‘That will be lovely, dear. Remember not to come and get me until after I’ve fed the hens, though.’
Oliver shook his head with disbelief, turning away as he saw the nurse starting to assist her patients back to their chairs in front of the television soap opera running in the corner of the dayroom. He even heard her start to discuss the merits of different types of hen food with the confused old woman after telling the overweight gentleman to have a look in his dressing-gown pocket for his inhaler.
Line dancing? With frail, elderly patients who were at enough risk of falling and injuring themselves just getting through the activities of daily life?
Ridiculous. Irresponsible and … and airheaded. About what he would have expected from the nurse whose name he didn’t even know.
He’d remembered her, though, hadn’t he? Even in theatre scrubs she’d been distracting, with those unusually dark blue eyes and the wispy blonde curls that seemed incapable of accepting complete restraint within the confines of an elasticised theatre cap. She had a mouth that seemed permanently on the verge of laughter, too. Inappropriate in the serious environment of an operating theatre and he’d certainly noticed that when she’d had the nerve to wander into his theatre with her mask dangling around her neck like a damn bib.
Oliver stalked past the nurses’ station on his way up the back stretch of the U-shaped ward. He caught sight of another nurse’s uniform behind the counter.
‘Sally?’
The charge nurse looking up from the computer screen. ‘Oliver! You’re early for a visit today.’
‘I had an empty slot in my outpatient clinic so I thought I’d pop up.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Have you got any idea what’s going on in your dayroom?’
Sally grinned. ‘The line-dancing class?’
Oliver didn’t return the smile. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s great, isn’t it? She’s only been here for a few days but I’ve never seen anyone establish a rapport with patients quite the way she has.’
‘I can imagine.’
Sally didn’t seem to notice the dryness of his comment.
‘She’s getting people moving more than any of the physios or occupational therapists have simply because she’s making it so much fun. Daniel told me today that he’s thinking of incorporating line dancing into his future physiotherapy routines. He’s never thought of it before because he works with people individually. Diversional therapy for whole groups is something we associate with rest homes, not hospitals.’ Sally shook her head. ‘Who’d have thought? A junior nurse could be starting a revolution.’
Oliver pressed his lips together. There wasn’t much point in making his disapproval known if the physiotherapists and other professionals were happy about this. Would he have to wait until of the patients tripped over and broke a wrist or worse before he could step in and make sure the plug got pulled on this unconventional and very dubious activity?
Frustration bubbled. It wasn’t even his call really, was it? He could, of course, have a word with his senior colleagues in Geriatrics. Yes … that was the way to go. He didn’t usually tap into the influence he had always been able to exert but maybe this was a case of having to override the professional with a more personal status. The thought should have been satisfying but, instead, it led to a very disturbing thought. The muscles around his lips strengthened their hold.
‘Lady Dorothy?’ The query was succinct. Surely his mother wouldn’t have been tempted to not only make a fool of herself but endanger her fragile health by cooperating with the blonde bimbo nurse and her outrageous activities?
Sally’s face softened. ‘She’s in her room,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry, Oliver, but she’s still refusing to try anything in the way of rehab or social activities.’
With a nod, Oliver was on his way to the private room at the end of the corridor. Refusing to participate in social activities in an environment like this was perfectly understandable but some form of rehab was essential if his mother wasn’t going to lose an enormous amount of quality of life. He paused for a moment in front of the closed door of the private room and the curtains on the corridor side windows were pulled shut. How many people would be walking past without even realising that one of most revered society matrons in Auckland was an inpatient of St Patrick’s?
Lady Dorothy Dawson was in bed. She was resting against a mound of pillows with a silk shawl around her shoulders and the silver waves of her hair brushed and shining but she looked pale and unhappy. Her face brightened as Oliver moved to her bedside.
‘Oliver! What a lovely surprise!’
Kissing the soft skin of his mother’s cheek, Oliver realised that part of her pallor was due to the fact that Lady Dorothy was not wearing any make-up. She’d probably allowed a nurse to brush her hair but to let a stranger do something more personal like applying foundation or lipstick would be galling, wouldn’t it? Especially to a woman who’d always been as proud and independent as his mother.
‘How are you, Mother?’
‘I’m fine, darling. I’d like to go home.’
‘Soon.’ His smile hid an increasing anxiety as Oliver took a seemingly casual glance around the room. He was becoming very good at assimilating the information he needed at lightning speed.
The joints in his mother’s hands were still swollen and angry from the vicious recurrence of her arthritis. She looked as if she was still losing weight, probably because she was refusing to allow anyone, even him, to help her eat and for days now her only intake had been smoothies or cool soups that she could sip through a straw. The weight loss wasn’t the main worry, however. The combination of reduced food intake and her illness was playing havoc with her blood-sugar levels, making control of her insulin-dependent diabetes very difficult.
‘How’s the pain?’
Lady Dorothy simply gave him a look and Oliver had to smile. It was exactly the kind of look he remembered from when he’d been a small child and he’d hurt himself in some fashion. The ‘suck it up and get on with it’ look because pain was an inconvenience that couldn’t be allowed to interfere with life being lived. Or duty being done. It was the way Lady Dorothy had been raised and the way she’d raised her only son.
His mother might look like an ultimately pampered member of the most elite social circle to be found in the young country of New Zealand but he knew she had the strength of a tiger and a heart of purest gold. Her fundraising efforts were legendary and St Patrick’s had benefited along with countless other institutions and charitable organisations. Lady Dorothy was seventy-three years old and had never needed to work for financial reasons but she put more time and effort into her passion than some forty-year-old CEOs of large corporations ever did.
If being able to be hands on for her work had come to an end, Lady Dorothy would be devastated but right now she wouldn’t be able to make a phone call, let alone hold a pen. And if her blood-sugar levels couldn’t be stabilised she wouldn’t be able to drive her car or be left alone at any time due to the risk of her falling into a diabetic coma. While she’d always had help running their enormous property with the help of a housekeeper and gardener, more intrusive staff had always been spurned. An invasion of privacy that simply wasn’t acceptable.
Changes were coming, that was for sure. For both of them. Oliver could also be sure that his mother would fight them every step of the way. Achieving them would be no kind of victory either. Not when each one would be so painful for her to accept, removing more and more of her independence and dignity.
He summoned a smile for his mother. ‘It’s a glorious day. If you got dressed, I might be able to take you for a ride in a wheelchair when I’ve finished work. It would do you good to get a breath of fresh air.’
His mother shook her head. He clearly needed to find more of an incentive than fresh air. And