Humanity. Humility. How a stay in an end of life hospital ward changed my behaviour – again.

NOT a Covid story

“The Ward” 05/01/2021

After 12 hours in A and E on the 2^nd January, I was admitted into general population in the hospital.  On the 4^th I was to be moved to a new ward.  At 0500 hours my bedsides were raised protectively, I was wheeled through some grand old corridors, descended into a lift and suddenly found myself being steered along a heated route towards the ‘new ward’.  To be honest, I had no preconceptions about my new home, and had been perfectly happy in the old one.

My first alarm bell clanged when I saw how few beds there were.  The second when I felt the heat.  Finally, as I peered down at the sleeping faces I passed, I knew.  I had been brought to the elderly female end of life ward.  All the ladies in the same position.  No movement. No sounds. Oddly, no machinery bleeping at bedsides.

As I was pushed to my destination, poorly though I was, I thought “This is a mistake. I need to get transferred to another ward”.  I started to panic. “I’m the only one in here with my own teeth and technology! I’ll have no-one to talk to.  How can I recover here? No-one my own age. I’m being faced with the misery of mortality – no escape.” I was filled with fear.

Bed three was my assignation and I was docked without fuss.  As I lay on my back, to the right of me was a plain wall, straight ahead were the fire exit double doors, and to my left was the sleeping form of another resident.  I was terrified. I was also weak and weepy from medication, but I made my mind up to demand re-allocation from the Sister as soon as she came over. She did appear at 0615 and I made a very impassioned plea on the grounds that being surrounded by death and isolated by age would not enhance my recovery.  “I’ll see what I can do.“ she said. And then I lay there.

Reflection plays a massive part in behaviour change, and an unexpected hospital stay is a great opportunity to do just that. As the moments crawled by, calmer breathing returned, my panic subsided, and I began to think rationally. It suddenly started to dawn on me that I had demanded a change of room as though I was staying in a posh hotel and didn’t like the view.  Shame washed over me like a menopausal flush. I began to think how these ladies must feel, being faced with me, a much younger person who would probably leave the ward, very much alive and able to return to a loving home.  They had likely not seen anyone outside of the medical world in months.  No family, no friends. Nada. As light filled the room I began to look around.  I was immediately struck by the sense of cleanliness – not in the clinical sense, but more in the ‘immaculate home’ sort of way.  Whilst there were no flowers, teddy bears, pictures or personal items of any sort, it did feel remarkably calm, and as the rhythmic breathing of the residents gave way to gentle coughs and sneezes, it still felt – and smelled – rather nice, albeit I was still scared by the actual demographic.

I made the conscious decision to change my behaviour – try and relax, and gently absorb my surroundings, rather than fight them.  I began to think of life from the perspectives of my new roommates.  I also started to write a letter of apology to the ward Sister and the Nurse*.

Every time you are given medication in hospital you must tell the staff your name and date of birth.  Because of this I quickly learned that I was sharing a ward with four other ladies, henceforth called 1928, 1933, 1932 and 1931.  I am 1965.

As the daily ablutions started, there was no fuss, just the swishing of curtains, and the odd please and thank you.  All of a sudden, we were all in the same position, at the start of the same day. “Now what?” I wondered.

And then nothing happened. The ladies lay resolutely still and tidy, calm and dignified, but I began to fidget.  For the first time in days I was able to walk, so took myself for a shower.  On the way back I said ‘hello’ to my four roomies.  They all eyed me suspiciously, and the only reply was from 1933 next to me. Shortly after, I saw her struggling to open a bottle in her lap and went over to offer help.  “No thank you”, she said almost imperceptibly – and then I realised she was fuelling up her stomach bag, her ability to swallow and her bowel having been lost to cancer long ago.

Predictably, I got my iPad mini out and laid my mobile phone and Nintendo DS on top of it carefully in line with my charger – things to do, time to waste! For a short while I lost myself in the news of the day, Facebook, LinkedIn, Instagram and emails. I even had a browse through Amazon prime, hoping a little shopping would cheer me up. Then I stopped.  “What on earth are you doing? What must these ladies think of you? Do something different – make positive impact and leave a good impression. Change!”. Basically, I realised I needed to get my head out of my arse…

After breakfast, lunch and a nap, 1933 told me her name, and I told her mine.  We found out that we had a mutual love of etymology, language and crosswords, and her son and my brother have the same name. “Cosmic twins!” I announced, and she giggled.  As the day wore on, no-one flinched at the overt nose picking, the loud, communal farts, the indiscrete adjustments of catheters or unavoidable glimpses of a ‘commode moment’ through ill-fitting green curtains.  Its not that it didn’t matter, it just seemed to be that there was no shame.  My roomies were oddly united in life and dignity. There was an enormous sense of ‘oneness’ and achievement.  It was amazing.

I learnt that 1933 had bottomless intelligence and sensational eyes.  She lived with the tragedy of losing her daughter to breast cancer, but she did not dwell.  1932 only looked 60 and had a calming, lyrical voice, and an ability to sleep with her legs on top of her bed trolley and her torso on the mattress.  1928’s bird-like appearance belied her powerful voice and withering wit. 1931 observed fastidiously and, at gloriously rare moments broke into a room filling toothless smile.

As night fell my curiosity rather than anxiety rose, and, after tea came the drug trolley – 1928 asked “Do I have to take all of these tablets? My goodness, I’ll need a lot of water!” – and then lights out.

Almost immediately 1928 started to panic. “I don’t know what to do.  What should I do?” she kept repeating.  She was then silent for a moment before asking “Did you hear the soldiers march by?” in a very distressed voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t that time” replied 1932, soothingly. And then the air was filled with humming, gentle, seductive humming, from 1931. She didn’t move or make eye contact, she just hummed 1928 into calmness.  It was beautiful.

Out of the blue came ‘the cough’.  A dry, incessant Covid sort of cough, and you could feel panic rise on the ward. “It’s okay, relax, relax.” whispered 1932 over and over and over again in an hypnotic mantra, and, as the cough subsided, the humming resumed from 1931.

“I can’t sleep, can you?” asked 1928.  “Me neither” replied 1932, and then more humming.  Suddenly the silence returned – probably the calmest silence I have ever known.  It seemed to suck stress out of me and cleanse me, it was almost monastic.  As the sister walked amongst us, she pulled the blankets up on 1933, 1928, 1932 and 1931, and simply winked at me as she walked by. Perhaps I hadn’t earned my stripes!

At 0548 I was woken by my neighbour, 1933 whose first words were “Are you alright Claire?”.  I was so moved.  When I left the ward 1933 said “I’ll miss you”.  I kissed her.  I hope it isn’t her last.

Usually, I would summarise my article with points of learning.  As this is such a personal article, I leave it to you to draw your own conclusions.  My biggest learning was cementing the power that behaviour change can have if you embrace it – and how you can impact on others. YOU have the power. How often do you get the chance to change? Seize it when you do….

Thank you for reading.  Claire

*I wrote a letter of apology so that the staff could read it if ever they weren’t busy, which they eventually managed, and thanked me.