A Blessing In Disguise by Elvi Rhodes Page B

know she’s aware, even though she hasn’t the strength to speak. I know that hearing is the last of the senses to go.
    â€˜Mum isn’t a churchgoer,’ the daughter says. ‘None of us are, but she was insistent she wanted to see you.’ She herself seems puzzled as to why.
    â€˜That’s all right,’ I say.
    Mrs Parker is now trying hard to say something. Her lips move but almost no sound comes out. The daughter bends her ear to her mother’s lips, then looks up at me.
    â€˜I think she says “Sunday School” and then “Married”,’ the daughter says. ‘That’s all I can make out.’
    â€˜That’ll be it!’ Mr Parker speaks for the first time. ‘She used to go to church at one time. She was a Sunday School teacher when I first knew her. And we were married in church. It’s a long time ago.’
    So far I’ve been standing but now I move to take the empty chair by the head of the bed, which I suspect Staff Nurse put there for me. I sit down and I put my hands over Mrs Parker’s, which are together on the sheet. They are as cold as ice. There are things I would do if I felt that they would be what this lady wanted – I would anoint her with the holy oil, I would, if she wished, hear her confession, I would give her the last rites, but in my opinion this is not what she wants from me. I look at her husband and her daughter. ‘Shall we say the Lord’s Prayer, all of us together?’ I ask. So we do. Mrs Parker can’t join in but I know she hears us. Then I lay my hands on the top of her head, after which I make the sign of the cross and I give her a blessing, using the old one which isn’t heard as often nowadays but I guess she will have known it. It’s what God said to Moses.
    â€˜The Lord bless you and keep you;
    The Lord make his face to shine upon you,
    and be gracious to you;
    The Lord lift up his countenance upon you,
    and give you peace.’
    We sit in silence for a few minutes, then I speak into her ear.
    â€˜I’m wondering what hymns you sang when you were a Sunday School teacher. Did you sing “All Things Bright and Beautiful”?’
    Again, I can tell by the faint flicker of her eyelids that she’s trying to say ‘Yes’.
    â€˜Then we’ll sing a bit of it for you!’ I tell her.
    And we do. Quite quietly, the three of us. Very badly too. We are not exactly a choir of angels. And when we’re almost through Staff Nurse comes in, and finding us singing she joins in, again very quietly, but she has a lovely voice. At the end she says, ‘The doctor is here to see Mrs Parker. I’ll have to ask you . . .’
    â€˜I’m on my way,’ I tell her. Then I turn to Mr Parker and the daughter. ‘I’ll ring you in the morning. If you want me before then let me know and I’ll be with you. Don’t hesitate!’
    Then, since the doctor is waiting, I leave the ward quickly. Nigel is waiting on a seat in the corridor. ‘All right?’ he asks.
    I nod, and as we walk back to the car he says nothing more, for which I’m pleased. I know this visit is no different from many others I’ve done, and yet it is, because in the very short space in which I’m with the dying person – and I’m pretty sure Mary Parker is dying – that person becomes the most important individual, not just one of several. No-one else impinges. The only thing I can think of which is equally awesome to being in the presence of a soul close to leaving this world is being there at the moment a baby is born into it.
    Ten minutes later, we are back at the house and Sonia is opening the door to us. I’d looked at the clock in the car and realized we’ve been away only slightly more than half an hour, and yet it seems a little lifetime set apart and as Sonia opens the door I feel as though I was stepping from one world into