Love is not something that we receive in proportion to our merits; love is a gift of God. And I like to think that ensuring peace at the end of the day is an act of love on the part of the nursing staff. St Paul, in his Letter to the Corinthians, said that Faith, Hope and Love are the greatest of God’s gifts. I suspect that most doctors and nurses will say that faith does not play a great part in tranquillity at the hour of death, because few people mention religion or ask to see a priest. But who are we to judge? None of us knows what is going on in the mind of a dying man or woman, especially if that person is beyond articulate speech. Faith is a private matter, usually held deep within a person, quite impossible to recognise or understand if you have no faith yourself.
There are many reports from people who have returned from a near-death experience, and they are all remarkably similar. Testimonies come from every part of the world, and in all periods of history. Without exception they speak of a profound sense of well-being, and overwhelming feelings of peace and calm. Some people have said they felt safety and comfort, and loving arms enfolding them. A woman has said she felt as though she was drowning in a deep green sea, and the depths contained an inexpressible joy and fullness of life that pulsed more strongly than it had ever done in ordinary life. Many have likened the sensation to lying on the surface of dark, smooth waters, and of being gently supported. Some people have spoken of having no will of their own, but a feeling of weakness and trust and languorous ease. There are also many reports of an enveloping darkness in which a light is shining. Some speak of a longing to reach that light, others of being led gently towards it. One man spoke of a feeling that he was floating between a black sky and a black sea, between which a phosphorescent light shone. A long tunnel of velvety darkness, with a light shining at the end of it, seems to be the common link. There are also reports of beautiful music, often choirs or strings – but no tune that can be named.
These near-death experiences are well documented and the similarities are striking. No one has ever reported fear or horror associated with a near-death experience, and the absence of such reports is strong evidence that the beatific claims are valid.
Biochemists tell us that the feelings of well-being are due to endomorphs, a morphine-like substance secreted by the body in time of need. Areas of the brain secrete endomorph molecules that bind to nerve endings, and the effect is to alter sensory awareness. They tell us that the light is nothing more than the hypothalamus generating electrical sparks into the brain. The chemical activities in the body that induce a feeling of peace and light at the hour of death have nothing to do with God, they tell us, and everything to do with biochemistry.
I grant the integrity of scientists and the validity of their research, but I have seen enough of life and death to suspect that this is not the whole story. There must be more to the strange species we call humanity than biochemical reactions. If there is a God, then perhaps the brain was created to release endomorphs, and the hypothalamus to release light at time of death, for the peace and comfort of the dying.
We will never know what awaits us after death. But we do know, because many people have returned to tell us, that the gentle hand of love guides us through the passage that leads from life into death.
Mrs Merton’s sister was her only living relative. I wrote to her twice, but received no reply and feared that Mrs Merton would be alone when she died. I told the nurses that we must therefore give her special love and care. On the space given for next-of-kin was also the name of Lady Tarrant, a former employer. So I telephoned the number given. The response was immediate. ‘Harriet Merton, you tell me, dying? I did not even know that she was ill! I will come tomorrow, and I will inform my sons and my daughter. They will want to know.’
Had I told the nurses that Mrs Merton needed our love because she was alone in the world? I could not have been more wrong. Mrs Merton was surrounded by love.
Lady Tarrant told me that Mrs Merton had been nanny to her three children and had been given absolute charge of them when she was abroad with her husband. When the children grew up, Mrs Merton had been retained as housekeeper. The whole family loved her, and her devotion to the family had always been well beyond what was expected of a paid servant. Lady Tarrant spent about half an hour with Mrs Merton, who afterwards said, ‘My Lady has been such a support to me in life. She was always so good, so kind. I’ve been blessed.’
It wasn’t until the sons and the daughter came that we saw the extent of their love. They were distraught, especially the youngest, Jason, a man of about thirty-five who was well dressed, competent, affluent. No one would have expected him to break down in my office – but he did. Nanny Merton meant almost as much to him as his own mother. Was she really going to die? Could nothing be done? I assured him nothing would cure her – the sarcoma had been spreading slowly, and now the bones had broken, which usually caused the malignancy to spread faster through the lymph system and the bloodstream. He broke down and wept. I told him to spend as much time as he could with his childhood nanny, because she had, we estimated, only a week or two of life left, and the presence of those who loved her would be precious.
The older brother came with his wife. Mrs Merton was surrounded by pineapples, peaches and grapes, none of which she could eat. When the orchids arrived, she murmured ‘how pretty’ and drifted off to sleep again. But when their sister arrived with her children, who had picked a bunch of forget-me-nots from the garden, Mrs Merton stretched out a frail hand and briefly returned to the world of the living.
‘Forget-me-not eyes … Never forget my Bert, my lad. Smiling and waving and marching off,’ she murmured. The children didn’t understand. How could they?
Before going off duty that evening, I went into the side ward to see Mrs Merton. It was quiet in there. Time had never seemed so measureless, silence had never seemed so intense as it did while I was feeling her pulse, feeling the slow, ever slower pulse of mortality.
A nurse had put the orchids on the windowsill, and placed the forget-me-nots in a small vase on the bed table where she could see them. Mrs Merton sensed my presence and opened her eyes. ‘I will soon be going to my Bert,’ she murmured, looking at the vase. ‘He’s waiting for me, I know. Waiting, my dear lad.’
‘I’m sure he is. I have not the slightest doubt he will be there to greet you,’ I said.
Slowly she turned her eyes from the spring flowers to meet mine. ‘One thing bothers me, though,’ she said softly.
I leaned closer. ‘What is it? Surely nothing can bother you?’
She made an enormous effort to speak. ‘Sister, do you think he will know me? My hair was chestnut brown when he went marching off. He loved my hair. Now it’s all grey. Do you think he will still love me?’
Close to tears, I said very slowly, ‘Mrs Merton, nothing can change love. You know that, don’t you?’ She nodded her head. ‘He is waiting for you, and he loves you. For him, you have not changed.’
A little moan of contentment was her response, and she glanced again at the forget-me-nots. Her lips moved, but her words could not be heard. Then she closed her eyes, and did not open them again.