frank had been warned about in advance. He attributed his weakness and weight loss to the fact that he could not eat much. ‘Cos a man’s gonna get thin like, if he’s not eatin’ like what I’m not. Once I get some good grub inside me, an’ keep it down, I’ll pack the old weight on, you’ll see.”
    Pain was another matter. The control of pain is the first responsibility of anyone involved in the care of the dying. Pain is a mystery that we cannot fathom, because there is no measure. Everyone’s tolerance of pain differs, therefore the correct dose of analgesic will differ. One must balance the strength of analgesic to the level of pain perceived and not allow the pain to develop beyond the patient’s tolerance.
    Frank was having half a grain of morphine three times a day. Later this was increased to four, then six times daily. It was sufficient to dull his pain to an acceptable level, but did not impair his faculties. He was interested in everything.
    He once said: “Every mornin’ I hear the fishin’ boats come up the river. Can’t get out of the ’abit of wakin’ . In my mind I can see the sails, dark against the red sun, like wot’ they used to be like, comin’ quietly out of the morning mist. Boo’iful they was, just boo’iful. You’ve gotta have seen them sailin’ boats to know wot’ a lovely sight it was. Now I listen to the sounds of ve engines. I can tell you by ve sound if it’s an oyster smack or a mackerel trawler. I can even tell you ’ow many deep-sea vessels from the Atlantic come in. It’ll be good to be back at Billingsgate.”
    Peggy and I agreed that it wouldn’t be long. He was getting on famously.
    Peggy had given up all work now and never left his side, except for essential household duties. She spent hours reading to him. Frank had never learned to read fluently, and could barely write.
    “Book-learnin’s never been my strong point – but Peg, she’s the scholar. I love to ’ear her read. She’s got a lovely voice.”
    Peggy read about half a dozen of Dickens’s novels in this way, sitting close to him, outwardly reading but inwardly attentive to every mood and movement. She was conscious of every shade in her loved one, ready to close the book if she sensed tiredness, or to change his position if she saw discomfort. Peggy knew almost before he knew himself what his needs were going to be.
    Love permeated every nook and cranny, every corner and crevice of that little house. You could feel it as soon as you entered the front door, like a presence so tangible you could almost reach out and touch it. If there is one thing that a dying person needs more than relief from pain, it is love. I have seen, later in my career when I was a ward sister at the Marie Curie Hospital in Hampstead, unloved, unwanted people dying alone. Nothing can be more tragic or pitiful. And nothing is more hopeless or intractable for the nursing staff to deal with.
    Love prompted Peggy to sing to Frank every evening, the old songs, the folk songs and hymns that they had both learned in childhood. Love prompted her to move the bed so that he could see the masts and funnels of the boats as they approached the docks. Love told her which visitors to admit and which to turn away from their front door. They grew even closer. They had always been one flesh; now they were one spirit, one soul. And all the time she kept up the pretence that he was going to recover. If she cried alone in the kitchen, he never saw it.
    It was Frank who first startled me. We had just finished a blanket bath (he no longer had the strength to get to the bathroom) and he had asked Peggy for a hot drink and a hot-water bottle. As soon as he heard the kitchen door close, he said, “Nurse, you must promise me you won’t let on to Peggy. It’ll break her heart. Promise, now.”
    I was putting things away in my bag and my back was turned towards him. I didn’t move or breathe. I had to respond in some way, but I couldn’t find my voice.
    “I want you to promise, now.”
    “What do you mean?” I said, eventually. I had