ABSTRACT
I am used to the smell of death. But today it is different. The lifeless, marbled recipient of my care is a young mother. Her two young children and their father huddle distraught in the stark visitors’ room nearby, trying to make some sense of what has happened. James and Kate will never see their mother again. The last memories they may have of her will be images tarnished by the barrage of equipment (tubes, wires and bleeping machines) that surrounded and engulfed her in those last few days. I have been working as an intensive-care auxiliary nurse in a large hospital for several months. My role, broadly speaking, is to provide practical and administrative support to the qualified nursing staff in their delivery of care to patients and their relatives. Nowadays, though, the work is increasingly dominated by non-clinical responsibilities; dealing with hospital waste and equipment stores, for example, along with general ward cleaning. I took the job assuming that in between the bedpans and vomit there would be the opportunity to spend personal-contact time with patients, who are often traumatised by finding themselves in an intensive-care unit. Having seen both my parents die in hospital without TLC, I believe passionately in the value of pastoral support for the recovery of the living and the dignity of the dying. So, despite being totally untrained medically, with a teaching and social work background, I threw myself in at the deep end. ‘You’ll receive training on the job’ I was informed by the ward manager, as she thrust the crisp blue uniform into my arms and sped off to a management meeting.
