Last Light of Day

The first I saw of Mel was a late summer's evening, when we were called to her house for a very simple transport. Arriving ten minutes earlier than the scheduled pick-up time and understanding the significance of the call, we waited outside in the ambulance for those few minutes. As the clock struck on the hour, we knocked on the front door and waited. 

"Oh, you're here! Sorry, we're running a few minutes late." Rob looked tired and hassled as he moved a small suitcase out of the way so that we could get in.  "I've never been a good one for time keeping, that's always been Mel's job. Speaking of which, you'd better come in and meet her." 

Rob shows us to their bedroom, as Andy and I size up the corridors and turns to see which will be the easiest route out again - on a wheelchair or the trolley bed - but the last corner is too tight for the latter. Mel's eyes are closed as we walk in, but she still manages to welcome us. 

"Hi guys. Let me guess, he's running late, right?" 

"Well, yes, but take your time. We're in no hurry. We're either here in your lovely home, or out there fighting with drunks. I know which I'd prefer." 

"Has he offered you tea yet?" Mel gives Rob a look of resignation, as if all the lessons she's been trying to teach him have failed to register. 

"No. We're good thanks. Too much tea is an occupational hazard we need to avoid. Not enough toilet stops, you see." 

Mel manages a smile as Rob steps out to finish packing. All around her are cards and flowers, messages of support cover the bedside table and windowsill. A single picture in a frame sits in the middle of all the cards. A photograph of two young children, one boy, one girl, both in school uniform, lazing on a wooden bench in the shadow of an enormous tree. 

"Twins?" Andy asks, pointing to the picture. 

"Twins. But born a day apart. Well, ten minutes really, but one each either side of midnight. I'd always heard stories like that, but never thought it would happen to me!" 

"Cool. How old are they?" 

"Eleven. That picture was taken two days after I was diagnosed, three years ago, so I guess they must have been eight then. I'm sure they'll be down in a second." 

Rob comes back into the room with a glass of water for each of us and behind him, as if on cue, are the twins. 

"Ah, maybe I have taught him something after all!" 

"Oy, be nice! Or I'll tell 'em to drive you over every pot hole from here to the hospice!"

"You wouldn't make my last ambulance ride a bumpy one, would you guys?" 

"We wouldn't dare! Well, not unless the money was good enough!" 

Last minute logistical arrangements meant that the twins would come with us in the ambulance, whilst Rob would drive his car, leaving them with transport to get home again. As we wrapped Mel in a blanket on our wheelchair, she remembered to check a few things with Rob. 

"Are the kids' uniforms ready?" 

"Yes." 

"Their lunches?" 

"Yes!" 

"You set the alarm for the morning?" 

"For heavens' sake, Mel. YES! Have some faith, won't you? Now, I'll be back in a second, just going to lock the back door." 

We wheeled Mel to the front door and waited for Rob. The twins stood just outside, half staring into the back of the open ambulance, its tail lift sitting on the floor waiting to swallow its precious cargo. 

"Shall I switch the hall light off?" Andy asks Rob. 

"Actually," says Mel, "do you mind if I do it?" 

We lift Mel just high enough in the wheelchair so she can reach the switch, and as the sun sets through the clouds outside, the hall is engulfed in the orange glow of the last light of day. 

Real World

In her late 30s, she's barely older than either of us, but her body's betrayed her already. Lying in her bed at home, her face is gaunt and gray, her limbs little more than skin-covered bones. Her breaths shallow, laboured attempts at feeding the cells with the oxygen they crave, whilst sunken eyes share their fear and sadness with all those present.

We're there on a mission of mercy. The call is neither an accident or an emergency, but a penultimate journey that no-one wants to be a part of, one where everyone understands its necessity. A hospice bed awaits at the end of this transfer, a gentle room, surrounded by large windows, the other side of which is a beautiful garden, lovingly tended to by a gardener who clearly realises and appreciates the significance of the nature he maintains.

Kara's cancer had almost beaten her. She'd been given weeks to live, and she, her family and their doctor had agreed that she should spend that time with round-the-clock palliative care on hand. There was nothing left to do, other than make those final hours and days more comfortable, as pain-free as possible. Tony, her partner of three years smiled through his tears, making no attempt to hide them as we moved her as gently as we could onto the trolley. Her parents stood either side of the door, a guard of honour testament to her bravery, and whilst her mother's tears flowed, her father's tear-soaked eyes were held back by a stoic dam, ready to burst at any moment.

We wheeled Kara as slowly as we could, feeling every bump almost as much as she did, whilst she'd reassure us.

"It's fine, I know it's not you. I'll get Tony to sue the council". I'm sure the reassurance should have headed in the opposite direction.

Tony travelled with us in the ambulance and brought with him a large pink, flowery case with a few of Kara's things. Pyjamas, some make-up, her favourite books.

"Not really my colour, is it?", he says, as he drags it up the back steps. Kara smiles, and everyone else forces one too, especially Tony.

A few minutes travel down the road, and we arrive at our destination. A suburban setting, hidden in its very own forest, away from prying eyes and the noise of the real world. It's a truly beautiful place, serene but never sombre. The staff have an amazing talent of making everything seem just right, nothing is ever too much effort, from simply spending as much time as needed to make a pillow just right, to attending to all the medical needs.

We wheel Kara into her room, number 3, and help her settle before handing over to the tender and experienced hands of the hospice nurses.

We turn and leave, saying goodbye to Kara, Tony, and her parents, and they in turn thank us for our kindness. Why is it that it's always the people who don't need to say "thank you" who are the first to do so?

We load the trolley back into the ambulance and sit for a while in silence. The radio blares out a song that seems completely at odds with what we've just done and where we are, and we both reach for the off button at the same time. The comedy of hands slapping each other breaks the tension, and we leave the grounds, back out onto the main road and into the real world.

Two weeks later we were back there, taking another patient to be cared for, just for a while. In her late 80s this time, Lira was going into respite to give her equally elderly husband some time alone, time to care for himself a little.

"It's just a week, Lira", he tells her, "just some time for me to tidy the house properly for you". He looks exhausted, and explains that he'll be living with their son for the week, just as a break, so he can go back to looking after her as soon as she's home.

Elaine, one of the nurses, directs us. "Second room on the left".

"Isn't that room number 3?" I ask.

"That's the one. Beautiful view of the gardens", she adds, turning to Lira as she does so.

"We know it". We look at each other and think back to the previous fortnight.

And back to the reality of the real world.