What happens when time is running out…?
Befriending people who are at the end of their lives is a humbling and fulfilling part of my volunteer work and no matter how short lived the friendship, I am left with a positive and lasting imprint of that person.
I met Pam the end of October. The meeting had been arranged by the volunteer coordinator at the hospice with the aim that we become friends through the befriending scheme, Compassionate Neighbours. Nothing could have prepared me for the impact Pam’s friendship would have on me, nor the new way in which I would come to regard our most traditional British festival: Christmas.
I visit Pam in her cosy East London flat on a Friday evening after work. As I walk up the path to her front door, I am greeted by Peter, Pam’s son, a man some 25 years my junior and who towers over me; he is at least six foot five. As he ushers me into the living room Pam’s greeting nearly takes my breath away. She sits in a recliner chair, wrapped in a fleece blanket, face rounded from steroids and her hair a thin, short crop. Her smile is like an embrace and I cannot help but beam as I greet her. “I’ve been waiting for you to come!” She says, leaning forward to grab me in a tight hug, “I’m so glad you are here.”
That first evening I stay for two hours drinking tea and eating biscuits, chatting to Pam and Peter. Every time she speaks, Pam’s eyes seem to sparkle and despite her limited mobility, every part of her is animated. “I don’t feel ill,” she says, “I won’t stop making plans.”
I follow Peter into the kitchen where he tells me that his mother has a complex form of cancer in her digestive system and she has few weeks to live. “I’ve explained it to her,” he tells me, “But she can’t take it in. She’s stubborn, you know. She knows her own mind.”
I feel like her confessor
A week later I make my second visit to Pam, this time using the keycode Peter has entrusted me with. I tiptoe in to find Pam sitting up in bed, lightly dozing, but as I draw nearer, her eyes flicker open and she breaks out in that sunshine smile. I pull up a chair and we spend the next two hours chatting. Pam tells me the story of her marriage and how she became a single parent. She tells me of the trials and tribulations of house moves and different jobs and how she always put food on the table for her children. She tells me her history and she tells me her secrets, and suddenly I feel like her confessor, a person she barely knows, compelled to hold her story and keep it safe for her after she leaves this world. We hold hands and I feel not the least bit inclined to disengage; her palms are warm and dry and I am moved by this simple gesture of humanity.
“Don’t tell Peter that,” she says after each confession, “He won’t like me talking like this.” And I reassure her that I will never repeat a word she has told me. I make more tea and she tells me about a ready meal she is planning to eat when the carer arrives. I learn that she is hungry now, so I heat it up and serve it to her on a small tray. I feel a little quiver of joy in my lungs, knowing that Pam wants to eat.
The next day, Peter tells me that his mum has had a dreadful night and that she has been unable to keep anything down.
The Christmas Penguin
It’s early November and the first thing I notice is a Christmas decoration on the bookcase. It’s a penguin, wrapped up in a scarf holding a candy cane. Pam sees me looking at it and asks if I like it, which I do. “My friend bought me that,” she says, “Years ago, and it’s always the first Christmas decoration out.” We both sip our tea and Pam goes on to explain her Christmas plans. First, she’s going to have a big do at the local carvery, fourteen of us, including me. She’s going to wear one of her sequined gowns and sit at the head of the table. Then, on the 23rd, she’s going to get the train up to Cumbria to spend Christmas with her brother and sister in law and their children. Pam is a great aunt, she says and shows me photos on her mobile phone. But, she hastens to add, she’ll be staying at a Premier Inn because of her troubles, just in case. She doesn’t want to be a burden. Peter looks over at me, just the flicker of an eyebrow and a subtle shake of the head; he isn’t fooled for a second. She returns to the subject of the sequined gown and slowly mobilises out of the chair and takes shuffling steps to the bedroom. “Come here,” she beckons, “I want to show you my things.” And here I see Pam’s suits and dresses and those sequined evening gowns wrapped in dry cleaner’s polythene. I catch a whiff of mothballs and smile as I recall my own mother’s wardrobe. I watch as Pam lifts one outfit after another onto the bed, her feet unsteady, her arms barely able to reach up to the rail, and in moments she is breathless and dizzy and needs help to sit down.
… and while we live, we make PLANS…
On my next visit, the Christmas tree is up. It reminds me of lockdown and those mid-November Christmases we had because of boredom and disillusionment. The little tree sparkles in the corner of her little living room and Pam sits transfixed, smiling and sighing. She recounts her plans once more but this week she has decided to abandon the idea of the carvery, and instead have everyone over to the flat. We chat about plans and discuss the menu. She’s going to get Peter to book the train tickets to Cumbria. I cut up some fresh fruit for her as a snack, and as she sucks on a piece of strawberry, I catch the delight in her eyes, and there is something childlike and utterly innocent about her; the taste of that strawberry has become her whole world, for a moment.
She talks about her garden and all the bulbs she must plant. Peter has bought her two bags, one of daffodils and one of tulips. She’s going to do those at the weekend. Peter has arranged to make a little gardening table in the living room where Pam can do her planting. But first, she’d better have a lie down.
Pam doesn’t leave her bed after that. She is helped by carers who have grown to love her, and by the hospice night sitters who adore her. Peter has abandoned his flat and now sleeps in the living room. On my last visit, I sit holding her soft, warm hand, and listen to her erratic breathing. She doesn’t hold my hand back. I don’t know what it is about her, but I love her, this sweet lady of 75 who is mum and auntie and friend all rolled into one.
She just wanted one last Christmas.
