Lily — a woman of strength
On International Women’s Day it took me no time at all to identify a woman who commanded my total respect and who deserves my acknowledgment on this special day.
Lily* was a patient of mine when I worked as a Community Nurse. Her memory will be with me forever.
The GP had rung the nursing office to request a visit to Lily. He had discovered an open wound on her breast. She knew that it was cancer but opted not to seek treatment as she did not want surgery. What she had not anticipated was the spread to her lungs. At the GP consultation she had hoped for a prescribed linctus for an irritating cough — the doctor quickly put two and two together and made his discovery.
For seven years she had cleaned and dressed the lesion herself.
When I say a wound on the breast, I actually mean where the breast had been. It now had the appearance of a mastectomy, a flat wound — no breast left. Every morning Lily got up early to clean and dress the wound before her sister got up. As it became bigger and deeper, lumps of tissue were coming away. She would place the debris and dirty dressings in a Cornflakes box or similar waste carton, take it up the garden, and burn it.
Staunchly independent, she initially refused a nurse visit and continued her routine. She considered our time better spent with people who were really ill. With further persuasion, she allowed the nurse to visit once a week. We could advise on the specialist dressings and techniques available. She had been buying rolls of gauze and sticky tape which she sprinkled with Rose water to mask the odour.
Lily and her sister lived in a quiet residential street in a much sought-after area of Leicester. As I pulled up outside the neat, post-war semi-detached, the kettle would be put on to simmer. With a Cancer diagnosis, it was our practice to build a supportive relationship with the patient and family. The dressing check was incidental; Lily had coped well through the traumatic stages as her breast disintegrated. It was now just leakage from the scar tissue. The cup of tea we shared afterwards was the important and supportive part of the visit.
For two years, the Tuesday visit became routine. The sisters continued to attend a Friendship Fellowship at the church each week, Lily driving them there. They visited the hairdresser at the same time and day each week for a shampoo and set. They always looked immaculate.
Iris had Learning Disabilities and had moved in, along with her frail parents, when Lily lost her second husband. It was easier for Lily to have them all under her roof to care for them. When their parents passed away, Iris remained with Lily. Caring was not new to Lily, she had already nursed Bert, her first husband, through a chronic illness until his death.
Not anticipating another romance, Lily had met Ian as the solicitor who had taken care of her parents’ estate. They went on to have one son. Paul was married and lived locally. He visited his mum and aunt regularly. Lily knew how busy his work was and would never request too much from him. When Ian, too, received a terminal diagnosis, Lily, of course, nursed him at home until he died.
When I left Lily’s one afternoon, I had been quite shocked by the news given to me. Lily was selling the house. People in their late 70’s do not usually move house. It had come as a real surprise to me. She had secured a council bungalow about a mile away. When the sale went through, most of Lily’s beautiful furniture and antiquities had to go to her son or be sold.
I visited Lily and Iris at their new address and was shown around. The only bedroom was quite small. It had been necessary for Lily to buy a new three-quarter sized bed for the two of them when her double bed proved too big for the room. Two singles, not an option for the same reason. They both appeared happy with the newly decorated bungalow.
To acquaint themselves with the neighbours, Lily had pushed a note through each door in the cul-de-sac. She invited them to tea and cakes, to introduce themselves to their new community. It was not very long after the move that Lily’s health went into a decline. I was worried about her. Finding myself in their area after completing my visits, I decided to take my lunch-hour with them.
Lily was very poorly and in pain. Her greatest concern was not having been able to get her hair set. I pulled her kitchen stool up and seated her over the kitchen sink to wash her hair. I asked if she had any curlers and Iris went into the bedroom and bought out a Quality Street tin. Contained within were several spikey pink plastic rollers and hairgrips.
With Lily’s hair wrapped around with a full head of rollers, I offered to call back after work to remove them and style her hair. But it was Friday and her daughter-in-law was calling after work with fish and chips; she would remove the rollers.
That was the last time I saw Lily in the bungalow. As I left to return to the Health Centre, Lily said “God sent you to me today.”
The next time I visited Lily, she was in one of the old-fashioned ‘Nightingale’ wards at the Royal Infirmary. She was propped up in bed and commented that she had been admitted the day after her hair-do, for pain control. She was happy that her hair remained presentable, my abilities as a coiffeur had passed muster. I continued to visit the hospital in my lunch-hour each day, knowing her time was short.
My last visit found her semi-conscious. I approached her bed, bent over and whispered “It’s me, Lily”. She replied, her eyes still closed, “I know, I smelled you come through the door.” She was familiar with the smell of my perfume.
Lily died on the ward. My next visit was to her funeral, where all her actions made total sense. She had selected and paid for her burial plot. The hymns and the service planned in advance.
Lily had settled Iris into the home that would become hers. The council rent was paid for a year and an allowance left to meet future costs. Iris knew where to shop, where to catch a bus and how to get to the church, the doctors and the hairdressers. She had the benefit of knowing the district and could call on Paul or any of the neighbours if she needed help.
Indeed, she had done just that when she was worried about Lily. The neighbour had telephoned for an ambulance.
How hard it must have been for Lily to uproot herself from her beloved home, but the house sale meant that her estate was neatly tied up and ready for her son to inherit.
Lily was never a burden on anyone, selfless to the end — what a woman.
CW — March 2022
*This is a true story but all names have been changed.
This story first appeared on Charnwood Chronicles, a community arts online blog curated by Alison Mott. The author’s permission has been given for its use here.