During my career, I had the privilege of caring for hundreds of people, many of whom boasted exalted rank or financial prestige. Although positive memories of those individuals remain, my heart was most touched by those who experienced and celebrated life without the benefit of power, money, or political status. The following is my memory of one special person.
“Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling. Charlie is my darling, la dum, de da, de da.”
The joyful singing came from an eighty-five-year-old propped up in her hospital bed. It was late evening, and Charlie, her eighty-nine-year-old husband, looked tired and exasperated as he prepared to leave for the couple’s Quebec home on the Gatineau River. He was annoyed with his wife for being ill, for he claimed never to have had a sick day in his life. He thought her exuberant singing was inappropriate. He was angry with her for dying of cancer, for leaving him.
The patient’s prescribed sedative had only excited her, and her noisy behaviour disturbed her roommates. It was my responsibility to settle the ward, so, together with another nurse, we wheeled her bed into the utility room where I would prepare the patient for sleep.
I washed her face and hands, massaged her back and calloused feet, repositioning her on fresh linen. She accepted sips of warm milk. I rinsed her mouth and dimmed the light.
But I did nothing for her in that brief period compared to the gift of lasting remembrance she left for me.
Born in 1900 in England, she was attending teachers’ college in 1917 when she met a young Canadian soldier with whom she fell madly in love. Her parents warned her that they would disown her if she persisted in the foolish affair.
In 1919 she followed her love to Canada and settled in Shawville, Quebec, a lumber settlement. She gave birth to three daughters and one son before 1928.
One evening in 1929 her husband did not return to their rented home. She went to look for him. At the local saloon, she learned that he had left town with his mistress that morning. Heartbroken and penniless, she said she packed the one suitcase she had brought from England, took her children, and headed for Ottawa, the closest big town.
“I was lucky enough to get a ride in the back of a farmer’s truck”, she smiled, remembering.
“When we got to Ottawa, we got a room in Eastview. Oh, I had such good luck there. I got a job at Ogilvy’s store on Rideau Street working six days a week”.
“Who looked after your children?” I asked, thinking of my own little ones and their need of constant care and protection.
“They looked after themselves”, she answered. “One day my baby boy had measles. I was so worried that day. He was very sick, and I thought if I go to work, he’ll die. But, if I didn’t go to work, I knew we would all die!
I went to work, and he didn’t die. He got better. I don’t know how I got through that day!”
“I walked to work and back every day and I wore the same pair of shoes every day until 1935”, she continued.
“I was so lucky! My manager had a cow, and he would give me a jar of milk for the children almost every week. On Saturdays, after work, I would go to the By Ward market and buy a big bag of oatmeal. It cost fifteen cents. Every Sunday I cooked the oatmeal on a little hot plate.”
In 1935 she got an entry-level government job and competed successfully for better positions. Her children grew up healthy and educated. One graduated from university. Her son had managed a Canadian Tire store and her youngest daughter had recently retired from External Affairs.
She met Charlie, a 59-year-old bachelor in 1956. He taught her to ski, skate, ice fish and embrace his rural Quebec lifestyle. Charlie was her darling.
And now, I thought, touching her cheek, these were her final days.
How many women have tales as triumphant, as rich as she?
Each day I remember how lucky I am to have been her nurse.
J. Alexander, 2022