Priority Care

by Mary Hawkins

  Except for being very quiet, George seemed fine during the morning and as they tried to eat some lunch. Then they packed him, his tripod and a small bag with everyday clothes and toiletries into the station wagon. They had been told to bring his clothes and good lace-up shoes, as managing to clothe himself would be part of his retraining.

  'Well, now,' Peggy teased George gently, as Jean eased the car into the traffic, 'I wonder if there'll be pretty nurses for you to torment, or if the nurses will be strong young guys who'll make eyes at your daughter, and spoil you to get in good with her?'

  George did scowl at Peggy that time. He also growled something indistinctly.

  But when the nursing unit manager introduced himself as David Bentleigh, George did manage a faint smile. Jean felt immediate relief when the good-looking young man put out his hand and shook George's hand politely.

  'We're glad to have you with us, sir,' he said respectfully. There are a few formalities we heed to do, but perhaps you would like to see your room first and unpack, while I talk to your daughter for a few moments?'

  He introduced an attractive young nurse with a gentle smile as Jan, and George was wheeled away quite happily. Peggy glanced at David, as he insisted they call him, with approval, before following them.

  Jean took the chair that David pulled up for her in the small office. She wondered how much she should say about the episode the previous night. But it was made quite easy for her in the end.

  'Now, Miss Macallister,' the nurse began, 'we would like to know as much as you can tell us about your father's health and daily habits before his stroke, the aim being to get him back to what is normal for him as much as possible.'

  She answered as best she could questions about George's working life as a business executive before his retirement, his sleeping and hygiene habits, hobbies, food preferences, general habits and general health prior to his stroke.

  Then David said briskly, 'Yesterday, Dr Hansen personally delivered a stack of copies of old case-history notes of his previous hospital admissions, also a very comprehensive list of instructions,' he added a little drily.

  Jean felt a flash of delight. Chris, as busy as he'd been yesterday, had taken the time to . . .

  She realised the young man was looking at her curiously, and that he must have said something she had not heard.

  'I . . . I'm sorry . . . what was it you said?'

  She felt the blush creep over her face as he patiently repeated, 'We need to have some idea of just what he has been able to do for himself since you've had him at home.'

  She told him rapidly how well he had been doing until the last few days, and then the episode the previous night. His face was expressionless as he jotted down some notes as she was speaking.

  'You say the lady with you is a nursing sister?'

  'Yes,' Jean said with relief, 'she's been helping us since he came home from hospital.'

  'Is it all right with you if I get her in here and ask her a few questions?'

  Jean agreed happily, and hurried off to find Peggy and George. They were waiting for her in a bright room with two beds in it. She gave Peggy the message that David Bentleigh would like to see her, and accompanied it with a significant look. She studied George, as Peggy hurried off, and took a deep breath.

  'Well, George, love, this is it. Looks very promising, what I've seen and heard so far,' she said steadily, and then spoilt her little speech by letting a tear escape down her cheek.

  George smiled at her gently, and beckoned her over. She had returned his hug, blown her nose, wiped her eyes, and was sitting quietly with him, when there was a gentle cough from the doorway.

  'Er . . . Mr Macallister? I'm Dr Gill, the hospital resident. I'm afraid I have to do a routine admission check of you.' The young man looked briefly at his new patient, and then stared with admiration at Jean.

  'I'll leave you for a while, then,' Jean said hastily, and went back to the office.

  The door was closed, and she could hear Peggy's muffled voice. So she hesitated, and then wandered further down the corridor to where the sound of a television was coming from. There were several elderly people sitting quietly watching a movie in a small lounge. They turned and smiled welcomingly at her as she moved to a chair and sat down. They were all soon absorbed in the movie again. Jean studied them as unobtrusively as she could.

  They all looked cheerful despite their various reasons for being in a rehabilitation unit. A couple were sitting, in straight-backed chairs with armrests, at a table. Jean remembered what Chris had said about the right type of chair being so important for George. It had to be soft to prevent sore pressure areas, but easy to get in and out of independently. She guessed they must also be recovering from strokes.

  A couple of others were sitting in comfortable but sensible easy-chairs with their legs resting on cushioned stools. Near them were tubular-steel-framed walking aids with four legs. She searched her memory, and triumphantly came up with the official name for them. Zimmer frames. She recalled that there were various types, some with wheels, but she knew most people simply called them all walking frames. Usually elderly people used them so as not to put their full weight on the injured leg when recovering from fractured femurs, or while waiting for the stumps of amputated legs to heal and be shaped ready for their artificial legs;

  She was trying to think of other uses they could be put to, such as unsteady gait from early Parkinson's disease, when a rather plump young lady appeared. She smiled at Jean, and quickly moved over to the woman at the table.

  'Time for some more speech exercises, Mrs Alexander,' she said cheerfully. 'Now, is this your pylon?'

  Jean looked at her curiously, guessing that she was one of the speech experts, and wondering if she would be seeing George. She watched with interest as the woman handed a wooden walking aid to the patient. It was different from George's tripod. Instead of the three short legs curving to a single metal rod that had a handle like a standard walking stick, it had four thicker wooden legs that tapered up to a wide, shaped handle that was well padded.

  It seemed far more firm and stable than a tripod, as the lady grabbed it and positioned it carefully beside her chair. The speech therapist stood watchfully as the elderly lady lifted her right leg with one hand, placing the foot correctly, positioned her good leg also very carefully. Then she grasped the arm on the chair and pushed herself upright. She balanced herself and then straightened as she grasped the pylon. She moved it a short distance to the front and side, and then started off independently towards the open doorway.

  After they had disappeared slowly out of sight, Peggy walked into the room searching for Jean.

  'Good, there you are,' she said softly. 'There's a nurse waiting to show us over the unit.'

  They were shown a room filled with physiotherapy paraphernalia, which included weights, pulleys and electrotherapy equipment. There was a set of parallel bars—not for those with hemiplegia, Jean was assured by the young nurse. Jean and Peggy shared an amused smile, and tried to keep up with their guide, as she strode quickly through the other rooms where various activities were in progress.

  They were introduced to one of the occupational therapists in a room with a small kitchen. Patients were assessed here for their ability to prepare at least a hot drink and simple meal safely, so that they could manage with their main meal delivered by the meals-on-wheels organisations. The set of steps in one corner was used to teach patients how to safely negotiate stairs, the OT told them in answer to their question.

  There were bars which were used for pull-up exercises from a sitting position. They were briefly told that someone with hemiplegia could learn to distribute weight evenly on both legs when the ability in one to feel had been diminished, and learn to keep the knee locked so that they could support their weight easier.

  The nurse moved on and paused beside a padded, narrow couch which she told them was their tilt table.

  'We strap a patient to it, switch it on, and an electric mot
or slowly brings the table upright to any desired angle,' the young nurse was busy explaining, when the unit manager came into the room.

  'And all nurses should be strapped on and tilted upright, so they know what it feels like, shouldn't they, Jan?' he stated firmly. The girl looked a little embarrassed, and then relieved, when he continued, 'Thanks, Jan, I'll take over now.'

  When she had disappeared, he confided to Peggy, 'She tilted a patient up too quickly for his first time. Didn't explain properly either. Poor old dear was a bit scared. I just wish our budget could extend to replacing this with one of the new, more sophisticated circo-electric beds.'

  He sighed wistfully, and Jean was about to ask him what they were like, but Peggy sniffed and made a comment about thoughtless young things that didn't use their brains.

  Jean hid a smile. She had once heard Sister Howard tearing strips off a not-so-young nurse for not using the brains God had given her.

  There was at least one full-length mirror in each room, which was often used to ensure the patient with hemianopia was completely aware of the paralysed side as dressing skills were taught and practised. George was one of the fortunate people whose vision had not been affected in that way. Probably only about one in twenty suffered from permanent half-vision, David told them when Jean made the comment out loud.

  'The trouble is they are often unaware of their visual problems, and we start teaching them here to remember. It helps them not to hit doorways with their affected side, knock things off tables, and even ignore people sitting or standing on that side.'

  Jean realised as they were shown around how valuable it would have been for George to go straight to this unit as soon as possible after his stroke. A tremendous feeling of gratitude to Chris welled up in her. Especially after David casually mentioned that there was a very long waiting-list for admission to the unit. Jean wondered how hard Chris had needed to talk to be able to get George in so quickly. No wonder Chris had a dream . . .

  She hurried forward. That memory was still too raw.

  Peggy returned to her own home that evening. When she had waved goodbye to her and gone into the empty house, Jean felt very alone.

  She missed Chris desperately the next few days. She had not realised how much a part of their every day he had become with his cheerful smile and teasing of them all. Then Jean also had cause to long fervently for Chris as a doctor for her father's sake.

  The first couple of days she had known would be difficult for George to adjust. But each day she visited him he became more and more lethargic, dropping off to sleep several times while she was talking quietly to him. At first, she thought the staff might have been expecting too much of him. Then she found out that only one attempt had been made to walk him. It had been a dismal failure. One day, Jan let slip he could no longer help with his showering and dressing at all.

  When Jean confronted David, he told her bluntly that they were concerned about him. Dr Evans had returned briefly to relieve Chris while he was away, and every effort was being made to get him to see Mr Macallister as soon as possible.

  Then Jean called Peggy, who had not been able to visit George for a few days. She sat with Jean and observed George for a short while. Then, her face set, she bounced off to talk to the nursing staff. After a few moments, a grim-faced Peggy demanded to see the RMO.

  That young man was not able to stand up to Sister Howard at her most professional. Soon he found himself confiding to her his concern and frustration that he had rung Dr Evans a couple of times about George. But he had refused to 'OK' the order for a CT scan of George's head so that they could try and find out what was happening.

  Peggy told a pale-faced Jean on the way home.

  She was fuming. 'Never did like that old fuddy-duddy! I was so thankful when he retired. Always worrying about ordering expensive tests! Trying to keep in good with the powers that be in the health system. He hasn't even been to see George since that promising young doctor rang him when he first started worrying about him.' Then she echoed the desire of Jean's heart. 'I do wish Chris were here, or that he had thought to leave us a phone number.'

  Peggy offered to stay at the house with Jean, but Jean knew she was still busy sorting out a lot of things at her own home, and refused.

  When Jean had parked the car she was too upset to go into the lonely house, and headed for the lake. She trudged along the water's edge in the opposite direction from the way she and Chris had walked.

  The soft sound of a boat's motor drifted to her across the water, and she watched the navigation lights on a small dinghy until it had disappeared around the next bluff. She perched on the log of a fallen tree. It was very still. Lights from along the shoreline were reflected in the dark water. The water gurgled softly as the spent wash from the boat at last reached the shore. And then it was still again.

  Jean shivered. That dark lake was a very lonely place at night, and she suddenly wished she had not come. She thought of the way Chris had been that day he had agreed to let George home. She had never asked him why he had changed so markedly that morning. It had been so obvious that he had thought Bill was her lover. That he had thought her immoral . . . even the tramp Mrs Jones must have called her. Perhaps he'd even thought Joe . . .

  She jumped up and strode down to the water's edge. And she had let her own guard down with him so many times, had not been able to stop loving him. Even on the mountain-top . . .

  Never to have him hold her close again, never to drink from his lips, never to even see him again was unthinkable. Unbearable.

  She had never dreamt that loving someone could be so confusing, could weaken her resolve to protect herself from ever being second best in that man's life. Was this how her mother had felt? Even second best might be better than no life shared at all with one loved so ... so desperately.

  She headed back home as swiftly as she could with only the moon to light her way. A car door slammed. Her heart leaped when she saw the car in the driveway next door. Then she realised it was not Chris's sports car, and the extent of her disappointment stunned her.

  Then she paused again. Perhaps someone was looking for Chris.

  She was halfway across to his house when the front porch light was switched on. She stopped. One figure resembled the tall, dark-haired woman who had been there before. Then two shorter women moved into the light. One of them was carrying a suitcase, and she watched them disappear into the house.

  Sudden hope made her start walking swiftly again. If they had been given a key to the house, perhaps they could tell her how to contact Chris.

  To her dismay, it was the woman he had called Naomi who opened the door a few moments after her knock. She stared at Jean silently for a moment.

  'Ah, Chris's neighbour,' she sneered. 'Looking for him again, were you?'

  Jean felt her anger stirring. She opened her mouth to reply angrily, when a woman's voice called out, 'Who is it, Naomi?'

  The tall woman tossed over her shoulder, 'Just the little tramp from next door. After Chris again,' and smiled maliciously as Jean felt the furious colour flood her face.

  There was a shocked exclamation, and a short, grey-haired lady pushed Naomi out of the way, and peered out at Jean.

  Jean took a tight hold on her temper, and said through stiff lips, 'I ... I just need to contact Chris about one of his patients . . . He ‑'

  'Is that Georgie?' an eager voice said from behind the two women.

  'Mrs Bensted!' Jean exclaimed.

  Then Mrs Bensted was there, looking even frailer as her face beamed at Jean. 'Oh, love, it's so good to see you,' she said as she hugged and kissed Jean. 'Come in. I think you've met my sister before. Years ago now. And this is Naomi.'

  Jean was drawn into the house. In a daze, she allowed herself to be fussed over and offered a chair in the familiar old lounge. When she was seated, she stared at Mrs Bensted's sister—Chris's mother.

  'I really don't think it's wise having someone Chris considers a tramp come inside, Aunt Maud.'
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  Jean stared at the angry young woman with absolute amazement. Then new pain mingled with the old one. It slashed through her worse than anything she had suffered before in her life. Chris must still think she was a tramp.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Through her daze of anguish, Jean heard the gasp of protest from Chris's mother as she stared, horrified, at Naomi. But it was Mrs Bensted who rose majestically to her feet, and broke the stunned silence.

  'How dare you, Naomi? How dare you come into my home and insult my young friend?' she said in icy, measured tones.

  Gone was the frail, stooped old lady who had welcomed Jean. In her place stood the stalwart woman who had confronted her neighbour nearly ten years before after a similar insult. Only that time Mrs Jones had insulted Jean's mother as well as herself.

  'Just because you've failed in your relationships gives you no right to behave as despicably as you have to your family these past weeks. Georgie is as upright a young lady as you would find anywhere. She could certainly teach you some manners! Now apologise, and then go to your room!'

  Naomi stared with widened eyes at the little old lady defending Jean, and then at Jean.

  'Georgie?' she asked a little uncertainly. 'I thought your name was Jean?'

  'It doesn't matter what her name is when you insult my dear young friend in my home,' snapped Mrs Bensted. 'Apologise! At once, please, Naomi!'

  'You . . . you . . . can't speak to me like that!'

  'Naomi! Do as she says!'

  Suddenly, Jean saw a clear resemblance between the two sisters as Mrs Hansen spoke in a steely voice, not unreminiscent of her tall son. To Jean's increasing confusion, tears suddenly filled Naomi's eyes as her face crumpled.

  'I'm sorry, Mum,' she said brokenly. 'I'm . . . sorry,' she flung at Jean, and then flew from the room.

  Mum? Was Naomi . . . ?

  'She's your daughter?' Jean said in a stunned voice, and then added stupidly as Mrs Hansen nodded, 'She's Chris's sister?'