Not a Christmas story this time.
The Show Must Go On
Maisie Isherwood stirred and one eye flickered open. The brilliant lights shone in her face and she quickly closed the eye again.
“Oh my goodness” she fretted, “it’s later than I thought and I’m not ready for my opening number. The curtains will swing back any second - I must remember the opening sequence.”
But the thoughts were too much effort, and she laid back on her pillows, now only vaguely aware of the ward lights which had looked so much like a theatre. She was aware of the large, warm hand holding her tiny, frail thin one. It was so reassuring. With supreme effort she tried to turn her head to look into the dear face of her beloved Gordon. But it was too much. Her eyelids flickered again, and a warm, gentle voice whispered her name.
“Maisie, can you hear me?”
She wanted to answer, but couldn’t.
“Don’t worry” said the voice. “We’re looking after you. You collapsed in the street.”
What the voice didn’t add was “three weeks ago”.
“Gordon?” her lips said, although no voice emerged through them.
“No, Maisie, you’re in hospital. You had a fall.”
Maisie lapsed back into semi-consciousness as the ward Sister came over to ask if she was coming round.
“She’s just stirred a little”, replied Oliver. “She seems to think I’m her husband, Gordon.”
Sister picked up the newspaper on Maisie’s bedside table, open at an article called “Where are they now?” The picture, taken probably 60 years previously showed an elegant leggy young lady doing high kicks and another head and shoulders portrait of a vivacious young woman with a mass of curly hair, looking into the camera and laughing happily. The article described her as Britain’s answer to Ginger Rogers and described her stage, and later TV career in glowing terms. There was little about her personal life, except that her husband Gordon had died not long after their only son, Derek, was born. Derek had grown into an adventurous young man with a dare devil spirit. He’d set off on a single handed voyage from Whangarei, a couple of hours north of Auckland, to The Gambier Islands in French Polynesia. He was warned by experienced sailors that it was no place for a complete landlubber to get his sea legs and that the seas could reach mountainous proportions. His adventurous spirit drove him on, but several months later his dismasted yacht was washed up on a lonely beach and his body was never recovered.
Maisie never gave up hope that one day he would walk in through the front door asking what was for dinner. Sadly, it was not to be and as year followed year Maisie became more reclusive. Her career over, her loved ones no longer with her - she faded from her fans’ memories like waves on the sand.
The ambulance crew who had brought her into the hospital had picked up her bag, and the newspaper she was carrying which was open at the page of the article asking what had happened to her.
She’d neglected herself over the years, and at 96 was so frail the doctors thought it was unlike she’d survive surgery for her broken hip. The nurses had made her comfortable and even though she was unconscious she had emanated a sort of star quality. The fact that she was regaining consciousness at all was miraculous.
As Nurse and Sister stood quietly watching the old lady, wondering about her, Sister realised that Oliver’s shift had finished nearly an hour previously. She quietly indicated he should put down the old lady’s hand and get off home. He shook his head, mouthing, “No, I’d like to stay with her.”
Maisie stirred again, this time managing to turn her head slightly. Her eyes, still showing signs of their youthful sparkle, rested on Oliver.
“Derek.” Her lips clearly formed her son’s name. “Derek?”
Oliver crouched down by her side.
“You need to rest, now. I’ll be here when you wake up”, he whispered gently.
Maisie sighed. A small sound of contentment, as tension flowed out of her frail body and she drifted off into a restful, restorative sleep. Oliver gently placed her bird-like hand on the coverlet, and softly patted it.
Sister smiled at him. “That’s what makes you a good nurse, Oliver, empathy for your patient. It’s the most important thing - never lose it.”
Oliver looked quizzically at the now sleeping Maisie.
“What are her chances, Sister?”
“I wouldn’t like to say, but I’ve seen patients sicker than Maisie make incredible recoveries because they are loved and cared about. Go on, go home now. I’m sure she will be here in the morning, and wanting you to hold her hand.”
The Show Must Go On
Maisie Isherwood stirred and one eye flickered open. The brilliant lights shone in her face and she quickly closed the eye again.
“Oh my goodness” she fretted, “it’s later than I thought and I’m not ready for my opening number. The curtains will swing back any second - I must remember the opening sequence.”
But the thoughts were too much effort, and she laid back on her pillows, now only vaguely aware of the ward lights which had looked so much like a theatre. She was aware of the large, warm hand holding her tiny, frail thin one. It was so reassuring. With supreme effort she tried to turn her head to look into the dear face of her beloved Gordon. But it was too much. Her eyelids flickered again, and a warm, gentle voice whispered her name.
“Maisie, can you hear me?”
She wanted to answer, but couldn’t.
“Don’t worry” said the voice. “We’re looking after you. You collapsed in the street.”
What the voice didn’t add was “three weeks ago”.
“Gordon?” her lips said, although no voice emerged through them.
“No, Maisie, you’re in hospital. You had a fall.”
Maisie lapsed back into semi-consciousness as the ward Sister came over to ask if she was coming round.
“She’s just stirred a little”, replied Oliver. “She seems to think I’m her husband, Gordon.”
Sister picked up the newspaper on Maisie’s bedside table, open at an article called “Where are they now?” The picture, taken probably 60 years previously showed an elegant leggy young lady doing high kicks and another head and shoulders portrait of a vivacious young woman with a mass of curly hair, looking into the camera and laughing happily. The article described her as Britain’s answer to Ginger Rogers and described her stage, and later TV career in glowing terms. There was little about her personal life, except that her husband Gordon had died not long after their only son, Derek, was born. Derek had grown into an adventurous young man with a dare devil spirit. He’d set off on a single handed voyage from Whangarei, a couple of hours north of Auckland, to The Gambier Islands in French Polynesia. He was warned by experienced sailors that it was no place for a complete landlubber to get his sea legs and that the seas could reach mountainous proportions. His adventurous spirit drove him on, but several months later his dismasted yacht was washed up on a lonely beach and his body was never recovered.
Maisie never gave up hope that one day he would walk in through the front door asking what was for dinner. Sadly, it was not to be and as year followed year Maisie became more reclusive. Her career over, her loved ones no longer with her - she faded from her fans’ memories like waves on the sand.
The ambulance crew who had brought her into the hospital had picked up her bag, and the newspaper she was carrying which was open at the page of the article asking what had happened to her.
She’d neglected herself over the years, and at 96 was so frail the doctors thought it was unlike she’d survive surgery for her broken hip. The nurses had made her comfortable and even though she was unconscious she had emanated a sort of star quality. The fact that she was regaining consciousness at all was miraculous.
As Nurse and Sister stood quietly watching the old lady, wondering about her, Sister realised that Oliver’s shift had finished nearly an hour previously. She quietly indicated he should put down the old lady’s hand and get off home. He shook his head, mouthing, “No, I’d like to stay with her.”
Maisie stirred again, this time managing to turn her head slightly. Her eyes, still showing signs of their youthful sparkle, rested on Oliver.
“Derek.” Her lips clearly formed her son’s name. “Derek?”
Oliver crouched down by her side.
“You need to rest, now. I’ll be here when you wake up”, he whispered gently.
Maisie sighed. A small sound of contentment, as tension flowed out of her frail body and she drifted off into a restful, restorative sleep. Oliver gently placed her bird-like hand on the coverlet, and softly patted it.
Sister smiled at him. “That’s what makes you a good nurse, Oliver, empathy for your patient. It’s the most important thing - never lose it.”
Oliver looked quizzically at the now sleeping Maisie.
“What are her chances, Sister?”
“I wouldn’t like to say, but I’ve seen patients sicker than Maisie make incredible recoveries because they are loved and cared about. Go on, go home now. I’m sure she will be here in the morning, and wanting you to hold her hand.”
Comment