The Garden of Memories
Prologue
Apparently, forty years should seem longer. Before people speak about the passing of large measures of time, they shake their heads in bewilderment, click their tongue against the roof of their mouth and sigh. Shortly after that, they say things like, ‘I can’t believe it’s been forty years!’ Next, some repetition to emphasise their surprise, ‘Forty. I mean, who would have thought it?’ Well, Rose would. Because when she started nursing, her eyes were bright, her skin was line-free and she had enough energy to power a hospital ward. Now her batteries are flat, and the majority of creases around her eyes aren’t made of laughter lines. They’ve mostly been created by exhaustion and burnout. Forty years of nursing will do that. Forty years of staying on past the end of your shift, caring, mending, lifting, guiding and healing. Forty years of carefully ironed uniforms, precisely tucked hospital corners, sensible shoes and quiet footsteps. A gentle smile, the touch of a hand, and a well-placed word.
The last shift. Forty years of a career that will end today. To Rose, this ending is much harder to believe than the passage of all that time. Since the age of twenty-two, she’s known nothing else. Nursing is who she is. It defines her. Rose Lanyon, the nurse. After today, what will she be? Who will she be? The words, ‘I used to be a nurse’ will find their way into her conversation. She’s not sure she’s ready for that – a ‘used to be’. She tells herself she needn’t worry too much, because she’ll only have to explain to those who don’t know her. Most do know her in this little Cornish community of which she’s part. For the past thirty years Rose has been a nurse in the local GP practice. A drawer of blood, a shoulder to cry on, a dresser of wounds. Before that, she walked the wards of The Royal Cornwall Hospital, until she swapped that for walking the bedroom, her baby daughter falling asleep on her shoulder, just as the dawn rose over the ocean.
Rose’s uniform is hanging on the wardrobe door, ready. Unlike her. Though her long career has taken its toll, she’s no regrets. None. She’s loved being a nurse. Though not all of it, because some parts have broken her. Sometimes she lies awake at night, remembering the faces of those who passed before their time. Rose thinks about the kind words offered to her by grieving relatives. Little gifts on parting. Thank you. You were there for my loved one. We will always remember you… At the time, she watched them go, never imagining that she would also remember them, in the still quiet of the night. But she does.
The uniform waits. Under her fingers the material is cool, navy, no-nonsense. The uniform represents professionalism, inspires respect, garners trust and confidence. And sometimes she’s been grateful for this uniform, this barrier between the personal and professional. Rose would hide behind it to protect herself, especially during the hard times, but much more often, there have been happy times. Joy, even. The maternity ward was full of it, new life spreading light, its echo in the ringing bells of the cancer clinic. The love of the job and the people she met carried her up, over and through – knitting a pattern, a pathway along a working life for her to follow.
Acknowledging all that happiness, Rose finds herself smiling as she slips the uniform free of the hanger. Acknowledging too, that she’s grateful for such a long and happy career. It registers like a thump in her gut that this is the last time she’ll wear this bit of cotton. This bit of cotton that’s so much more. On the dressing table, from a photo taken on their local beach, her husband, Glen, smiles too. His grey curls ruffling in the wind, his eyes, blue chips, squinting in the sun. She has the fleeting impression that he’s about to say something. Probably get your uniform on, go to work and stop all this pondering, Rose. Glen always said pondering on things too much was no good for you. He might have been right. She takes a breath, slips the uniform on, touches her fingertips to her lips and then to his. ‘See you later, you old grump. Love you.’
* * *
The wheels of her little car rumble over the uneven surface of the staff car park at the surgery, and she thinks of all the times she’s avoided potholes and cursed every bump and jolt. For too long, staff have been assured resurfacing will be done, but it never is. Funds are tight, and other more important issues are always way ahead in the queue. Well, at least this is the last time across the assault course. Rose sighs, pats the steering wheel and leans across to grab her bag from the passenger seat. The last shift waits, but the short distance from the car to the door suddenly appears too far away. A heaviness settles in her chest, and two potted palms at each side of the surgery entrance rattle their fronds in the breeze and go a bit blurry. Rose opens the glove compartment and pulls a single tissue from the packet, then on second thought, she grabs the whole packet and shoves it in her pocket.
In through the nose out through the mouth breathing, and staring straight ahead gets her from the car to the door. The early morning air capturing her breath in little white puffs – temporary exhibits of panic. The reason for the panic is unclear. It’s not because of today, she decides. It’s the rest of it. What comes after. The rest of her life. Glen would have said she should have a nice cuppa and try to relax, calm the nerves before the first patients arrive. Yes, that’s what she’ll do. Rose’s stomach loses some of its heaviness and she smiles as she steps through the door.
Once inside the waiting room, the silence and dim lighting are unnerving. Very odd. The main light should be on and a few members of staff are normally around by now, especially her lovely friend Sally. Sometimes Rose wonders if she gets in early to avoid being at home. Reading between the lines of Sally’s story, Rose has gleaned that her husband is not the nicest man in the world, which is such a shame, as she’s such a kind and caring woman. Rose pops her head through the office door. Nope. No Sally on reception either…
‘Surprise!’ Sally leaps out of the darkness as the lights come on, and the waiting room erupts with a rush of workmates. Multicoloured balloons and banners festoon the walls and a cheer goes up on the count of three.
Gathering her senses and a weak smile, Rose says, ‘My goodness. I wasn’t expecting this … and certainly not first thing!’
Sally’s moon face looms at her, and she gets a noisy kiss on both cheeks. ‘We did it first thing, because some of us will be off to the other practice later, and we didn’t want to miss you. And yeah, we know you said you didn’t want a fuss. Just wanted to slope off quietly into the sunset like the hero at the end of a western. There’s no way we were allowing that, eh gang?’ Hands raised, she turns to the assembled doctors and nurses.
‘No!’ They shout in unison.
Then the senior partner, Dr James Gregson, steps forward with a sparkly bag and a handful of cards. ‘Just a little something to show our appreciation for such a wonderful member of staff and friend. There are no words adequate to describe the phenomenal contribution you have made to this practice, the hospital and the wider community over the past forty years, so I won’t try. Suffice to say, we all thank you from the bottom of our hearts and quite frankly, dear Rose, we don’t know what we’ll do without you.’
Rose has known Dr James, as she calls him, for the entire time she’s worked here. They are of a similar age, and she’s watched his career advance. Seen the young junior doctor that he was, a little shy and unsure, become a gifted, confident and well-respected senior. Now as he looks at her glassy-eyed, she’s glad she put the whole pack of tissues in her pocket.
Rose takes the sparkly bag, nods a few times, dabs her eyes with a tissue and allows a stretchy smile to speak for her. Perhaps she can get away with not actually saying anything, because there’s a good chance she won’t be able to. There’s an overwhelming wave of emotion rising up inside, and if she opens her mouth, it will all come flooding out. But they’re all looking at her with expectant faces. Sally’s wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, then flapping the tissue in the air. Not a great idea in a surgery. A few other colleagues have damp eyes too, and Rose can’t bear it. This is why she didn’t want a fuss. Didn’t want to do a speech.
There are too many memories to mention. To many people to acknowledge, some still here, some gone elsewhere, some no longer on this earth. Happy times, sad times, funny things that have happened. Little things, big things, things that have made all the years of walking through these doors worthwhile. The worry of missing out a person’s name, or a time that was special to anyone in this room renders her mute. Rose suspected it would when she pondered on the ‘to have a fuss or not’ day. What does she do now? The big smile is making her lips ache and one or two people are beginning to look uncomfortable. Perhaps the best thing to do is just say:
‘Thank you so much, everyone.’ The wave swells in her chest, ready to crash onto the shore, and she has to take in a big breath and blow it out. ‘I will miss you all very much.’ Her voice sounds wobbly and weak – an assessment of her whole body – and she grabs the back of a waiting-room chair as the cheers go up again.
Sally shoves another chair under Rose’s bottom, puts some music on her mobile phone, and Dr James magics a big yellow-and-pink cake with her name on it from somewhere. Everyone gathers round, wishing her luck and asking what she plans to do in the future. A future in which she ‘used to be’ a nurse. She finds another tissue, a bright smile and a carefree chuckle. Then she shrugs her shoulders and tells them, ‘Oh, lots of things. I have so much I want to do. No idea where I’ll find the time!’ Luckily, they seem to believe her.