This is based on something I witnessed during one of my stays in hospital.
Outwardly,
there was nothing appealing about Reginald Barton, as far as the
general public was concerned, being one of those unfortunate men whose
build and facial features combined to present him as a belligerent
person, when he wasn’t. His clothes didn’t help. No matter how clean or
new they might be, they fitted only where they touched, adding to the
impression that he didn’t give a stuff what anyone thought of him.
Understandable then, that he only had a few friends outside his family
circle and place of work.
Reg was another person inwardly.
Sensitive and caring towards others, he simply had difficulty in
expressing himself so others could see and understand. It’s a pity they
hadn’t seen him playing with his children, or their puppy and the kitten
he bought them when they were small. While others saw mainly a
pugnacious Reginald Barton, he was the opposite. Lately he’d found some
encouragement in the saying, ‘I am not a number’.
Surrounded as he was
by others who’d achieved, they appeared superior in his eyes. I mean,
there was little chance in his present environment that Reg would ever
realize his own potential. He enjoyed his work, working harder than
anyone else in the engineering work-shop and became a perfectionist. If
he’d been made the leading hand or foreman in his section it would have
benefited everyone, but he was ignored. In management’s eyes he was,
just a number. Eventually it took its toll.
One day recently, Reg
was thankful he’d managed to get home; it had been a real effort to stay
at work that day. As he’d cleared his work space he’d started shaking
and felt quite strange. A short time later as he was leaning over the
hand basin at home, he had difficulty focusing his eyes and blinked hard
trying to clear them. Then a sudden feeling of being drained of energy
made his knees buckle, frightening him and it took some minutes before
the feeling of panic subsided and he’d gained some control. Later, as
he’d changed out of his work clothes wondering what was happening to him
he couldn’t prevent a rush of tears filling his eyes adding to his
anxiety.
The thing was he’d told no one. He was like that. His
wife Pauline knew something was wrong; it was obvious in many ways.
She’d urged him to see the doctor during the last few weeks and while
Reg knew she was right, he’d put it off. Now as he sat in his chair
resting before the evening meal, he felt and looked dreadful. There was a
heaviness pressing down around his neck and shoulders and a feeling of
utter weariness came over him.
It took an effort to rise to his
feet when dinner was ready, then things became vague and very far away.
Pauline told him about it later, when he came to and found himself
hooked up to a machine in intensive care. ‘You’ve had a heart attack,
Reg love. Not too severe, but…’ Reg hardly heard her. He saw her
concern. Gave her a sort of smile to reassure her but it was just too
much effort to speak just then.
A short distance away his brain
registered that there was another man connected to a machine and it
concerned him that there was no movement and that the man was there
alone; just him and the few lines drifting across the monitor above his
head, and then the words, ‘All the lonely people…’ came to him from a
song he’d known but he didn’t know why.
Two days later, things
were different. He’d been lucky. Tests had shown no permanent damage to
his heart but a senior nurse had said, ‘You’ll need to make some changes
Mr Barton. Cut out the smokes, take more exercise, watch your food
intake and learn to relax more,’ then she’d leaned closer and smiled as
she said, ‘We’ll talk more about that later.’
Eventually he was
taken off the machine and moved into a side-room, where three beds stood
empty. At some stage, an elderly man had been placed in the one across
from him and to one side, and the curtains were drawn screening him from
view. The man’s wife came in from time to time, speaking to him softly
and when she’d left and the nursing staff or doctors were attending to
him, Reg heard a few low moans and guessed from their regular visits
that he was in quite some pain.
Time lost significance as Reg
slept or rested in the cocoon around him, gradually coming to the
surface as he felt more confident to join the human race again. In the
evening of the second day after Pauline and others had left, he switched
off his bed light and settled down to sleep and half-woke later to the
low murmur of voices from the bedside of the elderly man. Then they left
and Reg lay looking over at the man and wondered about him. The next
time he woke a doctor was whispering something to a nurse as she left.
What
happened next was beyond Reg Barton's power to change, not that he
wanted to as he thought later. He just felt… guilty in a way, as if he’d
been caught eavesdropping, which he wasn’t. He knew that later when the
realization that he, plain, ordinary Reg Barton had been there to
witness what was said during those brief moments. The doctor sat down
beside the man, took hold of his hand and said softly, ‘Hello Henry.
Doctor Fraser here. We’ve made you as comfortable as we can, that’s
really all that we can do now. You remember? I explained it to you
yesterday. Yes. The disease in your bones has made them extremely
brittle and that is causing you so much pain. We do understand and will
move you only if it’s really necessary. Is there anything I can do for
you now? No? The nurses and I are close by if you should need anything.
You don’t have to suffer if the pain gets too much, let us know Henry,
and we’ll give you something to ease it. It won’t last much longer, you
know that don’t you? Alright. Your wife Pauline will join you in a few
minutes. I’ll see you later Henry. Goodbye for now.’
Henry died
around mid-morning the next day with his wife by his side. Before she
left, Reg managed to call her over and somehow was able to say how
thoughtfully the doctor and nurses had cared for her husband.
‘Henry was
not just a number to them, you know.’ After she’d gone, he thought over
a few lines of a poem by Longfellow, which had been in his mind since
earlier in the day…
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing;
only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak to one another,
only a look and a voice;
then darkness again and silence.
Dennis Crompton © 1999
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)
