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Seven
Jane's return coincided with the start of a
long holiday week-
end, part of the British Royal Jubilee celebration. The Queen
was to light a huge bonfire on the grounds of Windsor Castle,
which was only a few miles from Dairy Cottage. It would be the
signal for thousands of bonfires to be lit throughout the country.
On the patch of common land at the end of the lane near Dairy
Cottage a towering pile of wood had been collected in readiness.
Perhaps Jane would feel well enough to watch the flames. She
had always loved a bonfire.
Victor went to the hospital earlier in the
day to check that
she was ready. The rest of the family were sitting on the terrace
when we heard a noise from Victor's room. He had gone upstairs
to change without even telling us he was home. When he joined
us, he was obviously making an effort to appear normal.
"You're back early," Rosemary said carefully.
"Is anything
wrong?"
"No, nothing's wrong." He sounded angry.
"I don't believe you."
"All right, then," he burst out suddenly. "It
was a disaster.
Jane threw me out. She screamed at me, the little bitch. Everyone
in the ward could hear!"
They absorbed this in silence. Then Richard
asked, "Do you
think she'll come home tonight?"
"Frankly, just at this moment I don't particularly
care."
Rosemary tried to soothe him. "It must have been rough. You
shouldn't have been on your own."
Victor looked down to the pond where Arloc
was playing in
the boat. "Don't worry, I'll get over it," he said.
The sunny afternoon passed slowly. We heard nothing from
Jane, although she was physically capable of making her way
to the phone in the hall. If she felt too ill, she could have asked
one of the other patients to call,
Friends had offered to drive her home in the
evening while we
were busy with last-minute preparations for her return, but by
nine o'clock there was still no Jane and no news. It was getting
dark when at last we heard the sound of a car in the drive. We
rushed to the door to see Jane coming slowly down the garden
path ahead of her friends. She was wearing her bright Indian
waistcoat and smiling cheerfully. Although she was obviously
tired, she didn't look desperately ill. There was colour and life
in her face, almost a brightness. She held up a small bottle. "Tanya
gave me this for the journey," she said with a laugh. "She says
vodka helps her when she's in pain." She kissed us all, including
Victor, as if nothing had happened. Her outburst at the hospital
seemed trivial. All that mattered was that Jane had come home.
The journey and the excitement had wearied her, and she was
soon ready for bed in the little room at the end of the house on the
ground floor. It was quiet there, far away from the noises of the
rest of the house, and next to a bathroom. There would be no
stairs to climb, and she would feel close to the garden—her bed
was pulled right up against one of the windows.
"You've made the room look lovely, Mum," she
exclaimed.
There were flowers on the table by her bed, flowers on the desk
beside her woven baskets and wooden boxes, flowers on the win-
dowsill beside her. Thick rugs lay on the floor and heavy curtains,
striped in the earthy colours she loved, hung at the windows. "I
never saw before what a beautiful room this is," she said, looking
round at everything and then staring out at the dark woods for
a few moments before settling back on her pillows with a sigh of
relief. She was soon asleep that night.
The next morning Jane dressed and tried hard
to be a normal
member of the family. She went into the dining room for break-
fast with the rest of us, but even a soft folding chair proved too
uncomfortable. She retreated to the sitting room sofa, but was
unable to arrange her limbs without discomfort. She tried to use
her stereo, but could lift only one record at a time from the pile
and had difficulty finding what she wanted. Rosemary offered to
help her. At first Jane wouldn't say what she was looking for.
Only when it was clear that the search was proving too difficult
did she admit that she had been trying to find Faure's Requiem.
She thought it might upset me, flashed through Rosemary's mind
as she put the record on. But it was Jane who couldn't listen
for long. "Switch it off," she said. "It's too sad."
Just before noon the person we had all been
waiting for—Julian
Sullivan—arrived. He talked to Jane alone. Richard no longer
insisted on being present. We waited on the terrace with Jo, a
friend who had come to cut Jane's hair. It proved to be a long
wait. We sat in silence much of the time, wondering what was
being said. At last the doctor came out alone to join us.
He said quietly, "She was rcady so I told her. She accepted it
easily."
We all had the same question: How long?
He could only venture a guess—maybe six months.
There was nothing more to be said. He left quickly so we could
go to Jane.
We found her on the sofa, crying a little but
in control of the
despair she must have felt. One by one, we kissed her and she
returned our embraces, weeping but not breaking down. There
was no drama, no great climax to the months of uncertainty, of
family argument and friction.
Victor asked what the doctor had told her.
"He said I should expect less rather than more time. Now
every day will be a bonus." Her voice was calm, as calm as the
doctor's had been.
She made it sound so simple, so direct; but
it hadn't been quite
like that, as Dr. Sullivan told us later. He had led the conversa-
tion carefully, letting her ask the questions and giving her the
kind of answers that would encourage her to probe more deeply
if she wanted to-or to avoid the issue. "We walked our
way
around it," he said. "I was trying to feel her out, leaving it to her
to ask, 'Tell me more.' "
He knew she was worried about the radiation,
and explained
that the radiotherapy was treating the spread of the disease in
her bone in an attempt to relieve the pain. He was being op-
timistic. But if she listened carefully, she would hear that his ex-
pectations were strictly limited, that he was promising only an
alleviation of her symptoms, no more. Jane picked up every
nuance, and pressed him to be more direct. For once she was
not preoccupied with the pain.
"How do I know if it's doing me any good? If
it's worth
having?"
He realised that he could take it a little
further, be more specific.
They expected to ease her pain, he repeated, but no one really
knew how well the treatment would work. If the radiation did
bring relief, that would be a sign that the cancer cells were being
killed off. "At least some of them," he added, almost as an after-
thought. "The most active ones . . .''
"And if the pain continues? "
Now he knew they were on thin ice. He had in
fact anticipated
this question, and already answered it, at least by implication.
So he could be even more direct. "If it doesn't work, then we'll
wonder if it has done any good."
He still wasn't taking away all hope, and he
never would. Now
that they understood each other, they no longer beat about the
bush.
"We both knew that we were talking about dying,"
he told us.
"Neither of us had used the word, and I had made sure that I'd
left her a thread of hope, the possibility that the treatment might
do some good. In my mind I knew that there was no such thread,
but if she wanted to cling to hope, she could. Instead, she made
it clear that she wanted to be realistic, and we no longer needed to
walk around it."
He felt her relief, and now he could share
in it. With this clarity
between them, she could restate her question and be sure of a
clear answer.
"If the pain comes back, what am I to expect?"
Jane had been in pain before and after radiation. She was
really asking what the failure of the radiation to stop the pain
meant.
Dr. Sullivan felt she was asking him how long
she had, and he
replied immediately, almost abruptly, because this was not the
time for evasion. That was when he told her, "You'd probably
have six months," and left, so that Jane and the family might at
last share the truth, and the grief, in private.
But having accepted death, Jane turned back
to life.
"We'll try to make it as good a time for you
as we can," Rose-
mary said. Other promises had been broken in the course of her
illness. Rosemary hoped she would be able to keep this one.
Jane glanced at Jo, who had withdrawn into the background.
"Will you cut my hair now? It looks so foul and I'd like to be
respectable again." She ~gave precise instructions, knowing that
her friend would do what she wanted. "Very short," she said. "It
looks so straggly. It badly needs a wash, too." She seemed to be
doing her best to avoid an emotional scene. The rest of us watched
in silence as the haircutting started and the two friends began to
gossip as if it were an ordinary day. Jane laughed as Jo described
her children's antics. The tension eased a little and slowly we all
relaxed. It was clear that Jane wasn't going to pieces. Now we
could be completely frank with her and live whatever time she
had left in truth.
Richard went to Arloc in the garden to tell
him that Jane now
knew she was dying. The boy's reaction was matter-of-fact. "She
knew already," he said. No, he hadn't talked about it with her. "It
was something that was there."
When Jane's haircut was finished to her satisfaction,
she said,
"Now that I know I haven't got much time left, I want to enjoy
every day, and I'd like you to help me. For a start," she added,
let's go round the garden.'
Arloc fetched her stick and we set off on a
tour. At first Jane
walked with her arm through Rosemary's, but when they reached
the terrace she took it away. She rested her weight deliberately
on her stick, testing the extent of her independence. It worked.
Then, very slowly, she dragged herself round the garden. She
walked carefully, head down, watching for obstacles or uneven
ground that might upset her precarious balance.
She must have worked it all out for herself.
It couldn't have
been an instant, instinctive reaction to what the doctor had told
her—this calm, this acceptance. She had often thought in past
months of the possibility of dying. She must have decided that
when she knew for certain, she would face it, accept it, and extract
what happiness she could from the remainder of her life. Did she
also realise how much she would share that happiness with others?
Jane appeared quite unworried during that walk, aware only
of the beauty of the garden. She stopped at the edge of the pond
and stood for a long time leaning on her stick. The surface was
covered by a solid green carpet of duckweed that cut off the
life-giving light from the water beneath. We wondered what she
was thinking as she stared into the dead pond.
Then she walked through the part of the garden
she had always
lingered over, through the old avenue of yew trees that stopped
short at the fence. Those trees must have been planted for some
special purpose, perhaps to make a grand entrance to a long dead
house. There was a carpet of yew needles beneath the darkness
of the branches where no plants grew and no rain penetrated. Jane
walked very slowly, her head always down. To see anything above
ground level, she had to stop and steady herself before looking
up. This dry place beneath the old trees was full of memories for
her—evening picnics by a fire, building and firing primitive kilns
for simple pots, times of solitude and times of companionship.
Part of her life had been spent here. It was as if she were drawing
strength from these memories. Or was she saying goodbye?
"If you have the energy, you shouldn't miss a particularly fine
rose by the French windows," Rosemary said gently.
The rose had opened from its first tight red bud and was at its
most beautiful. Jane put her nose close to it.
"That's certainly a five-star rose," she said.
She had a brief rest and then took part in
a tree-planting cere-
mony. She had got Richard and Arloc to buy her a Victoria plum
tree for Rosemary's birthday and they had dug a deep hole beside
the stump of a cherry tree. They had put peat in the bottom,
then Arloc brought the hose and soaked it with water. By the
time Jane made her slow, careful way up the garden path, all was
ready. She leaned heavily on her stick while the plum tree was
planted and the soil shovelled in, then watched as the rest of us
trampled it down. When the slight young tree had been tied to
its supporting stake, Victor opened a bottle of champagne. We
drank a ceremonial toast—to the tree and to Jane.
Before going back into the house, she took a last look at the
garden, as if she realised she was seeing it for the last time.
We found it surprisingly easy to talk to her, as if all barriers
had been removed. To Richard, she confided that she'd known
everyone was stringing her along. She'd minded at the time, but
it was over now.'She harboured no ill-will, she had no reproaches
for anyone. When Rosemary pressed her not to return to the
hospital, she said: No, she must go back and finish the radiation.
It did seem to be easing her pain somewhat.
"Oh, Jane. That awful chemotherapy you went
through, all
those treatments. If only we'd known what was going to happen,
you could have been spared so much misery."
"Don't worry, Mum," she said. "If I hadn't
had them, I'd never
have known whether they might not have cured me." Her words
were comforting, but the tone of her voice, the expression on her
face, said much more. Once again she could cope with what was
happening to her.
They could see the jubilee bonfires glowing
in the sky, but the
celebrations seemed irrelevant. Jane lay in bed, too tired to visit
the local bonfire.
Four days later, she went back to the hospital.
In one hand she
carried Tanya's bottle of vodka, refilled, in the other a letter
written by Victor to the doctor who had urged them not to tell
Jane what was happening. Victor made it clear that Jane now
knew she was dying and that the family wanted her to leave the
hospital as soon as her radiation treatment was over.
At the hospital our decision was accepted without any discus-
sion. Jane was told that the treatment, which had been planned
to extend over two to three weeks, would now be compressed
into three days. But they didn't speak to her about what she
knew; the taboo remained in force.
Richard and Rosemary went to the hospital to
bring Jane home
on a day of torrential rain. The roads were choked with traffic,
and visibility was down to a few yards. They dreaded the return
journey under such conditions, knowing that every bump in the
road would hurt her.
The hospital, as always, was briskly anonymous,
but Jane was
cheerful when Rosemary arrived for her. She had somehow man-
aged to get on most of her clothes unaided. She'd also assembled
her few belongings from the locker and was now lying back,
exhausted. Rosemary pulled on Jane's socks and long boots. They
were both keen to escape as quickly as possible.
Walking proved difficult, even with a stick
and Rosemary's
support. "No wheelchair," Jane said firmly. She said goodbye to
the other patients as they passed through the ward. "I must say
goodbye to the staff, especially the nurses." Earlier the ward had
been full of doctors and nurses, busy with the morning routine,
but now none were to be seen. When they reached the passage,
they found that, too, was empty. Nor were there any nurses in
the other ward. This was rare.
"I did want to see them," Jane said. They shuffled
laboriously
back and Jane asked the other patients to make her farewells.
"Tell them I'd like to have thanked them for all they did for me,"
she said. Then she leaned on Rosemary and moved slowly towards
the exit. She didn't say anything on the way out, but she looked
upset. Later she told us why: not a single nurse had come to say
goodbye. They all knew she was leaving the hospital that day.
Perhaps they hadn't been able to face her, especially as she now
knew the truth.
Richard brought the car as close to the entrance
as possible.
We helped her into the back seat, already piled with cushions
and rugs. She leaned back and closed her eyes.
"I'll try to drive round the bumps, Jane,"
said Richard, easing
into the driving seat.
"Don't worry, Rich. I'm really comfortable."
Suddenly all the difficulties and delays seemed to be behind
them. The traffic was light, the rain eased off and the sky light-
ened. Richard drove with great care and Jane did not complain.
She lay with her eyes closed until the car pulled up before Dairy
Cottage. Then she opened them and said: "That's the easiest drive
I've had since my shoulders got bad. Thanks."
The first morning she talked or getting up.
But I reel so weak,
she said, "so worn out . . ." She stayed in bed and slept a lot.
We thought it was the journey that had worn her out, but the
next day she was again too exhausted to leave her bed.
"It's the radiation," Rosemary told her. "You're
bound to feel
tired after such a big dose. You'll be better tomorrow."
She didn't feel better the following day, but in spite of her
exhaustion, it was a good time. She was glad to be home. When
she said she was happy, it was easy to believe it. Her face reflected
the pleasure she took in being alive; her calm manner and affec-
tionate ways seemed to show her inner contentment. The sense
that we might be losing her soon made the experience of the pres-
ent far richer, even when we shared tears.
Jane could talk to her family again, to each
member separately
or to all together. The estrangement from her parents was in the
past. Her relationship with each of us was a different experience,
and her reactions to us varied accordingly. She might smile toler-
antly at parental density or obstinacy, but there were no rows
now. no cold silences.
We talked again about the possibility of her
going into
hospice at some future time, but each of us felt differently on the
issue. Richard insisted she should be admitted as soon as possible;
Rosemary wasn't convinced that Jane would be happy there; and
Victor, pulled between them, wavered and changed his mind from
day to day. Jane would agree with each in turn. She needed to feel
close to us all and could not risk being isolated from anyone.
Richard was perhaps the most relieved. He felt that his long
struggle had been vindicated by Jane's easy acceptance of the
truth. Rosemary was reassured because her early attitude to Jane's
possible suicide was also vindicated by a conversation her daughter
reported. Jane said she'd raised the subject of an overdose with
Dr. Sullivan. He'd looked at her seriously and told her: "If you
do that, Jane, then I shall know that I have failed you."
She now knew that her painkillers wouldn't
be rationed. This
doctor wouldn't expect her to be stoic and endure, but would
help her all he could. Secure in this trust, Jane never spoke of tak-
ing her own life again.
We planned for a long time ahead. It was the
second week in
June, and Dr. Sullivan said she might still be with us at Christmas.
Richard helped organise the house so that Rosemary would have
the minimum of work to do. We bought labour-saving gadgets
and a capacious deep freeze which we filled with food. There
would be no worry about preparing meals. Jane's friends could
be properly fed when they came to see her. Richard and Arloc
went to Infinity in Brighton to obtain special vegetarian foods.
The staff there took the trouble to help and also sent a large
present of apple juice, which became Jane's standard drink.
Arloc was a frequent visitor to Jane's room. He came and went
when he felt like it, sometimes settling to talk for a long time,
sometimes just popping in and out. He was the moving spirit
behind the construction and maintenance of a bird table outside
her window. Victor helped with the basic structure, but the boy
added many improvements as the days went by. Jane watched
the procession of bird life with joy and fascination for hours on
end. She was concerned that the small birds should get their share
without being driven away by larger birds of squirrels, so im-
provised food containers were strung from a nearby tree. The
squirrels were particularly clever, and Arloc worked hard to keep
one step ahead of them, although it was their cunning in reaching
the apparently unreachable that gave Jane the most pleasure. Soon
it became difficult to meet the demand. Arloc put out all the left-
overs, then robbed the pantry for nuts and raisins. A failed batch
of bread was a feast one day, beans from a broken jar were soaked
until soft and put out for a special treat the next. Jane enjoyed
herself, forgetting all the claustrophobic months in the hospital.
"Look," she would exclaim, "a greenfinch . . . asparrow."
Arloc helped install an elaborate intercom
system so that Jane
could call if she needed help or company. The wires trailed
through the house, round pictures, over door frames. We fixed
an extension in the pottery so that, when Jane had settled down,
Rosemary would be able to work with an easy mind knowing she
could be summoned if necessary.
In the hospital Jane had been given a pepper
plant by one of her
friends, and she said she would have liked to feel that she had a
garden of her own growing. We installed a vegetable garden in
peat bags outside the sitting room window where she could see it.
The plant was joined by tomatoes and runner beans. Once again
Jane had a garden of her own.
Rosemary wished she didn't have to spend so
much time on
chores, but the house wouldn't run itself. She knew Victor and
Jane needed time together, and between mother and daughter
there was no unfinished business. Yet no human relationship is
ever as full as it could be, and when time is short, it is heartbreak-
ing to feel that any of it is wasted. None of us knew how little
time Jane had left.
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