Our Vulnerable
Folk
Mildred
was a tall, elegant lady, apparently one who had seen better times. She lived alone in a semi-detached house and
booked for our holiday with a history of a weak heart. Just how weak we did not realise until later.
It was
Monday morning when an urgent message was received that Mildred was not
well. It was almost breakfast time and
there was Mildred, collapsed on her bed, partially dressed; she was
half-conscious, with a wear thready pulse and blue
ear lobes and lips. We lifted her gently
back into her
bed and covered her and waited for her to recover. Within about ten minutes she was back to
normal, pink and alert. We questioned
her. Yes, she told us, she had had
attacks like this one before, but she had paid little attention to them. After all, if one knew that one’s heart was
not very strong, one must expect these small crises. She had a small breakfast in bed and on her
insistence that she was now alright, was allowed to get herself up and about
soon after ten in the morning.
On
Tuesday we had a repeat performance.
Surely, we argued, she had not been having daily attacks at home. Oh, no, assured Mildred to our worried
questions, but – adding a significant clue – she did not often get up until
after
It so happened that one of our party ‘staff’ was returning by car
to his home and we approached him to see how he felt about taking Mildred with
him. He agreed and we put the
proposition to Mildred. Her response was
immediate and determined. She did not
want to return home. Quite sensibly she
pointed out that she was being better looked after with us than she would be at
home all alone in her big house. So
Mildred spent her last two days of the holiday being cosseted and cared
for. The doctor saw her and although
concerned about her, agreed that her decision to stay with us was as sensible
as any other course of action.
On
Saturday, departure arrangements were initiated in a flurry. Mildred was dealt with by one helper, who left
her all tidy, her case packed and Mildred resting, we hoped, with her mind at
ease. But was she? Ten minutes later, Mildred was standing in
the corridor, her grey eyes wide and worried.
Would we forget her and go without her?
In vain was she assured that every coach-load was checked to ensure that
all the expected passengers were on board before it was allowed to leave. Mildred, her
lips blue, her face drained of colour, tried in vain to give us an impression
of reassurance. Something had to be done.
The
route to the front entrance passed through the big lounge. In one corner was a long black old-fashioned
sofa, one end raised to a curled headrest, the other stretched out to bed
length. We brought one of the pillows
from Mildred’s small bed and put it against the raised end of the sofa and put
her almost recumbent on the wide resting place, her smart pink suit spread
straight out under her to prevent it crumpling.
Mildred lay relaxed and happy, watching the ordered activity, the
walking aids and cases being stacked in the corridor, the disabled in their
wheelchairs sitting in excited waiting columns to peer through the big double
doors to see the arrival of the coaches.
Mildred
was the last passenger on board her coach.
She travelled safely in a front seat beside the escort and was met by a
friendly neighbour who delivered her safely to her house. The following day, Sunday, she was taken as
usual to her church. She was jubilant;
she had had a marvellous holiday; the sun had shone the sand was smooth and
golden; the food was good and plentiful; her holiday had been perfect. Not a word about her attacks; not a suspicion
of self-pity; even the Vicar heard all about it and how she would be looking
forward to another wonderful week next year.
On Friday,
the message came through. Mildred had
been found dead in bed on Thursday morning by a shocked home-help.