Death

The tap on my door was gentle but firm. A strange nurse entered and stood at the foot of my bed.

“I have come to do you up.”

“Have you?” I said, a little puzzled. “Aren’t you the Special who came from London to look after the very sick boy in the west wing?”

“He does not need me any more.”

“Tell me, was it dreadful?”

“No, quite easy, poor laddie.”

Nurse Patterson got my fresh day gown, the water, soap and towels. She seemed to know where everything should be without asking. Item by item she laid everything ready. You could tell she had trained well. Our nurses were efficient enough in San nursing, but they had limitations. When anyone was frightfully sick Specials came down from London to nurse them.

Nurse Patterson did not talk as she worked. I liked her silence; it made me ask, “I want to know about that boy’s dying. I have seen dead people but I have never seen anyone do it. Is it terrible? Do they mind? I have often wondered how it would feel to face death. Here death is never mentioned though several patients have died since I was in the San.”

“In twenty years of nursing I have seen many die, many beautifully, some sadly, a few terribly,” said Nurse Patterson. She told me something of each kind. She worked as she told; I listened intently. You felt it earnestly true, not dreadful as I had thought.

“Thank you, Nurse. I have heard a lot in Church and in Sunday School about death, nothing about the practical side of dying; I would not have dared ask anyone in the San. Death is sort of a disgrace here, something to be hidden, never mentioned. You miss a cough. The room is being got ready for a new one. The old one’s name seems to die with him.”

Nurse Patterson said, “Don’t dwell too much on death, child. Death has a way of preparing for itself. The San people would probably be angry with me for talking to you of these things.”

“I shan’t tell. My nurse is away sick. I am nobody’s patient, just done up by anyone who has time.”

“You are going to be mine till your nurse comes back. I am filling in.”

“Oh, I am glad. I like my nurse tho’, and she will understand more when she comes back, because she has felt being sick.”

“I expect she will. Sometimes I am sorry I trained. I have a little sister who wants to be a nurse. I am trying to dissuade her.”

“Why? Are you sorry about yourself? Why want to stop her?”

“My little sister is a joyous being. I am afraid she may lose her joy, or that she may grow hard.”

“You haven’t grown hard. Have you lost joy?”

“I don’t know,” said Nurse Patterson, “I don’t know.” Tears came into her eyes. Doctor Bottle tore into my room in her cyclonic way. “Nurse Patterson, you are to special No. 15 in the east wing.” I never saw Nurse Patterson again; again I was nobody’s patient. Hokey was back but not working. I drew a picture of a girl preparing to commit suicide in a water-jug. One hand was holding up a very small plait of hair so that it should not get wetted. The other hand steadied the jug; under the drawing I printed, DESPERATE.

Hokey came back. “Don’t do it again, Hoke.”

“Can’t. Nature gave us only one appendix.”