We Are All Made of Stars by Rowan Coleman Page B

feeling so much better, as if their body is drawing up all of their energy for one last hurrah. I don’t know what causes it or why it happens, but nurses see it all the time. There’s more going on, you know, in our hearts and minds than those doctors know. Nurses see it every day. I don’t think you need to worry.’
    She regards me seriously for a while, and then she smiles.
    â€˜Would be it really naughty if you could take me for a spin out in the garden? I just want to feel the breeze on my face. Just for a little while; I don’t want Mum to wake up and for me to not be here.’
    â€˜Of course,’ I say, opening the patio doors, which each patient’s room has, leading out to the grounds.
    â€˜And Stella,’ she says. ‘Would you write a letter for me? To Mum and Katy?’ Grace’s room is lit very low, and no longer bare. Keris must have brought in the photo that is on her bedside table – maybe from her office, because at its heart is Grace wearing a lilac T-shirt, with the Marie Francis logo printed on, and a wide, wide smile, eyes disappearing into crinkles. Her arms are open but not quite encircling a large group of kids and teenagers – all ethnicities, girls and boys, grinning, their thumbs up, pulling faces, making signs behind each other’s heads. A couple of them are holding one of those large outsized cheques that makes a presentation to charity. It looks like a snap that was taken in a moment of great fun. Sasha from the day team told me that there had been a constant stream of visitors by Grace’s side all day, and the room is filled to the brim with cards, drawings, flowers, pastel-coloured teddy bears holding hearts – there’s even a balloon gently bobbing in the corner.
    She is sleeping, her face turned towards the darkest corner. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her since she arrived, but I can see she has a gentle face, recently altered by pain. But it’s a face that has a past, that has lived through difficult times. I can tell by the deep lines that are carved around her mouth and eyes. But for now at least she is relaxed. Pain-free. Her hands neatly folded on top of the bedspread.
    Quietly I move around her, checking her pulse, her temperature, her blood pressure and oxygen saturation. I’m comforted by the routine, the certainty in numbers, the peace that fills every corner of the room.
    â€˜Where …?’ Grace whispers the word as her eyes flicker open. Slowly she focuses on me. I take her hand and smile, reassuringly. Often a patient will forget where they are or why, for a few moments. You take their hand, and look them in the eyes, and help them to remember in the least frightening way that you can.
    â€˜It’s OK,’ I tell her. ‘Grace, you’re in a hospice, do you remember? My name is Stella. Keris brought you here, and we’re looking after you now.’
    I watch as her eyes glide around the room, taking a moment to focus, and I feel her fingers relax in mine.
    â€˜What time is it?’ she says.
    â€˜Almost two in the morning.’
    â€˜Could I have a drink of water, please?’
    â€˜Of course.’ I pour a cupful and offer it to her with a straw. She shakes her head, and I help her sit up, so she can drink from the cup herself. She’s weak and she winces, but she can grip the cup and bring it to her lips.
    â€˜Are you in pain?’ I ask her.
    â€˜No.’ She shakes her head, but I suspect she is lying. Patients do that; they don’t want you to know how much pain they are in, in case it means something. When you are here, facing the very end of your life, no one wants anything to mean anything.
    â€˜I’ll get the on-call doctor to have a look at your meds, just to make sure.’
    â€˜I’m fine.’
    â€˜Did your family come in today?’
    She sips the water. ‘No, I don’t have any family. Well, I did once, years ago. But