don’t mention the tattoo

Even without the diagnosis from the discharge summary, you’d know Charles was at the end of his life. He’s lying on his side, propped up on pillows, one leg hanging out of the bed, his face mottled and ghastly, his lips puce, his limbs puffy with fluid, a horrible rasping sound shifting deep in his chest. I hardly need put a hand on him to know how bad he is, but I do – not because I’ll be calling an ambulance, but because I might need to get one of the palliative team out, and it’s good to have the leverage.

His wife Maureen watches from behind me, leaning with her arms folded on the bedroom door.
‘Listen to the nurse,’ she says, her arms folded. ‘If you won’t listen to me.’
‘Ah! Woman!’ says Charles.

The District Nurses are case managing. They’ve only referred to us for some bridging care, and to see if we can persuade him to agree to some changes in the set-up at home. There’s a perfectly good hospital bed in the front room, but Charles refuses to use it. He wants to die in his own bed, even though it makes caring for him extremely difficult. There’s no room to move about, the bed’s too low, and Maureen has been struggling. They’ve had the ambulance out twice to get him up when he’s fallen. A patient his size? In this condition? In this tiny room? I can’t imagine how they did it.

‘How about we help you to the bed next door?’ I say. ‘It’ll be much better for you. It’s got a special mattress so you’ll be less likely to get pressure sores, it goes up and down to make it easier on the carers, and you’ll be in with the TV so you can watch the football.’
He snorts.
‘Football!’ he says . ‘There’s not much football where I’m going.’
‘No. The ball’d catch fire,’ says Maureen.
‘Yeah?’ he gasps, struggling to sit up. ‘Well at least I can pass your respects on to your mam.’
‘There now,’ says Maureen. ‘Isn’t that charming?’
‘Ah!’ says Charles.
‘So will you come with us into the front room?’
‘No I will not.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Take him. I’m done,’ says Maureen, and hurries away.

I lean back against the wall and sigh.
He opens one eye and glares at me.
‘Don’t let me keep you,’ he says.
‘The thing is, Charles…’
‘What’s the thing, now?’
‘The thing is – I respect your decision to stay in your own bed.’
‘Do you? Well that’s big o’you.’
‘But what about Maureen? You’ve got to think about her, too. And the carers. As your condition worsens you’ll need looking after in bed, and this one’s just not up to the job. They’ll hurt themselves trying to change your pads and whatnot. It’s too low, and there’s hardly room to swing a cat.’
‘Don’t be taking to me about no cats.’
‘And anyway, Charles – next door’s so much nicer. You’ve got that lovely big window you can look out. You’ve got the TV.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m staying put.’
‘The other thing is – that hospital bed is so flexible. You can sleep more upright, and that’ll help your breathing. ‘
‘I’m staying where I am, thank you.’

My colleague has been on the phone to the DNs. He comes back in and says they’ll be visiting to review things later in the afternoon.
‘Good!’ I say to Charles. ‘That’s brilliant! How about we get you next door onto the hospital bed, so you’re ready for them.’
‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘I know. I’m really annoying.’
‘I wouldn’t say annoying. I’d say something far worse.’
‘What d’you think, though, Charles? Shall we give it a shot?’
‘Give what a shot?’
‘Going next door onto the bed.’
‘How’m I going to get there, then?’
‘We’ll use this bottom sheet to slide you over to the other side of the bed. Then we’ll help you sit up, and when you’re strong enough we’ll help you stand and scooch over onto the wheeled commode. Then we’ll wheel you through to the living room, and do it all in reverse.’
‘Just like that.’
‘Just like that.’
‘And if I do it you’ll shut up about it.’
‘Promise.’
He sighs and shakes his head.
‘Give me five minutes,’ he says.
‘No worries.’
Maureen reappears in the doorway.
‘Is he going then?’ she says.
‘He is, yes.’
‘Oh my God,’ she says. ‘It must be the uniform.’

Charles has softened back onto the pillows.
There’s a faint outline of an old tattoo on his forearm. It looks like the number ten.
‘What’s that?’ I say, tapping it. ‘The number ten. Why’d you get that on your arm?’
He raises his arm, blearily stares at it, then plops it back down again.
‘That’s not a number ten,’ he says. ‘That’s a heart with a scroll underneath.’
‘Oh! Yes! I see it now! And what does it say on the scroll?’
Phyllis,’ says Maureen. ‘And no – it’s not his mother.’

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