The white wall is bare, apart from the black scuff marks where the bed has been pushed against it repeatedly.
No photos.
No personal items.
The television is turned up to full volume.
The curtains are half drawn,
and the flourescent light is so bright it makes my eyes hurt.
He sits upright in a chair at the end of the bed
Dressed immaculately in a dark suit, with a matching tie and handkerchief.
His eyes appear huge behind thick glasses,
he looks at me suspiciously as I introduce myself and explain why I am here.
I sense from his posture that this will be a difficult discussion.
It is not him that I am here to see,
but he is such an important part of the visit.
She lies on her back in the bed, head slightly elevated.
Staring into space.
I lean towards her and say hello.
No response.
The nurses have told me it is many months since she spoke.
Even then, it was single words. Yes, No.
Difficult to understand.
I wonder how hard they tried.
It soon becomes clear that he visits daily
sitting patiently by the bed and waiting for her to get better.
He appears to have no idea how serious her condition is.
He waits for her to talk to him.
He tries to feed her.
She coughs with every mouthful.
He phones their son every day tand tells him that she is improving.
We talk about his wishes for her.
To get better, he says.
What if she doesn’t?
She will, he says.
What if she is sick enough to die?
She won’t die, he says. She is my angel.
I try several times over the next few months to engage with him.
Nothing works.
I chart a seizure management plan, and pain relief.
The doctor documents she is not for hospital transfer, not for resuscitation.
One year later
COVID-19.
Lockdown.
No visitors.
She has been having seizures.
They ask me to come urgently.
As I walk into the room I can hear the rattle as air moves past her secretions
I smell it before I see her.
Death has arrived.
It waits patiently in the corner to take her.
Her husband rises to greet me, ever polite.
Perfectly dressed.
Anxious.
She won’t look at me, he says.
What’s wrong with her?
She doesn’t stir as I examine her.
I turn to him, and help him sit down.
I try to explain.
I’m so, so, sorry, I say.
I know you don’t want to hear this, but she is dying.
I don’t think she has very long.
His eyes well with tears.
He cannot speak.
Talk to her, I say.
He rises, moves to the bed, and stands beside her.
He leans over, touches her face, and tells her he loves her.
Her eyes open, her mouth moves.
She looks at him briefly, then closes them again.
I sit with him for many hours.
We listen to her breathing, and for the first time he tells me their story.
It is the most amazing story of a life that some of us only imagine.
A life in many different countries, mixing with important people at high society events. The names rattle off his tongue like old friends.
Clinton, Putin, BenGurion, Queen Elizabeth, Queen Margrethe, Gillard.
He tells me of having photos taken with these people and of the beautiful gowns she would wear for these occasions.
He tells me that she gave up her brilliant career to follow him around the world, that she pushed him to be the best that he could be.
That without her, he would be nothing.
She is his angel.
And then she fell.
A stroke.
An ambulance.
Hospital.
And then here.
No more fresh air.
No more fancy dresses.
No more parties.
Just this white room, devoid of any personal touch,
bare walls and a murky brown blanket.
The sun has disappeared
The cold winter dark has settled in for the evening
rain has started to fall gently on the roof.
I organise for a priest to come as soon as possible.
I suggest he might like to stay the night, and offer to organise a bed.
No. I’ll call a taxi, he says.
I cannot let this man leave in a taxi.
I offer to drive him home.
Thank you, he says.
He kisses her goodbye and begs her to wake up.
I’ll be back tomorrow, he says.
I step through the door of his home into another world.
Her world.
Dusty dolls, fine china, plush rugs.
Photos on every wall.
A family crest.
An elegant couple in expensive clothes.
He pulls out photo album after photo album.
I learn of his childhood, a place of torture during World War 2.
Of a family that fled,
and of lives rebuilt.
I learn of his family, his twin brother, his connections.
Their son is on the other side of the world.
He has no family here.
I offer to stay with him while he calls him with the bad news, he declines.
We agree to meet again the next day.
I urge him to go early to see her, but old habits die hard.
I’ll be there at midday, he says.
He arrives at at his usual time.
She is silent, cold.
He stands in shock by the bed
with tears rolling down his cheeks.
I walk into the room
They didn’t tell me, he says.
I called and they said this morning she was fine.
And now….
this.
He is in shock.
But he understands.
His angel is gone.
I call the priest and ask him to return.
He kindly agrees.
The doctor comes, explains the formalities.
Why her, he says? Why not me?
There is no answer.
We sit for several hours
with her cold, still body.
He talks, and talks, and talks.
Every now and then he pauses to look at her –
each time a shock jolts through him.
The funeral director comes.
We discuss options, plans, and he makes an appointment.
They will kindly visit him at home.
They place her on the trolley
cover her with a sheet.
I hold his arm as we follow them to the hearse.
He is unsteady on his feet, slow, shuffling steps.
We are herded out the back door
so we don’t disturb anyone.
I think to myself how unfair this is.
To have lived such a high profile life
and to leave this world alone in a cold dark room and
be taken out through the back door.
I drive him home.
Without her, there is no point living, he says.
I worry about him.
I ask him if I can call a friend to come and be with him.
In my job there are no friends, he says.
Only colleagues and enemies. And you don’t turn your back on any of them.
I call in the team. Pastoral care, social work. They promise to do their thing.
I give him my number.
He promises to call.
You’ll come back?, he asks
Of course I will, I say.
As I walk up the drive way, I look back.
He stands at the door, watching me
Then he turns, and goes inside.
Back to her world, and the memories of another life.
Back to his angel.