A Way to Die: Living to the End

    When Jane woke up on Wednesday she experienced the pain
of parting with her brother all over again. Her lips moved slowly-
after Rosemary asked her if she'd slept well. Her "Yes" sounded
uncertain.

    "Where's Richard?" she asked. "Is he coming today?"

    Her mother said gently, "No, darling. You'll remember in a
minute. He's left with Arloc. They're on their way to America.
Richard rang up from the airport to send you his love—and
Arloc too." Jane still looked puzzled, so Rosemary went on:

    "Remember, they said goodbye to you last night?"

    Then Jane remembered. "He's really gone," she wailed. "I
shan't see him again." She turned her head to hide her tears and
cried quietly to herself. Rosemary stroked her hair and tried to
convey that she understood how terrible this loss, this final
parting, was. She could only remind Jane how much Richard
had loved her, how Arloc had grown to love and understand her.

    "I want to die quickly," she said. "I wonder if I'll die soon. I
want it to be over with."

    "I'm sure it won't be long. Perhaps Richard and Arloc not
being here will make it easier for you to go . . . You may feel,
deep down, that you don't have to stay any more now. It was
hard for Richard to leave you, you must know that, because it's
so hard for you." Rosemary lit a cigarette for Jane. "We're
going to find it terribly difficult to get used to being without
you. But, Jane, you'll always be around for us. We have so
many ways to remember you."

    She grew calmer at last. She lay looking out of the window
at the sky. The morning was grey and cool, as summer mornings
often are in England. The clouds merged into a continuous
cover, cutting off the sun and giving no hint that soon they
would disperse to allow the light through.

    Once again the hospice life reached out to Jane. Julia asked if
she would like a visit from Bunty, her little dog. Jane had had
no thought of ever touching an animal again and was delighted at
the suggestion. When Julia brought Bunty, a griffin, into her
room, she asked, "Would you like her on your bed, Jane? She'll
wriggle about, you must tell me if it bothers you."

    Jane wasn't bothered. Bunty joined her on the bed, and Jane
smiled with happiness as the dog licked her face and fingers,
nuzzling against her, bursting with love. Julia stood watching in
case Bunty's enthusiasm got out of hand.

    Rosemary remembered the day when her own mother had
died, quite unexpectedly. Rosemary had found her in the morn-
ing, arms resting over the bedcover, the telephone within easy
reach. Only the colour of her face and the dropped line of her
jaw indicated that she wasn't asleep. Even the cold touch of her
flesh didn't convince Rosemary that her mother had died. Rose-
mary had been on holiday and it seemed terrible not to have said
goodbye. In great distress she knocked at the house next door.
The dog, which was always gentle and friendly, that day leaped
out in apparent rage and fury and had to be restrained from
attacking Rosemary. Perhaps it had picked up a sense or a smell
of fear, of stress—or of death? Animals are often thought to
be especially sensitive to these situations, but certainly Bunty
showed no such reaction. Jane's death was drawing very close,
but she wasn't afraid. Bunty wriggled about on Jane's bed, lick-
ing the feeble fingers that tried to stroke her.

    Later that morning Jane asked for another injection. For the
first time since her arrival in the hospice, help took some time
coming. She lay with her eyes closed, but finally asked: "Could
you see where they've got to? I really need that injection."
Rosemary went to find help. Elizabeth was at the nurses' desk.
Her usual ready smile vanished when she saw Rosemary. "How
awful! I'll come right away. I forgot all about it. How could
I . . . ?"

    She hurried to Jane's room with a syringe and long apologies.
As she gave the injection, her movements were quicker than
usual, but still gentle. "There now, did you feel that?"

    "Not a bit. But I'm not comfortable . . ."

    "You've slipped down in the bed. If your mother takes the
other side of the sheet, we'll pull it right up and needn't move
your body." She grasped one side of the sheet and Rosemary
took the other. "One, two, three, hup . . ." Quickly and easily
Jane was lifted higher in the bed. "Did that hurt?"

    "No. That's much better, thanks. I'm sorry I bothered you,
but I really needed that injection." Jane was already beginning
to relax. "I'm sure you're very busy."

    "No," Elizabeth said bluntly, "it wasn't that. I just forgot.
Wasn't that terrible of me?"

    Jane smiled back at Elizabeth's disarming candour. Rosemary
admired the nurse's courage for telling the truth so easily, and
felt no anxiety that such an oversight would happen again. Soon
the injection worked and, with her pain eased, Jane was once
more peaceful and contented.

    David Murray arrived for his morning visit and talked to us
after he had spent some time with Jane. He was his usual calm
self. Today Victor was calmer, too. He had been acting as if
he'd been wound up so tightly that he could only function at
speed. Now his sense of urgency and stress had eased; he no
longer moved and spoke as if barely containing an enormous
tension. But he was unable to relax for long. Rosemary realised
that his nature was such that he couldn't just wait for the in-
evitable. He had to keep on struggling and fighting towards the
goal of a peaceful death for Jane. She knew that at this time he
must pursue an active role, whereas she could only wait.

    David gave us fresh news of her physical condition. "The
tumour in her abdomen has blocked off her system," he said.
"We've had no results from our efforts at clearing her bowels.
This points to a complete stoppage."

    "In that case," Rosemary asked, "does she need to eat? It's a
tremendous effort, but she feels she has a duty to take nourish-
ment. If her system isn't absorbing anything, must she really go
on eating?"

    "Absolutely not," David said firmly. "Some patients have their
meals right up to the end, but only if they want to."

    "She'll be glad."

    "Patients sometimes eat to please the people looking after
them. It's their way of returning an expression of love—by
accepting the gift of food."

    "Oh, she hates eating now." Rosemary found it easy to talk
to David. "Jane seems to think she may die very soon now."
"It's possible. There are those who can put into operation a
kind of primitive mechanism that early man possessed, and most
of us have lost—an ability to switch off, you might say. She may
well be able to decide that this is the time . . ." He was quiet
for a moment, then went on, "Sometimes it's necessary for a
doctor to give permission, as it were, for a patient to die. This
sounds a bit like playing God"—he smiled apologetically—"but
a patient can feel a responsibility towards the doctor, a duty
to respond to care and attention by going on living and thereby
showing she appreciates it. Then the dying person needs to be
gently nudged into realising that this is no longer necessary. The
doctor has to see the facts as they are, the biological facts. It's
also the doctor's responsibility to allow the scales to tip towards
death in certain situations. When I talk about 'permission to
die,' that's what I mean. It's a matter of tipping the scales." He
paused again. "This probably sounds very arrogant," he said
quietly.

    "Isn't it more arrogant to refuse to accept death?" Rosemary
asked.

    "You mav be right."

    Jane's world had shrunk to her bed now. Her only remaining
possessions were a favourite ashtray, a stoneware vase made by
her mother, her shawls and her toilet bag. But her personality
was intact, her identity hadn't been drowned in drugs or crushed
by pain. Nor did she feel a need to hide herself away. Her life
was real, and she continued to take great pleasure in communi-
cating with the people who came to her room to look after her,
or just to talk. She was still enjoying new experiences, listening
with interest to whatever her visitors had to say.

    One of the volunteers kept Jane company while Victor and
Rosemary had lunch together. When Julia introduced her, Rose-
mary could only think, How young this girl is. She can't be
more than seventeen. How can she possibly know what to say
to someone mortally ill?

    The girl smiled happily and sat down by Jane's bed. She began
to talk freely and enthusiastically as one healthy person talks to
another, and Jane responded easily. If she felt resentment or
envy at her visitor's vitality, she gave no sign. "We had a good
talk," she said to us, when we got back.

    That afternoon Jane told Dorothy and Julia that she was hap-
pier than she'd ever been. "The world is such a beautiful place.
I know that now, I never really saw it before. I think I'm so
lucky to be here, in the best place in such a lovely world." She
told them there was nothing more important in life than being
born and dying. "At birth," she said, "I knew nothing. At
death, I know everything that I will ever know, and everything
around me is good, not evil. That's a good way to die."
They were making her comfortable in bed, having just turned
her over. "You're so good to me," Jane went on. "Everyone
makes such a fuss of me . . ." She broke off and laughed. "I'm
beginning to sound like a stuck record, going on and on. You'll
get sick of the sound."

    "We won't get sick of it, Jane," Julia assured her. "It's good
to hear you say these things. We enjoy looking after you."
Dorothy smiled her agreement. "You really do have remark-
able control over your legs, Jane, even though you can't move
them properly. It's very noticeable when we change your
position."

    "I used to do a lot of yoga before I got ill. It was very relax-
ing, especially when I couldn't sleep. There's only one thing that
worries me. I wish I knew what it was going to be like—dying, I
mean. I'm a bit scared of that, but I suppose nobody knows . . ."
Julia looked at her gravely. "I think I can tell you," she said.

    "You'll just go to sleep and slip away without even waking up."
She spoke quietly, but with assurance.

    There was a moment's silence while Jane absorbed this.

    "That sounds good to me."

    Julia went on: "I've watched a lot of people while they died,
and that's what will most probably happen to you."
Jane was content. Now, free of the constraints of the future,
free of possible disciplines that she would resent and probable
defeats that might crush her, she had only to deal with the pres-
ent, and it was manageable, limited, under control. She seemed to
have no fear left in her.

    That afternoon, hot and mellow with sunshine, a group of
Jane's friends came down from London, bringing strawberries,
melon and mangos for her, not knowing that she wasn't eating
any longer. It wasn't long before they realised that this was their
last meeting. Kate, the first to go in, saw at once how much
weaker Jane had become since she visited her on Sunday, three
days ago. Jane's eyes were too weak to see her clearly, but she
recognised the voice. Kate hugged and kissed her. Jane asked,

    "Tell me what you're wearing today. You always wear such
nice things. Describe what you look like."

    "Oh, I haven't got dressed up for you today." Kate tried to
paint a word picture. "I put on my Indian skirt—the browney
one with the figures on it, remember? Then I've got a white shirt
and some beads—the wooden ones—round my neck. That's about
it.  Oh,  yes,  I  found  it too  hot  to  wear the  boots that  go well
with this skirt, so I put on sandals instead."

    "Now I know how you look." Jane spoke with contentment.

    "It is a lovely day, isn't it? I can feel the sun in the air."
There was no hint of envy in her voice, Kate thought, remem-
bering how Jane had always loved the sun. She tried to keep her
own voice light and cheerful as she asked: "Still glad you came
here, then?" When Jane smiled and nodded, Kate added: "You
do look lovely, you know. Really happy."

    They were silent together. Aware of her friend's weakness
and anxious not to tire her, Kate waited for Jane to speak. Her
next words were full of pleasure at the smell of the freesias Kate
had brought. "What a beautiful world it is!" she added. "We
really should always enjoy it, every moment." She gave Kate a
last message ror Michael.

    Jane's other two friends waited outside on the sunny terrace
for their turn to see her. From a distance it might have been a
holiday scene: the group of young people sitting chatting under
a sunshade, looking out over the open countryside beyond the
garden. But as they each went in to her it was increasingly ob-
vious to them that Jane had not much longer to live. She was
failing rapidly; her body was very frail, she was almost blind, her
voice was sometimes merely a whisper. Only her happiness re-
mained, and the sense of peace that surrounded her, which
seemed to intensify, not diminish, as the day went on.
When she talked with her friends—quietly, a few words at a
time—she was working hard to help them accept that she was
dying. If she could show them it was possible to die in peace
when their time came, that would be a great thing to leave be-
hind her. And in the act of accepting the gift, they would be
returning it to her and making her own dying easier. She was
ready to say goodbye.

    We took turns to make sure Jane wasn't getting too tired. Al-
though she didn't like to say so herself, it was obvious that she
needed a rest after only a brief talk. One of us would stay with
her while she dozed, then another friend would go in. When
Linda, Jane's childhood friend, emerged, she was bewildered
and weeping. "I can't believe it," she cried. "I just can't believe
it." Linda had visited Jane every few days since her return to
England from Greece. She had followed the progress of the ill-
ness and knew what had been happening—at least, as much as the
family had known. But it was still hard for her to accept that
there was now no hope of remission, no chance at all. She wept,
struggling with this knowledge, and the rest of the group under
the sunshade tried to comfort her.

    Jane had noticed Linda's distress. "Don't let Linda go home
alone," she said to her mother. "She shouldn't drive on her own."
That moved Linda even more. "That she should be thinking of
me at a time like this," she said, and broke down again.
In the evening Jane seemed completely at peace. The pain of
Richard's departure was apparently gone—she had forgotten it,
or perhaps accepted it. She had said goodbye to him and to the
friends she cared most for, and she made her decision. "I am
ready," she said. "I want it to be tonight."

    She lay with her face towards the glow of the evening sky
that came through the window. The sun had set some time be-
fore but there was still plenty of light.

    It was one of those times when the world seemed full of mean-
ing to Rosemary. If only one could find the secret, everything
would fall into place. She felt that even life and death might
cease to be a mystery and their meaning become easy to under-
stand—the explanation was very close. All the sights and sounds
of this June evening should form a complete whole: the night-
ingales singing the lovely song that is really their battle cry, the
sliver of moon in the glowing sky, her dying daughter on the
bed—these were all parts of the pattern, if only she could see it
clearly. Perhaps Jane's new-found tranquillity and happiness were
signs that the mystery had been solved for her.

    Among Jane's papers we found a poem she had written in
the hospital:
 

I try to fill my head with stars,
To drift in space
And find peace.
But tonight
The stars are far away,
Peace will not come.

    Rosemary tried to describe to her the beauty of the evening,
the light in the sky, the patches of deeper darkness under the
hedge. Then she saw a movement. "There's a rabbit, Jane. He's
just come through the hedge. He's eating the grass on the other
side of the road . . ."

    "A rabbit!" Jane was thrilled. "I must see him. Lift me up,
quick:

    "It will hurt you," Rosemary said doubtfully.

    "Oh, Mum," Jane begged, "mv last rabbit!"
 

    Then Rosemary knew she must help her do whatever she
wanted, even though she couldn't see clearly. She put her arms
under Jane's shoulders and raised the weak body up in bed. Jane
peered over in the direction of the hedge.

    She couldn't see anything. The world was a blur.

    "He's gone, Jane. He must have heard my voice. But he was
there," she said firmly. "A lovely young rabbit. Perhaps if we
keep quiet, he'll come out again."

    Back in bed Jane lay with her face still turned to the open
window, waiting for the rabbit. The light was hazy as the dusk
deepened, and the air that came through the window smelled of
the day's sunlight. Soon it grew dark. The rabbit had not re-
appeared, but Jane did not complain. Her memory of other rab-
bits had been refreshed by this last visitor.
Victor came into the room looking worried. "Jane," he said
hesitantly, "Michael has just called; he wants to come and talk
to you."

    "No." Her reaction was immediate. "I'm too tired." She lay
deep in the bed, her voice strained. "I don't want to see him."
"You've been saying you wanted to sort out any past mis-
understandings with your friends and set things straight. You
owe it to him to talk things through."
"I'm too tired," Jane snapped back. "I've told Kate what to
say to him."

    "Jane." Victor would not accept her refusal. "You really
ought.. ."

    Rosemary cut in, "Why don't you talk on the telephone? You
could have a long rest first and speak to him later."
Jane considered this in silence for a moment.

    "I know," said Victor, "a Zorza solution for you, Jane. Let's
toss a coin."

    She began to come round slightly. "You know perfectly well
we always do the opposite of what the coin says—even if we do
remember which side meant what . . . Oh, all right then. If
you must."

    "So it's heads you'll speak to him . . ."

    "Does it matter?" she asked. But she added grudgingly,

    "Heads, then."

    The coin came down heads. She wavered and began to give
in. "Well, I suppose if I smoked all the time I could manage. But
I'll have to be alone," she said emphatically. "I don't want any-
one here while I talk to him."

    "Darling, you can't be alone if you smoke," Rosemary ob-
jected. "You might burn the place down if the cigarette slips."

    "I can't have anyone listening. I won't do it then, not if some-
one's got to sit and watch me."

    "Suppose I put in ear plugs and promise not to look at your
face, only the cigarette. How about that?"

    So it was agreed. The telephone was brought into her room
and plugged in. Victor went off to call Michael. When he didn't
return, Rosemary went to investigate and found him in a state of
confusion, half laughing, half in anguish. "You'd better come
with me," he whispered, "I don't think I can face this alone."
Mystified, Rosemary followed him back into the room.
"Jane, I'm afraid I was too late to stop Michael. By the time
I got through, he'd left. He's on his way."

    Jane, who had recovered from her earlier anger, now exploded
in a surprisingly strong new burst. "What a shit thing to do!
How could he do this to me? Just like him. What a swine he is!"
"He was on his way to the station when I called. There's no
way to stop him. He'll get here about one in the morning, I
suppose."

    "I won't see him!" Victor lit a cigarette for her, and she puffed
hard at it, her eyes full of tears. "I was expecting to die tonight.
Now I can't die if he's to come here."

    "Jane," Victor remonstrated, "he can't stop you dying if it's
time for you to go. When your body is ready, you'll die. You
don't have to see him if you don't want to."

    "You don't understand. I'll have to if he comes all this way."
Her face was still distorted with misery and rage. "I'm too tired
to see him," she repeated. "I won't see him."

    The cigarette slipped from her agitated fingers and the hot ash
fell on her hands. "Now I've burned myself! It hurts terribly,"
she said accusingly. Her limp fingers fumbled together, attempt-
ing to rub the injured part but lacking the strength even to lo-
cate the burn. Feverishly, Rosemary rubbed cream into her
hands, trying to see the burn, to calm and reassure her.

    She was acting like a spoiled brat, we both thought, and then
felt ashamed of the thought. A moment ago we had been ready
for a solemn, quiet ending. Jane was going to put her head on the
pillow, shut her eyes, and drift off to sleep easily, comfortably,
just as she wanted it, just as she had been promised would hap-
pen. Now this peaceful ending was threatened. The whole thing
was degenerating into farce, Victor thought angrily. We re-
minded her that she always felt like talking in the middle of
the night. She could sleep now, then talk later.

    "I shan't sleep," she said defiantly. "How can I sleep after
this? My finger hurts too much."

    Rosemary's patience was slipping away. "Of course you'll
sleep." For the first time since Jane's illness, she spoke as to a
little girl, rather an unreasonable and naughty little girl at that.

    "You've slept well every night here. You'll have your usual in-
jection, more if you need it."

    "Well, give me another cigarette, then."

    "No!" We both shouted together. "No more cigarettes!"

    Meanwhile, Elizabeth had told David Murray that Jane's calm,
steady journey towards death had been unexpectedly inter-
rupted. He came in, allowing us to escape and find time to pull
ourselves together. We went to the kitchen to make some tea.
Victor was appalled at the collapse of calm and order. "This
is terrible," he kept saying, "terrible." When David joined them,
having succeeded in settling Jane down, Victor said, "It's all
coming apart. What are we to do?"

    But David remained unruffled. "Once the pattern has been
set, then it will be maintained," he said. "Unexpected things do
happen, there may be upsets . . . But things will right them-
selves, get back on course. You'll see that basically nothing has
changed."

    Rosemary was less upset by the incident; indeed, she was almost
glad it had happened. The turmoil and stress of life were still
affecting Jane. "I feel a sense of relief," she admitted. "This eve-
ning had begun to seem like a scene from a Victorian novel—the
lovely girl on the bed, the moon, the nightingales. It was too good
to be true. This is the real Jane!"

    "I know what you mean." David smiled in sympathy. "But
before this happened, had you felt she was losing her identity be-
cause of the drugs? Were you worrying that she was becoming
a zombie? Or have you thought all along that she was the same
Jane?"

    "Oh, yes, definitely the same Jane. She's been happy and con-
tent, but you couldn't call it a personality change or anything
like that. And she's certainly not become a zombie. Things just
went wrong this evening. It's an emotional business for her."
Rosemary settled down for the night beside Jane, still stoutly
maintaining that she wouldn't doze off. But she slept soundly
through the night. Even the arrival of the night nurses with their
whispered warning, "Your injection, Jane," failed to wake her.
She didn't hear Michael's taxi driving past her window to the
front door of the hospice.

    Michael had decided to come to the hospice when Kate got
back from seeing Jane, he told us later. As soon as he heard that
Jane hadn't much longer to live, he knew he must go to her
again. "Maybe dashing off to see her now fits in with the way we
were," he told Kate, "always rushing here and there to meet each
other—driving, travelling . .."

    Even Victor's misgivings, clearly evident when Michael phoned
the hospice, hadn't discouraged him. "Victor and Rosemary will
need support tonight, maybe I can give it to them." In any case,
he had to go. And later, when we talked about the events of that
night, he told us: "It's not really the thing to do to intrude on a
family matter, but that's the way Jane and I were . . . untidy
. . . We missed too many chances together. I wasn't going to
miss this one."

    Michael remembered that journey vividly. He had never before
travelled in a train where he could sit looking out of the back
window of the carriage. He watched patterns of light forming
shapes of colour and movement that increased his sense of un-
reality. The strangeness of the journey served to underline the
fact that his long relationship with Jane was coming to an end.
He wondered whether he would make it in time. Would she
be able to see him? Would she want to see him? Or was she still
upset and bitter, as Kate had told him, that he hadn't come to
visit her alone for several weeks, that there was always somebody
with him? It was too late to try to sort out his reasons for bring-
ing Ruth along on these occasions; they were too complicated.
The memory of his first painful breakup with Jane returned,
but he tried to forget it. It had been a damaging experience and
the present was hard enough to deal with, without the pain of
old wounds. They'd worked out all their bad feelings about each
other even before cancer struck Jane—they'd settled their old
accounts. At least, that's what he'd thought until he talked to
Kate. She gave him the impression that Jane was still angry with
him. And his talk on the phone with Victor confirmed it.

    When the taxi dropped him at the door of the hospice, he
hesitated, reluctant to ring the bell and wake the whole place. To
his surprise, a nurse was waiting by the door to let him in. "We
heard the taxi coming," she explained, and went on to say that
Jane was asleep, but her father was expecting him. She led him in.
"I didn't want to upset you," Michael began hesitantly.

    Victor explained that he was only concerned that the rhythm
of Jane's dying shouldn't be disturbed. It was important she
should put her affairs in order. But she was also exhausted, and
in no state to talk any more. "We were relieved that the decision
whether you should come or not was taken from us." Michael
felt even guiltier than before.

    When Victor suggested he could ask the nurses to make up a
bed for him in the visitors' room, Michael refused at first, but
finally consented.

    At six o'clock in the morning Victor knocked on the door to
tell him that Jane was waking up. He must come immediately,
there might be no other chance. Michael went in to see her, but
could make no contact. He spoke to her. She stared straight
ahead, not recognising him, not answering. He held her hand,
but she didn't respond to his touch. Now he could see and be-
lieve that Jane was really dying.

    It's too late, he thought. I came too late. Still, he was glad to
be with her. He waited beside her bed in silence until Victor
took him to breakfast.

    While Adela sat with Jane, she began to come to the surface
again. Adela asked, "Jane, would you like to see Michael? He's
been waiting for hours to see you. He's so patient."

    "Has he been here? I can't remember . . ."

    "He was here with you earlier, but you weren't really awake."

    "Yes." Jane's mind was clearing rapidly. "I'd like him to come.
But don't let anyone else in, will you? I must see him alone—it's
important." She was struggling to wake completely, to talk
clearly.

    The anger had gone. When Michael returned to her bedside,
she didn't speak of the resentment she had mentioned to Kate. 
Instead, she told him she knew how unhappy she had made him
when they were lovers. "I am sorry . . . very sorry."

    They were close to each other again. They said little, but the
meaning behind their words was clear to both. He held her hand.
Their past differences were forgotten; only the understanding
remained.

    When the moment of parting came, Jane watched Michael as
he moved towards the door. Suddenly she asked: "Am I dying?"
She had been so sure her end was near, he thought, and yet it
hadn't come. Now he looked into her large, still luminous eyes
and wondered what she meant.

    It was too much. He could only stammer a quick "Yes," and
rush from the room.

    Adela had kept her eye on the door to make sure no one else
walked in while he was with Jane. She knew that Jane would
want to see her when Michael had left. She would be upset, but
she would prefer to hide it from her parents, as she had done
after Richard had gone. Jane had made it clear she hoped to
spare them as much distress as possible. "They deserve to be
happy," she'd said to Adela a few days before. Now Adela went
quickly into her room to comfort her. "I told him how sorry I
am," Jane said.

    It took some time before Jane had recovered and could once
more present a smiling face to her parents. Victor wanted to be
doing things for her, expressing his love by action.

    "Would you like some music now?" When she nodded, he
put on a tape of one of Mozart's last string quartets, some of the
most serene of all classical music. The notes sounded clear, soft
and gentle, as if falling on the air.

    "How lovely that is." Jane's voice was as quiet as the music.

    "You're making it so beautiful for me to die."

    Rosemary felt that Jane was completely at peace with the
world. She seemed to exist in a timeless state. She would doze,
sleep, wake—all without any knowledge of the passing of time.
She asked, "How long do they think I'll live?" and her question
was calm, dispassionate, with no hint of fear.

    Rosemary answered, "Even if they knew, I don't think it would
mean much to you. You seem to be on a different wavelength
where it doesn't matter what time it is, or what day it is. If they
said, 'Six hours more,' then you might sleep for that six hours and
not know you'd been asleep."

    "I suppose so," she agreed sleepily, drifting off again.
It had been some time since Jane had asked for anything other
than painkillers, cigarettes, or an occasional sip of apple juice.
There seemed to be nothing she felt a need for. But some memory
must have stirred, for she asked, her words soft and slow: "There
is one thing . . . I suppose it's impossible . . ." The voice came as
if she were speaking through a muffling curtain. "You know how
I've always loved velvet? I would like to touch velvet again before
I die. I don't suppose it would be possible . . . ?"

    "Oh yes it will," Adela answered at once. "I'll bring you a
piece when I get back from lunch."

    Jane was content, but "after lunch" wasn't soon enough for
Victor. She should have what she wanted right away. He left the
room and began to ask everyone in sight if there was any velvet in
the building. Maybe someone lived close enough to pop out and
return with a piece? Or was there a shop nearby? Soon everybody
was hunting for velvet. Phone calls were made, trips to the shop-
ping centre, a quick visit to the nurses' living quarters. No hint of
the upheaval came back to Jane, but in a short time, there were
three pieces of velvet for her to choose from. She smiled with
pleasure as Dorothy gave them to her to touch, one by one. She
chose the softest, a small oblong of deep pink silk velvet. Dorothy
laid it on her shoulder so that she could feel its warm texture
against her skin, and there it remained for the rest of her life.
Sue, who had helped Rosemary to find the wild flowers, now
brought a fresh rosebud from her garden. She laid it on the pillow
beside Jane. "It looks so good next to your hair. The colour is
just right for you," she said. The rosebud was a deep, rich red.
"I've always wanted to wear a rose in my hair," Jane murmured,
"but I never quite had the nerve . . ."

    Sue carefully pushed the stem of the flower into her hair, be-
hind the ear, making sure there were no thorns to catch her skin.
From that time on, Jane wore a rose in her hair. When the first
bloom withered, it was replaced. If the nurses had to turn Jane
to keep her circulation going, or to give her an injection or make
her comfortable, they always replaced the rose. The piece of
velvet and the rose were handled with the greatest gentleness and
delicacy, as if nothing in the world was more precious.
Jane spent many hours asleep. When she woke, it was clear
her mind was relaxed and untroubled by nightmares. She spoke
suddenly: "Is that you, Mum?"

    Rosemary moved closer, bending low over the bed in case Jane
could still see something of her face. "Yes, it's me. Dad'11 be back
soon."

    "Lie down on the bed beside me." It was a humble request, not
a command.

    Rosemary longed to hug Jane, to hold her closely again, but
she hesitated. Her body seemed so fragile now, almost soft enough
to be damaged by physical contact. "I don't want to hurt you,"
she said.

    But she reached up and half-lay, half-leaned against the bed, as
close to Jane as she could get. There wasn't room enough for the
two of them to lie side by side on the narrow bed.

    She put her arms loosely round her daughter's still form. Then
Jane moved over her own body slowly and with great difficulty
until she lay even closer to Rosemary. With a gesture slow and
clumsy, but conveying infinite love, she moved a limp arm round
to embrace her mother.

    "I do love you, Mum," she said.

    It was a moment to remember—a time when all the minor dis-
agreements of life, the jealousies, the disappointments and stresses
were swept away and forgotten.

    There had been none of the depth of tension between her and
Jane that had existed between Jane and Victor. She had often
been in the middle, acting as a buffer, trying to explain one to the
other, to bring about mutual understanding. Jane knew Rosemary
didn't take sides between her and Victor, so she hadn't resented
her as a go-between. She had been close to her mother since the
storms of adolescence had died down.

    In the late afternoon, Patricia went to see Jane on her way
home. "I just came in before I went off duty. You may not be
here on Saturday . . . of course, I'd like you to be, but I know
you'll be glad to get it over with . . ." She stumbled slightly, not
knowing quite how to put it into words. "But I did want to say
goodbye properly to you."

    Jane had always valued the affection of family and friends,
even if she'd sometimes rebelled against the disciplines love im-
poses. But to be loved by people who had been, only a week
before, absolute strangers was a constant source of wonder and
happiness. She couldn't thank them enough; she wanted to give
presents to express her own love and gratitude. She tried hard to
make everyone understand how much it meant to her to be in a
place so "good."

    "Once I'd have found that a trite thing to say," she said. "In
fact, all the things that have meant most to me these last months
would have seemed corny or sentimental before I got ill."
Her happiness was clearly apparent. She had no guilt about
being helpless and dependent on others. She had always loved to
give, but she seemed at last to accept that she could now only
receive. Perhaps she realised she could only give by taking—with
gratitude and without guilt. Her needs were fulfilled without
question and without resentment. In return she lavished praise on
everyone who served her, and did so with humility. Perhaps it
was the first time in her life that she didn't feel she had to live
up to someone else's expectations of behaviour or achievement.
Absorbed in the most difficult task of her life, that of dying, she
had no doubts left.

    Rosemary said to David Murray, "I know she's not religious, so
I hesitate to use the words, but it's almost as if she were in a state
of grace."

    "I think you could say that," David agreed.
We no longer felt sickened by the cigarette smoke. All too soon
there would be no more smoke; it seemed impossible that such
a little thing could have upset us so much. But as Jane's weakness
increased, her smoking became even more perilous. Someone
always had to watch the cigarette wobbling insecurely between
her limp fingers, holding the ashtray ready to trap the blocks of
burned ash. But if the sitter's attention was distracted for a mo-
ment, the cigarette might fall, singeing Jane's chest or shoulders.
On one occasion it took several minutes to rescue a glowing stub.
Rosemary told David she was afraid they might burn the place
down.

    "We do have flame-proof sheets," he said, unworried. "But if
you like, we can have a bucket of sand kept outside the door in
case of emergency."

    Victor had another, more serious concern. He spoke to David
privately about it. "What about the death rattle? Isn't that very
alarming? I've read about this horrible noise going on and on."
He feared that Jane, perhaps semi-conscious in her last moments,
might hear her own death rattle and realise what was happening.
"That we can deal with," David answered. "The so-called rattle
is the result of fluid in the back of the throat causing a bubbling,
choking noise. An injection of hyoscene will dry up the secretions
if necessary."

    At five o'clock on the day Jane had said goodbye to Michael,
David went in to see her. Her periods of waking had been shorter,
and further apart. It was many hours since she had last opened
her eyes. She lay still, her breathing light but regular. Now she
was deeply asleep, perhaps unconscious.

    David signalled us to follow him out of the room on to the
terrace.

    He was clearly moved. "She's going, isn't she?"

    There seemed no doubt of it.

    Victor asked unsteadily: "How long do you think she has?"

    "It's hard to say.  Perhaps as little as two hours."
 

    Even now, when Jane gave no sign of hearing what was said, 
none of the hospice staff ever talked as if she were not in the
room. They spoke to her and included her in every conversation.
They told us that sick and dying people often hear quite clearly
what is being said around them, even though they seem uncon-
scious.

    The promise that Jane wouldn't be left alone was easy to keep.
Two old friends who had known her since she was a small child,
and had opened their home to us all when she came back from
Greece, sat with her for long periods. Sometimes we talked, some-
times we sat in silence, not because we felt we shouldn't or
couldn't talk, but because silence was more natural than speech.
The presence of these friends was a great comfort to us, helping
Jane on her last journey. It was a link with all the bedside vigils
of past centuries when relatives and friends silently watched and
waited. It was a reminder that death was inevitable, a natural part
of life's pattern, not an isolated event that was destroying Jane,
but a universal experience.

    David had warned us that, now her bowels were obstructed,
she might start to vomit. This could precipitate her death, but
would make it a horrible event.

    "We must look out for any signs," he said. "Then we'll act to
prevent it with injections."

    We watched Jane with this possibility always in our minds.
Dr. Brown, who had admitted her to the hospice, was back on
duty again. "She looks so peaceful," he said; "we must do our
best to keep her this way." But his words upset Rosemary. They
must succeed in this. There should be no question that Jane must
die in peace. She knew she was being unreasonable, that every-
thing possible would be done. Dr. Brown had not been expressing
any doubt, merely reaffirming an intention.

    Jane continued to lie still, peaceful.
That night Victor stayed with Jane while Rosemary slept in
the visitors' room.

    She woke suddenly in the middle of the night without apparent
reason and, without thinking, got out of bed and walked down
the corridor towards Jane's room. Outside the night was dark and
still; inside, dim lights shone in the nursing station. Both  night
nurses must be busy.

    There was a soft light in the room. Nora and Victor were
bending over Jane.

    He was surprised to see Rosemary. "How extraordinary . . .
Jane's just this minute woken for the first time. Can you hear
what she's trying to say?"

    Rosemary bent over her daughter, afraid that the terrible sick-
ness was on its way. "Darling," she said. "Are you all right?"

    Jane mumbled something indistinct.

    Rosemary spoke more urgently: "Do you feel sick, Jane?"

    Her answer was clearly heard by them all. "Sick—pain," she
said.

    These words were enough, and Nora was ready with the in-
jection. Jane sank once again into a deep sleep.

    The next morning her breathing had changed. There was no
longer a continuous flow of air in and out of her body; one sharp
intake of breath would be followed by a silence lasting several
seconds. Then she would exhale in a long sigh. Although the
period between inhalation and exhalation varied a few seconds
each time, it always seemed interminable. The silence was a
vacuum, a foretaste of death.

    The nurses came regularly to give injections, to move her, to
moisten her mouth. They talked to her even though she was
unconscious, explaining what they were doing in low, calm voices.
The halting breaths dragged on. But the pulse at her neck beat
with surprising vigour.

    Previous mornings had been filled with the daily chores of
cleaning and tidying. Now these activities had ceased. The water
jug had been moved, quietly and without comment, when Jane
stopped drinking. Offers of food had ceased when she didn't want
to eat any more. The cleanliness of her room was no longer im-
portant: dust settled on furniture and floor, and nobody cared.
Jane had priority, not the hospice routine.

    In the silence, broken only by the murmuring voices of the
nurses, it was even more noticeable that the tending of Jane's
body was a form of communication. The moistening of her
mouth, the time taken to rub her body with sweet-smelling lotion,
emphasised the concern of the hospice staff.

    During the day Jane's breathing changed again, growing harsh
and thick, wheezing in and out of her throat with apparent diffi-
culty, making us wonder whether this might not be the beginning
of the death rattle after all. Her face became red and congested,
but her expression remained serene.

    "She has pneumonia," Dr. Brown said. "This will save her."

    What he meant was that pneumonia would help her to die more
quickly. He prescribed drugs to clear her congested lungs. The
possibility of giving antibiotics to prolong her life was never
mentioned. The pulse at her throat still beat strongly. He watched
it with compassion. "That's the penalty of being young. She has
a strong body," he said.

    As we came out of Jane's room, Julia asked, "Perhaps you'd like
to be in with Jane? We're just going to turn her. It's possible that
the fluid on her lungs will shift when we move her. She may go
very suddenly."

    Jane lay as we had left her.

    "We're just going to turn you, Jane," Julia said.

    Her body was limp as they raised it in their arms. We watched
while they laid her gently down in the bed. The heavy breathing
went on; the pulse at her neck beat as strongly as before.

    "It could come at any time," said Julia.

    It was Friday evening—twenty-four hours since David had said
that she might have no more than two hours.

    The bedroom door had developed a harsh squeak every time
anyone came in or out. Rosemary whispered to Elizabeth: "That
door. Have you any oil?"

    Elizabeth nodded and left the room. Again the door shrieked a
hideous protest.

    A few minutes later there was another squeak and Elizabeth
returned with the familiar injection tray.

    "Thank you, Elizabeth." Julia held out her hand for the syringe.
"No, no!" The note of horror in Elizabeth's voice stopped Julia
short, her hand outstretched. "That's not for Jane. It's the oil for
the door!"

    Rosemary hoped that Jane was still able to hear what was going
on. It was the odd spot—the moment of ridicule in the middle of
tragedy—that her daughter would have appreciated.

    Julia and Elizabeth were smiling. "I hope you don't use the
syringe on the patients after this?" Rosemary said.

    "They're usually thrown away. This is an old one," Elizabeth
reassured her in case she really was worried.
Frank, the porter, asked if he could come in to say goodbye.
He stood holding Jane's hand for several minutes, then turned to
us. "Thank you," he said, and left the room in silence.
June in England is a time of long evenings. The light doesn't
fade from the sky until around eleven o'clock. It was midsummer
night. The neo-Druids would be gathering for their vigil on
Stonehenge, waiting for the dawn rays of the sun to rise between
the old stones and strike the place they believe was the ancient
altar
    .
    An old friend, Sue, had come to be with Rosemary. She
stayed late into the night talking while the sound of Jane's harsh
breathing filled the room. They spoke of Jane's childhood and of
the war years. It was strange to remember a time before she had
been born. During the past five months the struggle to cope with
her illness and the fear of defeat had been uppermost in her
mother's mind. Remembering the years before Jane's life had
begun helped Rosemary to deal with the idea of her death.
About two o'clock on Saturday morning, Rosemary pressed
the bell, and Emily, on night duty, was in the room in an instant.
"Her breathing has changed," said Rosemary. "Suddenly . . .
now it's so quiet I can't hear anything unless I get very close." She
watched as Emily leaned over Jane. "Does this mean it's nearly
over?"

    Jane lay like a marble statue of death on a medieval tomb,
white and still. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Her hands
bent at right angles to her wrists. Her breathing was almost in-
audible.

    Emily straightened her back and smiled quietly. "She still has
some way to go."

    As the day began, Jane's quiet breathing persisted. The pulse
at her throat was calmer. It was a surprise to the doctors and
nurses that she struggled on so long, but it wasn't a struggle,
merely a continuing, a going on. There was no hint of pain or
stress. Her face was serene; her limbs seemed completely relaxed.
During the day the outer rim of her lips began to show white.
Then, slowly, this area of pallor increased until her mouth was as
pale as the rest of her face. Only her hair, brows and lashes showed
colour.

    Julia suggested that from now on we should stay in the building.
She arranged to have our lunch brought to the room.

    The last rose of Jane's life was picked from the garden outside
her window. There was only one flower growing in a bed of
neglected bushes. It was a white bloom, just beginning to loosen
from the tight bud, without the slightest flaw on either petals
or leaves. Rosemary cut the stem with surgical scissors. A single
drop of dew lay in the fold of the petals. The bud was pure white,
without a fault, a perfect rose. Too perfect, Jane would have said,
almost too good to be true. Rosemary laid it on Jane's pillow, close
to her face.

    The signs of death were clear. Her flesh was shrinking into itself
more rapidly. Hour by hour her body became softer, thinner,
limper, more fragile; deep lines and white patches showed where
it had rested against the bedding. Talking softly to her as they
turned her over, the nurses rubbed her skin where the patches
showed, soothing the bruised flesh.

    The last time they turned her it was as if there was no life in
her body, no resistance to the pressure of the arms that lifted her.
Victor was on the terrace when Jane's breathing suddenly
changed to a high thin note, infinitely sad and far away. Rosemary
felt she had heard this sound before somewhere. It carried an un-
mistakeable warning. But she hesitated to call Victor.
Then the sound of Jane's breathing changed again. This time it
was low and soft, each breath so light it could scarcely be heard.
Rosemary called Victor.

    We stood on either side of the bed, each holding one of her
hands. As we listened, the breaths came lighter and lighter. Jane's
head moved very slowly, as if reaching up for air, and her eyes
were open a fraction, showing a slit of light.

    Then everything was still. There was nothing more. The pulse
at her throat had ceased.

    We have seen pictures of the dead who died violently—victims
of murder, accident, war. These are the terrible images etched
into our minds: the distorted bodies of those who died in pain and
fear.

    For us, who watched Jane's quiet end, there is a memory of her
still, peaceful face and the warmth of her skin beneath our lips
as we kissed her goodbye. This slow, gentle death was a natural
end to life. The waning of her body was easy to believe and to
accept. Her retreat had been strangely beautiful to watch. We felt
no fear.