Chapter 12

WHEN I went out to the sanatorium on October 6th a nurse who was attending to the patients on the veranda came towards me with a thermometer in her hand. ”lt’s well that you came out this evening," she said. “Kathleen is dying.”

Although I was expecting it, it came as a shock to hear the simple words, “Kathleen is dying.” I was in a quandary what to do. Should I go in and witness the agony of a child whose lungs were practically gone? Or should I keep in my mind a picture of her as the gay, merry child who came to the sanatorium more than a year ago, and whose merry laugh I could still remember whenever she beat me at the games we played? Then I remembered I had been with her so often, and that I should not neglect her now when she needed me most.” (7)

I entered the ward and was glad I did so. The moment I went in I could hear the rapid breathing from the bed in the far corner. It was a lonely death bed scene, and the ward seemed so very quiet on this calm October evening. As the weather was mild the other three patients had asked to have their beds brought out on the veranda. If they remained in the ward that night they knew that the moon shining through the large glass windows would light up the face of the dying child, the child they all loved. So she was all alone in the last moments.

She lay on her left side with her face deep in the pillow, so that only one dimpled cheek could be seen. Her eyes were closed, her breathing in quick gasps, while an occasional moan "Oh-a, oh-a" came from her parted lips. Her dark brown hair lay tossed all over the pillow, and for the first time it had no blue ribbon. The blue ribbon was thrown across the locker.

When a child dies the mother feels a pang of pain whenever she sees anything belonging to that child, whether it is a toy, an article of clothing or a little pair of shoes. But the most pathetic thing about Kathleen that evening was her big blue ribbon, taken off by one of the nurses and thrown carelessly across the locker.

The locker door was open and I could see on the top shelf her articles of clothing all neatly folded and on the lower shelf her cup, saucer, fork and knife and the games she used to play. She was always careful about keeping the locker tidy. When she was unable to get up she sometimes sent me to the locker to get something for her and invariably warned, “Take care and don't toss anything.” That evening she was too sick to care whether things were tossed or not. Tomorrow all her games and books would be thrown in the dump. But not her blue ribbon, for I folded it and put it in my pocket.

As I looked down at her I noticed for the first time how long and beautiful her eyelashes were. Ordinarily, she blinked so quickly that they could not be noticed, but now with her eyes closed it could be seen how long they were, and how dark they looked in contrast to the marble whiteness of the cheeks on which they rested. In spite of the moans, she seemed to be in a coma, and unconscious of pain. It would not be fair to wake her and bring her back to a world of pain. I rubbed her forehead and her tossed hair was wet with perspiration, the cold perspiration of death. She must have felt my touch because her eyes flickered open and then she stared at me. I bent closer to her. ”Do you know me?” I asked.

“Of course, I do,” she whispered. "I have been waiting for you to settle me in the bed.”

"Will I put you on your back?” I asked.

"Do, I am tired this way.”

She was too helpless to make any effort, so I had to be very careful in lifting her and turning her, as I knew the danger. In my imagination, I could almost hear the horrid snap, which if it happened would be heard through the other wards, the snap of a fractured bone. I made the pillow comfortable for her and settled the clothes round her shoulders. The cheek that was sunk in the pillow was wet, and strands of hair stuck to it. I put back the strands and wiped the perspiration off her cheek.

"Are you in much pain tonight?,” I asked.

“Oh, I'm all pain tonight, my legs are the worst. Take the clothes off my legs."

The bedclothes were eased off her legs, which according to the nurses were bones without any flesh, she tried to pull up her legs but could not. Then she began to cry. It was the first time I had seen her crying with pain.

"You will not be in pain much longer,” I tried to encourage her ”and you will not feel it when you are dying and you need not be afraid, you will go straight to Heaven. You will not have to go to Purgatory on account of all you have suffered."

“I hope I don't have to,” she answered. ”I-suffered-for- past-months. Hope-God-won’t-ask-me-suffer-more.”

I suddenly remembered what an opportunity it was to make arrangements with her, which I knew she would keep. "When you go to Heaven I want you to be always waiting for me,” I asked.

Her large serious eyes looked at me. ”Needn’t-ask-that. Will-be-always-waiting. Bury-me-in-Ballinrobe-because-I-want-you-to-be-with-me-in-the-grave-too.”

Kathleen's talk was getting disjointed, but at that moment the nurse on the veranda entered. She was a young cheery person. She sat on the bed by Kathleen's side and started to put the child's hair behind her ears and to pat her cheeks. It seemed dying was an everyday occurrence to this cheery young nurse.

“She is bright and lively now,” she gushed as she continued to pet the dying child, "but if you saw her today, sleepy and drowsy and wouldn't talk to anybody. Of course, she wanted to keep all her talk until you came. You are not to leave us for a long time yet, pet. Don't you know we will be lonely without you.”

Then a bell rang. "Oh, dear,” cried the nurse, "that's some patient ringing. I must be off. I will pop in again as soon as I can.”

If the patients did not get good treatment in Creagh, it wasn’t the fault of the nurses. They were always a hard-working and conscientious crowd, the few of them who were there.