Intensive care: Barrie Mahoney from the chemotherapy treatment room

‘I had just witnessed a wonderful example of love and care.’

Maybe it’s time to put your affairs in order?’ is a form of words with which many patients with a terminal diagnosis are familiar. It is intended to give the broadest possible indication to the patient that they have limited time left. I have witnessed these words being said to patients a number of times, and often wished that I hadn’t intruded upon this most personal of conversations. In reality, it is often far too late for many patients to put their affairs in order. Those of us who are more fortunate are grateful for the warning, and thankful that we have some time to sort things out for those who are left behind.

It was chemotherapy time for me again – my third round, the fifth of six fortnightly infusions. These can be very tedious affairs, with an hour or so of preparation, a four-hour infusion, another hour or so of disconnection, and finally the fitting of a pump to take home, if required. Initially, it can all seem rather alarming and intimidating, but I have witnessed nothing but kindness, warmth and excellent care from the wonderful team that work at my cancer unit. There is often gentle teasing and raucous laughter from nursing staff and patients alike. Despite the serious conditions being treated, it is always a place that promotes love, hope and care.

The preparations having been completed, I was ushered into the far end of the ward. This has the comfortable reclining chairs, in one of which I would spend the next four hours. I was pleased to be allocated my usual chair, in a prime position by the window. There was one middle-aged lady to my right, while a very frail elderly lady was seated opposite.

‘This lady is Lucy,’ announced my nurse, pointing to the lady on the right.

‘I haven’t been called that for a very long time,’ laughed Lucy, struggling to swallow part of her sandwich. She smiled and said hello.

‘And this lady is Ellen,’ continued the nurse, referring to the lady opposite. The frail woman put down her book and nodded towards me. I could see that she was not at all well, and had been crying.

I sat in my allocated chair; the drip was placed beside me, with four or five coloured bags of fluid. The nurse fiddled with the apparatus and connected one tube from the drip to the hook-up on my chest.

‘We’re all ready to go. Are you OK? Do you need a blanket or another pillow, Barrie?’

‘I’m all good, thanks. Is that lot all for me? I guess I’ll be spending most of the day going to the toilet!’

‘It certainly is, my love. Now, you’re all connected and we are ready to start. You like hot chocolate, don’t you? Do you want biscuits as well?’

Although I rarely drink hot chocolate at home, I always look forward to one after starting an infusion. Amazingly, the team of nurses or ancillary staff always seem to remember.

It was a busy morning in the chemotherapy ward. Alongside my small bay were several others. There were also patients waiting for treatment in the corridor outside, as well as in the treatment rooms. It was going to be a full-on morning for all the staff.

My two fellow patients looked friendly enough. I enjoy talking to people and am curious about the lives of others; I will talk to anyone if given the opportunity. But I hope I am sensitive enough to chat to only those who want to chat. Some patients, given their condition, prefer to be left alone, while others will happily talk, usually in the hope that it will briefly help them to forget what is happening to them. I find that it is usually men who are the most difficult patients in the cancer ward. Some will happily chat, but many prefer to sit in sullen silence. Some are deniers that there is anything wrong with them, or are part of the ‘Why me?’ brigade. Others are abrupt, unnecessarily sharp, and sometimes unpleasant to those who are trying to help them. Most women, on the other hand, seem to be more pragmatic and appreciative of the care that they are given. These are generalisations, of course, and there are always exceptions.

Ellen, the lady opposite me, sat with her library book. I could see that she wasn’t really reading, since she rarely turned any pages. She was clearly very troubled, and had red eyes.

‘Would you like a cup of tea, Ellen?’ asked the nurse. ‘I think the doctor is coming to see you shortly.’

‘No more tea at the moment, thank you,’ replied Ellen. ‘How long do you think she will be?’

‘Not too long, my dear,’ replied the nurse. ‘I think she is just outside the children’s ward. She will be along in a few minutes, I guess.’

A few minutes later, the doctor appeared. I had seen this doctor before, and she smiled at me as she approached Ellen. She pulled the curtains around Ellen and began to speak quietly to her.

It is difficult not to hear a conversation when someone is physically so close, even though shielded by a curtain. The doctor was explaining the results of Ellen’s latest scan and blood tests. Ellen was clearly hard of hearing, and the doctor had to repeat the results several times. It was then that I heard the words that we all dread hearing: ‘Maybe it’s time to put your affairs in order, Ellen?’

Lucy glanced at me and shook her head sadly.

After a pause, I could hear Ellen sobbing gently, followed by kind, supportive and reassuring words from the doctor. Eventually the sobs ended and the doctor drew the curtains back, clearly looking upset herself as she left the ward.

Ellen sat looking bewildered and continued trying to hide her face with her book. I could see tears still pouring from her eyes, which she continually mopped with a tissue. How I wanted to say something, or at least to get out of my chair and attempt to comfort the poor lady, but sadly I was trapped in my chair with tubes.

Suddenly, Brenda, a nursing ancillary, appeared. I often chatted with Brenda, a kind gentle woman with a wicked sense of humour. I remember her pouring a jug of water over me, by accident of course, during one of my first infusions. She and I never forgot the experience, and we often joked about it; I often used to pretend to hide whenever I saw her coming.

Brenda walked over to Ellen, pulled across a stool and sat beside her. Brenda held Ellen in her arms while she sobbed quietly. No words between the pair were spoken, and Brenda sat with Ellen until the tears ceased. It seemed to be an age, but I guess it was about ten minutes or so. Later, Brenda left briefly and returned with a ‘nice cup of tea’ which Ellen accepted gratefully. Ellen sipped it and started reading her book. She looked at me and smiled and both Lucy and I gave her the thumbs up.

I had just witnessed a wonderful example of love and care for those in distress. No words were spoken; they were not needed. It was simply the feeling that someone cared enough to take time out during a busy morning to show love, compassion and support. It was an experience I will never forget.

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