A Way to Die: Living to the End

    The next morning we were in the hospice lounge when a
smartly dressed woman, obviously a volunteer, came to tell us
that a church service would be starting in a few minutes. "Some
of our visitors like to attend with the patients. Would you care
to join us? "

    "No, thank you very much," Rosemary said politely.

    When she told Jane about it, her daughter pulled a face. "That's
one event I don't mind missing today."

    Dorothy, one of the nurses, who was washing her, looked up.
"Why, Jane, aren't you religious? "

    "Far from it. I'm an atheist."

    "Me too!" Dorothy said quickly. "I'm glad you're open about
it. We had one man here who felt terribly guilty. He was sur-
prised when I told him I wasn't religious either, and talking about
it seemed to help him forget his guilt."

    "I don't see anything to feel badly about. I just came to the
conclusion that there wasn't a God," Jane said.

    "And you don't mind people knowing?"

    "It doesn't come out unless you know people fairly well. A lot
of them are shocked, and I've known some who thought it was
downright evil not to believe in God."

    Dorothy laughed. "My husband thinks it's arrogant to boast
about being an atheist. But I believe one should be honest. We
brought our children up to make their own choice when they
were old enough."

    Jane closed her eyes as if she had talked enough, but later she
discussed it with Rosemary.

    "I can't believe in any form of life after death although I've
tried hard enough, just as I tried to believe in God, but I simply
can't."

    "I believe in some kind of recycling process," Rosemary said.

    "Nothing in life is wasted, at least not in the physical world. I
don't like the expression 'spiritual,' it's too loaded for me, but for
want of a better word, I feel that the spiritual part of us is in-
destructible and emerges again in some form. I believe nothing is
wasted there, either."

    "I don't think there's anything at all."

    "Just blank?" Rosemary asked. She thought it must be difficult
co contemplate sucn complete emptiness.

    "Just nothing," Jane repeated. Her tone was flat, without
emotion.

    "It would be comforting to be able to believe in God," Rose-
mary said. "I think it must be a great source of strength to many
people."

    "I think so, too," Jane said calmly. "I do envy people with
that certainty. It must be terrific to have a sense of being sup-
ported, with a nice, safe pattern to follow."

    "On the other hand," Rosemary said, "something like this is
easier to bear—for me, anyway—when you can feel that the course
of events isn't being directed from on high, but is completely
impersonal, something that just happens. I don't feel it's a ques-
tion of malice. I believe that ill fortune just hits us, rather than
being a punishment for bad behaviour or for not praying often
or sincerely enough."

    Jane agreed. "Wouldn't it be grim to contemplate a universal
God arranging everything so that only certain people had it
good? Awful to think you only got rewarded if you kept up a
continual request for favoured treatment and behaved according
to protocol." She smiled. "Do you remember when things were
really bad early in my illness, and so many people said they were
praying for me? More people than I'd ever have expected . . ."

    Her smile broadened as she enjoyed a private joke.  I used
to think sometimes that the reason I wasn't getting any better was
precisely because all these people were praying for me!"
Rosemary laughed. "Yes, I can imagine God saying in answer
to their prayers, 'No, not that one, not on any account!' It's a
terrible impression of a vengeful and rather petty Almighty."
"Of course, one never knows for sure, but I'm pretty certain
there's just nothing," Jane reiterated.

    Victor came in just in time to hear this last remark and won-
dered whether she was in fact wavering in her atheism. Was she
thinking that the time had come to take out an insurance policy?
He remembered how she had believed very strongly in child-
hood that religion would be the core of her life. She was about
ten at the time. She read whatever she could find about Jesus-
there wasn't much at home, but she brought books from school.
She prayed long and hard, and attended class at a local Prot-
estant church to learn about the Christian faith. She listened,
asked questions, and apparently found what she was told accept-
able and satisfying. She decided to join the church. Then, a few
days before the christening ceremony, she suddenly announced
she had changed her mind. We insisted that she carry out her
commitment and go through with the ceremony; it was too late to
cancel. We didn't ask for her reason. A crisis of faith seemed
unlikely in a ten-year-old. She must learn to keep her commit-
ments, that was what mattered. Jane protested vigorously, but we
were firm.

    On the morning of the christening she was silent and sullen. She
went through the motions at church and then returned home.
She never attended a service again. We had often wondered
guiltily whether it was our insistence on the christening that had
swung her so sharply and completely away from religion. Was it
conceivable that she might now revert to her early faith?
Victor felt himself on tricky ground. It was of no account to
him at that moment whether there was a God or not; what was
important was that if Jane wanted to find God now, she should
be helped to do so. He thought he shouldn't approach the subject
directly. It would be best to get Jane to recall her childhood
experience, perhaps to relive it.

    "We've managed to sort out some of our early disagreements,"
he began. "But there was one fight when I behaved particularly
badly."

    "Now you make me feel guilty," she said with a grin, "talking
about your guilt. That's not the object of the exercise. You're
supposed to be making me feel good!"

    "Will it help if I tell you I'm sorry for something we did when
you were ten?"

    "It depends . . ."

    He recalled the drama of her christening. But he dwelt most on
how completely she had become absorbed in religion at the begin-
ning, on the joy it had given her.

    "When I was growing up," he said, "I promised myself that if
I ever had children, I'd never treat them as badly as my parents
behaved to me. I remember swearing that adults never under-
stand, but I would be different."

    "Every child does that, Dad."

    "Did you?"

    "Oh yes, many times."

    "Were we as bad as that to you?"

    "Now you're fishing."

    "Was that one of the times? The christening?

    "I don't remember," she said quickly. Her tone and expression
made it quite clear she didn't want to talk about it.
Later, Victor tried to approach the subject from a different
angle, recalling how he, too, had lost his faith at about the same
age. He had begun to doubt God's existence, and had then chal-
lenged Him: "If You're there, You'll punish me for such sinful
thoughts." When no punishment followed, he declared himself
an atheist. "But that was rather childish," he admitted.
It wasn't unique, Jane said, warming to the subject. She told
him how her grandmother, Rosemary's mother, who had died
when Jane was seventeen, had decided to find out about the
mighty and terrible God for herself. "She went and stood in the
middle of a very large field, and said 'Damn,' but very softly,
because she'd been told that God heard and saw everything and
no sin went unpunished. She stood there, waiting to be struck
down by a thunderbolt. Nothing happened. She said, 'Damn,'
again, louder this time, in case God had been busy with some-
thing else and had missed it. Again nothing happened, so she
shouted it aloud: 'Damn!' More silence. That convinced her that
God couldn't exist. She told me it was all rather an anticlimax."
This was the opening Victor wanted. "But Granny gave me the
impression of being a religious person."

    "She didn't think much of the clergy."

    "Which was just as well. She had no strong feelings about a
church wedding for your mother, and my Jewish God might have
taken offence at that."

    "Yes, Granny worked out her own brand of religion, which
excluded the church and priests. She believed in the precepts of
the Bible, if not the story."

    "I think she found it very comforting. Many people do."

    "Yes, I would, too, if I could believe."

    Victor pressed on. "But I don't see much difference between
your way of life, your ethics, and those of the Christian religion,
or any other religion for that matter. In a way, you're a very
religious person, Jane. Not unlike Granny, and she regained her
early faith, as so many other people do."

    "No, Dad, it's no good. I can't believe if it's not in me. I know
you're trying to help, but I can do without that kind of assist-
ance."

   That same morning, Rosemary fetched herself something to eat
in the staff kitchen, which was also available to relatives. She sat
down beside a man in brown overalls who was finishing a cup of
coffee. "Excuse me," he asked, "how did your daughter sleep?"
"Very well, thanks," Rosemary said, touched by this friendly
interest from a stranger
.
    "I was there when they brought her in." He looked at her
sadly. "I thought about her all night."

    "You work here?"

    "That's right. I'm kept busy moving stores, helping move
patients."

    He must be the porter, she thought, but he didn't sound like
one, more like a partner with pride in his firm, as he told her:

    "I'm happier working here than I've ever been in my life before.
When I leave, I've done what's a worthwhile day's work, and it's
real, it's human beings I'm dealing with."

    It was indeed Frank, the porter. He visited all the patients
every day, stopping to talk to those who felt like it, offering to
run errands and finding out if there was anything he could do to
make the day pleasanter for them. Later, Jane was to have long
talks with him.

    Jane meanwhile was turning down a bath. She hadn't improved
that much.

    "We have special apparatus here that lifts you into the bath
and raises you out again when we've washed you," Julia told her.

    "You won't have to move or do anything."
Jane looked regretful. Bathing had been one of life's pleasures
for her. "I'm sorry . . . I don't think I can handle it. . . ."

    "Don't let it worry you. I'll pop in again in about an hour. You
may feel more rested then."

    But the answer was still No. "I'm sorry. I really can't."

    "Then we'll give you a blanket bath instead."
Jane relaxed.

    Rosemary returned, grateful that Julia had been so understand-
ing and that Jane hadn't needed her support. It had been very
different in the hospital, she told Julia. "We often felt that some
of the doctors didn't really believe Jane felt as much pain as
she said she did."

    "It's not easy to understand what another person is suffering,"
Julia said.

    "Jane's face was always bright and healthy-looking. She didn't
look seriously ill. You couldn't actually see her pain. I kept telling
people she was far sicker than she looked, but they probably
thought I was just being over-protective."
A faint voice came from the bed. "Be fair, Mum. Most of the
nurses were very good to me. They were often just too busy
when I desperately needed someone to talk to, especially at night."

    "You won't be alone here," said Julia firmly. "I remember a
quote from somewhere that stuck in my mind because it sums up
what I think about pain. 'Pain is what the patient says he feels.' "

    A group of Jane's friends came from London to see her. There
was Michael, Jane's old love, and Kate, with her vivid red curls
and lively face—both had been among Jane's most frequent visitors.
The other two, Ruth and Dick, she had known only since her
illness. She would probably find four of them too much on one
afternoon, they explained, but they had wanted to come. Victor
warned them they must be careful not to tire her. She didn't
have much more time. Nobody knew how long—weeks rather
than months, according to the doctors.

    The four friends, all about Jane's age, were appalled. Weeks
rather than months? They couldn't absorb emotionally what they
had known for a long time intellectually. They had been only
too ready to deceive themselves; they had come to cheer her up,
as they'd done so often before, in so many different hospitals.
One went to a hospital to be cured. Jane was their contemporary.
To think of her death made them feel mortal, too.

    "She knows it won't be long now," Victor explained, "and
she's quite reconciled to it. But she needs your help. Don't pretend
that nothing's happening. If she wants to talk about her death,
let her. Don't deny it."

    Michael was the first of the four to go in. He refused to accept
Victor's prognosis. He was still determined that Jane should
fight for her life. He worked again, as he did when he used to
visit her in the hospital, to steer her towards the world of the
living—ignoring the signs, her great weakness, her indifference to
his conversation, and what Victor had told him of her rapidly
deteriorating condition. He couldn't accept that she was going to
die of cancer so soon.

    He talked to her of politics, and of his own involvement in a
strike at a local factory, where passions had risen so high that
the police had been brought in to control the pickets. Once he
and Jane had been politically involved together. Surely she would
be interested in his story. He explained that as a local Labour
Party member he had been asked to support the pickets, but fight-
ing had broken out at the factory gates. The police made many
arrests, and he too had been detained.

    Jane didn't respond, but Michael persisted, trying hard to get
her attention. He gave a blow-by-blow account of the fight at the
picket line and of his arrest. He told of his anxieties about the
forthcoming court case. It seemed as if she could hardly hear what
he was saying. Perhaps it was the dope, he thought.
Victor's arrival with lunch was a welcome diversion. He could
see that Michael and his daughter were not on the same wave-
length, and tried to find a way to bring them together again. He
remembered them as young lovers at the university, each so
absorbed in the other that the rest of the world hardly existed
for them. He handed Michael a plate. "Would you help Jane
with this?"

    Very carefully, Michael fed her small teaspoonfuls from the
plate, trying to persuade her to eat. But Jane refused to make
the effort. Again he attempted to catch her interest, to involve
her in the outside world. He told her how worried he was that
a police record might harm his career. She failed to respond.
"Come on, now," he urged her. "Have another bite. It'll help
you to get better."

    "No." Her voice was weak but the tone was final. "I don't
want any."

    Victor's intervention hadn't helped. Now he must extricate
Michael without hurting his feelings. He told him that Jane must
have a rest, then it would be Kate's turn. Michael came away
painfully aware of his failure to make contact with Jane, but still
hoping it was only a temporary setback. Perhaps she would be
in better shape when he returned in a few days.

    Kate saw immediately how much weaker Jane was, but she
greeted her warmly, hiding her shock. Dorothy brought in the
mashed banana and milk Jane liked, and Jane introduced the two
women, an old friend and a new one. "I'm proud of my friends,
Dorothy," she said. "I can see you've cause to be," Dorothy
responded. "There's a whole bunch of them in the hall waiting
to see you. Now, would you like a hot drink or some ice
cream?"

    "No, thanks very much. But I did eat some of my beans."
Jane spoke as if she'd done enough. She didn't want the banana,
but she didn't like to hurt Dorothy's feelings. When Dorothy
left the room, she asked Kate to put the food aside; she might
be able to eat it later.

    "How are you feeling? Any better?" Kate asked quietly.
"Not really. The pain was pretty awful when they brought me
here, but it's not so bad now." She went on almost casually: "I
don't think it's going to be long before I die." Then, before Kate
could answer, she asked: "Who else came today? Michael would
only talk about his strike."

    "Dick and Ruth are here, but they told me to tell you it's all
right if you're too tired. We came to find out how you were and
if you felt like seeing us .  . ." She broke off, then began again,
trying to sound more everyday, more normal. "Nice place here,
isn't it? So friendly . . ."

    Jane's attention had wandered. Now she focused on the moment
again. "Did you say Ruth? I'd love to see her, could she come
in too?"

    Ruth, a comparative newcomer to Jane's circle of friends,
walked in uneasily, not sure whether she should intrude. As
she took Jane's hand, she noticed how fragile it had become,
almost too frail to stand the pressure of her own healthy fingers.
She wondered how much Jane knew about her slowly developing
relationship with Michael. Ruth had sensed many times over the
past few months that Jane was aware of what was happening
even before they were themselves. She held the thin hand shyly
for a moment, then released it.

    "Please don't take your hand away, Ruth. Tell me what's been
happening."

    As she talked, Ruth began to relax. She took turns with Kate,
feeding the mashed banana to Jane with a teaspoon. "It's a bit like
feeding a baby," Jane remarked with some embarrassment, ges-
turing weakly to the huge white napkin Dorothy had wrapped
round her neck and shoulders to protect her from drips and
splashes. They lifted her head slightly; it didn't seem to hurt.
They took a long time over the job, but Ruth noticed how little
Jane actually ate.

    "What I'd really like is not more food, but someone to move
my legs. They feel very strange these days."

    Her feet were even weaker than her hands. Kate tried to rub
some life into them.

    Jane thanked her, adding hesitantly: "I'm so happy that I have
such good friends. You must think I sound sloppy today, but
that's the way I feel."

    Kate was deeply moved. Jane had managed to put a wealth
of meaning into a few words. She was too weak to say much,
but her brief remark recalled their happy times together, how
close they had become, and seemed a reminder of the change
that was occurring in Jane. Yes, it did sound sentimental, quite
unlike the Jane she had known; but then, she had a right to
express her feelings.

    Kate fought to control herself. "Let's all have a cigarette,"
she said.

    The three women smoked together. Kate and Ruth were aware
how strong and healthy they must look to Jane, but as time
went by her attitude helped them to forget the contrast. She
had a look of complete serenity which, although it was hard to
understand, calmed them. Only then did Jane say quietly, almost
with contentment: "The doctors think it won't be long before
I die."

    Kate was convinced Jane wasn't just pretending for their sake.
She thought, Jane really means it, she's telling us she can take
it—but can I?

    Ruth concentrated on holding the ashtray to catch the ash that
spilled from Jane's cigarette, sagging forgotten between limp
fingers. When Jane did remember, she had difficulty controlling
it as she lifted it to and from her mouth. Finally she dozed off
with the cigarette still in her hands. Both friends wondered
what to do. Let her sleep, Ruth signalled. Kate gently eased the
cigarette out of Jane's fingers.

    Soon Jane opened her eyes again. Slowly she raised her hand
towards her mouth, as if continuing the motion begun when
she had dropped off, and seemed surprised to find it empty.

    "Where's my cigarette?"

    For Ruth, this was the moment when she could take no more.
She got up to go.

    If Jane noticed her distress, she gave no sign. She just said,

    "I'm glad I knew you, Ruth. I'd like to see you again. If I can't
make it, then I'd like to say goodbye . . ."
Ruth kissed her quickly and left the room. She realised now
that Jane sensed how things were between her and Michael,
and that she was happy about it.

    Left alone with Jane, Kate had to struggle not to break down.
When Jane, speaking very deliberately, offered Kate one of her
shawls, her friend couldn't maintain her careful casualness. "No,
no, you really don't need to think about that," she protested.

    "You always liked the material," Jane persisted, "remember?"
Kate couldn't answer. She wondered how Jane, so close to dying,
could think of giving presents.

    Rosemary looked in at this point to make sure Jane wasn't get-
ting too tired and heard the conversation. "I think Jane would
really like you to have the shawl, Kate. We've been talking a lot
about the presents she wants to give her friends. It means a great
deal to her."

    Fighting to control herself, Kate managed to say: "Well, in that
case—I'd love it. It's beautiful. Thank you, Jane."
 

    When Jane's friends left the hospice, they went to a nearby
pub on the river, too upset to go home. It was a grey day, cold
and oppressive. The gloomy weather accentuated the sadness of
the parting. They talked about Jane, wanting to save her, to
protect her. Each of them knew that whatever they had given
her in the past, either separately or together, could never have
been enough to prove their love for her. Now it was too late to
do any more. They felt totally helpless.

    Jane, too, was thinking sadly of her friends, especially Michael.
She alternated between irritation that he had talked only about
his strike when they had so little time together and acute anxiety
that he was in real trouble.

    "Michael kept on and on about the pickets," she muttered to
her mother. "As if I care."

    Then again, after an interval of dozing: "Mum, I wish you'd
find out what's happening at Michael's house. I'm worried. I
can't help feeling he's in danger. He may be arrested."

    "Try not to worry, darling. He's on bail and you can be ab-
solutely sure he won't risk getting arrested again."
"But you don't realise what it's like, Mum. There are people
who live in the area who don't like them. They might make
trouble."

    "What kind of trouble? It's a very quiet neighbourhood."
Rosemary tried to get Jane's fears out into the open.
"There could be a brick through the window, something like
that. I've got this feeling that bad things are happening."
Jane calmed down only when Richard told her he had phoned
Michael and all was well. She knew Richard would give her
the unvarnished truth, good or bad.

    The rest of the family went back to Dairy Cottage, and Rose-
mary was left alone with Jane until the following evening.
After they had gone, Rosemary was overcome by a sense of isola-
tion and depression. Richard was soon to return to America, and
the family was divided about this decision. The hospice, normally
so homelike, seemed totally deserted; the other visitors had long
since gone home and the nurses were all attending to the patients.
She was concerned that she would find it difficult to hide her low
spirits from Jane. But she needn't have worried. Jane was talking
happily to Sarah, a different nurse, who was busy making her as
comfortable as possible for the night.

    When Jane was settled, Sarah turned to her mother. Had she
enough bedding—another pillow, maybe? Would she like a hot
drink? She must be sure to help herself to anything she wanted
from the kitchen in the night, Sarah insisted.

    From the room next door came the sound of voices: "Would
you like sherry tonight, Mr. Dick, as a change from your usual?"

    "No thanks, Sister. I'll stick to my brandy."

    It sounded more like a nightcap at home than the distribution
of drugs from the late night medicine trolley.
We had got through another day, and Jane was comfortable
and content.