This week was International Women’s Day. It took me no
time at all to identify a woman who commanded my total respect and who deserves
my acknowledgment on this special day.
Lily* was a patient of mine when I worked as a
Community Nurse. Her memory will be with me forever.
The GP had rung the nursing office to request a visit
to Lily. He had discovered an open wound on her breast. She knew that it was
cancer but opted not to seek treatment as she did not want surgery. What she
had not anticipated was the spread to her lungs. At the GP consultation she had
hoped for a prescribed linctus for an irritating cough – the doctor quickly put
two and two together and made his discovery.
For seven years she had cleaned and dressed the lesion
herself.
When I say a wound on the breast, I actually mean
where the breast had been. It now had the appearance of a mastectomy, a flat
wound – no breast left. Every morning Lily
got up early to clean and dress the wound before her sister got up. As it
became bigger and deeper, lumps of tissue were coming away. She would place the
debris and dirty dressings in a Cornflakes or similar waste carton, take it up
the garden, and burn it.
Staunchly independent, she initially refused a nurse
visit and continued her routine. She considered our time better spent with people
who were really ill. With further persuasion, she allowed the nurse to visit
once a week. We could advise on the specialist dressings and techniques
available. She had been buying rolls of gauze and sticky tape which she
sprinkled with Rose water to mask the odour.
Lily and her sister lived in a quiet residential
street in a much sought-after area of Leicester. As I pulled up outside the
neat, post-war semi-detached, the kettle would be put on to simmer. With a Cancer diagnosis, it was our practice
to build a supportive relationship with the patient and family. The dressing
check was incidental, Lily had coped well through the traumatic stages as her
breast disintegrated. It was now just leakage from the scar tissue. The cup of
tea we shared afterwards was the important and supportive part of the visit.
For two years, the Tuesday visit became routine. The
sisters continued to attend a Friendship Fellowship at the church each week,
Lily driving them there. They visited the hairdresser at the same time and day
each week for a shampoo and set. They always looked immaculate.
Iris had Learning Disabilities and had moved in, along
with her frail parents, when Lily lost her second husband. It was easier for
Lily to have them all under her roof to care for them. When their parents
passed away, Iris remained with Lily. Caring
was not new to Lily, she had already nursed Bert, her first husband, through a chronic
illness until his death.
Not anticipating another romance, Lily had met Ian as the
solicitor who had taken care of her parents’ estate. They went on to have one
son. Paul was married and lived locally.
He visited his mum and aunt regularly. Lily knew how busy his work was and
would never request too much from him. When
Ian, too, received a terminal diagnosis, Lily, of course, nursed him at home
until he died.
When I left Lily’s one afternoon, I had been quite
shocked by the news given to me. Lily was selling the house. People in their
late 70’s do not usually move house. It had come as a real surprise to me. She had secured a council bungalow about a
mile away. When the sale went through, most of Lily’s beautiful furniture and
antiquities had to go to her son or be sold.
I visited Lily and Iris at their new address and was shown
around. The only bedroom was quite small. It had been necessary for Lily to buy
a new three-quarter sized bed for the two of them when her double bed proved
too big for the room. Two singles, not an option for the same reason. They both
appeared happy with the newly decorated bungalow.
To acquaint themselves with the neighbours, Lily had
pushed a note through each door in the cul-de-sac. She invited them to tea and
cakes, to introduce themselves to their new community. It was not very long after the move that Lily’s
health went into a decline. I was worried about her. Finding myself in their area
after completing my visits, I decided to take my lunch-hour with them.
Lily was very poorly and in pain. Her greatest concern
was not having been able to get her hair set. I pulled her kitchen stool up and
seated her over the kitchen sink to wash her hair. I asked if she had any
curlers and Iris went into the bedroom and bought out a Quality Street tin.
Contained within were several spikey pink plastic rollers and hairgrips.
With Lily’s hair wrapped around with a full head of
rollers, I offered to call back after work to remove them and style her hair. But it was Friday and her daughter-in-law was
calling after work with fish and chips; she would remove the rollers.
That was the last time I saw Lily in the bungalow. As
I left to return to the Health Centre, Lily said “God sent you to me today.”
The next time I visited Lily, she was in one of the
old-fashioned ‘Nightingale’ wards at the Royal Infirmary. She was propped up in
bed and commented that she had been admitted the day after her hair-do, for
pain control. She was happy that her hair remained presentable, my abilities as
a coiffeur had passed muster. I continued to visit the hospital in my
lunch-hour each day, knowing her time was short.
My last visit found her semi-conscious. I approached
her bed, bent over and whispered “It is me Lily”. She replied, her eyes still closed,
“I know, I smelled you come through the door.” She was familiar with the smell
of my perfume.
Lily died on the ward. My next visit was to her
funeral, where all her actions made total sense. She had selected and paid for her burial plot.
The hymns and the service planned in advance.
Lily had settled Iris into the home that would become
hers. The council rent was paid for a
year and an allowance left to meet future costs. Iris knew where to shop, where to catch a bus
and how to get to the church, the doctors and the hairdressers. She had the benefit of knowing the district
and could call on Paul or any of the neighbours if she needed help.
Indeed, she had done just that when she was worried
about Lily. The neighbour had telephoned for an ambulance.
How hard it must have been for Lily to uproot herself
from her beloved home, but the house sale meant that her estate was neatly tied
up and ready for her son to inherit.
Lily was never a burden on anyone, selfless to the end
- what a woman.
Carolyn Wheatley
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