a quieter day

Blessedly, a much more peaceful day in the surgery. Afterwards I do a bereavement visit on a patient who lost her husband on Monday. The poor sod had suffered terribly in his last months and when I arrive the hapless widow is still in shock, ashen faced, staring uncomprehendingly at a television with the sound off. I sit down next to her to open my spiel, but am almost drowned out by a grandson prattling into his mobile phone on the other side of the room.
"Is there somewhere we talk in private?" I ask, knowing damn well there is not. Surprisingly the young man takes the hint immediately and slopes off into the kitchen to continue his conversation. He is still clearly audible through the thin walls, but it is at least a little quieter.

"I was so sorry to hear about the loss of your beloved Alf. What happened?"
And she tells me the story of Alf's last days in the hospice. This is my job, to let the bereaved tell their story. So many will not go there, preferring to skirt around the unpleasant details, even to the point of pretending nothing really bad has happened at all, but in my experience most people are anxious to tell their story. A cup of too sweet, too milky coffee is placed in my hands by her daughter, and I make all the right noises. In a few minutes, the heart rending story is over. I close with, "If there's anything I can do to help you, please let me know. Remember, the world and his wife will be round here in the days before the funeral, but afterwards they'll all melt away and you'll be left here by yourself. That's the most difficult time, believe me. And that's when I want you to get in touch with me if you feel the need. I'll be there for you"

As I leave the house wet snow is falling thickly, quickly blanketing the car. But as I drive home, the precipitation turns from snow, to sleet, and then simple heavy rain. In twenty minutes almost all signs of snow have disappeared and large puddles have developed at the kerbsides.