How I found the true meaning of love in an NHS critical care ward, writes SHIRLEY CONRAN, 91

By Liam On Dec 6, 2023

I am in an intensive care unit at an NHS hospital, having been brought here by ambulance. It's the kind of place we all fear – a place full of threads and needles and clinical cold. A place where people only stay for four days: they either recover or they don't recover.

When I arrived, it was late November and I was beyond fear or thoughts of death. I was too sick and needed urgent treatment.

I had woken up at home during the night, in pain and knowing that something was deeply wrong. I felt there wasn't even time to call my son who lives down the street, so I called my neighbor above. She took one look at me and called an ambulance.

It turns out I have a kidney infection.

At first I barely registered the three other mothers on the ward and their visiting middle-aged children. But on day two they came into the picture.

Few of us truly understand the power and strength of true love until we are on the brink of losing it (Stock Image)

Next to me, Katerina, a Greek-born, 97-year-old redhead, lies motionless, flat on her back. Her 68-year-old economist daughter Irene sleeps next to her mother at night under her puffer coat on two chairs. She brought her own snacks and for the past four days she has never left her mother, who is not moving. Her mother's hand moves slightly and immediately her daughter is next to her and whispers to her mother, who does not respond.

In the far corner of the department is Deborah from Nigeria, a tall lady with a black woolen hat and 91 years old, just like me. She hardly eats anything. Every afternoon a wave of quiet, black-clad family appears, sitting quietly. After they leave, Deborah's side table looks like a supermarket counter: another way to show love.

In the bed opposite me lies 97-year-old Gloria, a slim, faded blonde in an ice-green dressing gown, who doesn't seem to know where she is.

All day long, her balding, middle-aged son Chris has been talking to her in a low voice. They play a game on her tablet and he tells her what move to make and then guides her hand. She always wins. He reads to her. Gloria may be listening, but she stares blankly into space. He carefully turns on the earphones on her head to play music. Gloria presses the wrong button and Scarlatti barks across the room until her son reaches for the switch.

The music only interests Gloria for five minutes because she finds the earphones uncomfortable, so she rips them off. She must have been a great mother, I think, as her son quietly replaces the earphones and reads to her. Gloria closes her eyes.

He peers intently at her face. I hope for his sake that she is sleeping, but that is not the case. As soon as she opens her eyes, he starts to gently stroke her hand. He has been doing this for four days, says Irene.

Chris comes up to me and says apologetically that he hopes he's not talking too loudly, but his mother is deaf. Chris has been driving since 6 a.m. that morning and he goes to get a cup of coffee, but he will be right back. Should I monitor her and call a nurse if she tries to get out of bed? Yesterday she thought he wanted to tie her up with rope and throw her in a cellar, and she got a little irritated.

This embracing love for an exhausted, tired person is almost tangible. It fills the room like the scent of hyacinths: indescribable and invisible but precious, because there is nothing like it: it is unique (Stock Image)

Apparently Gloria's behavior yesterday was more alarming to the rest of the department. “She lived in another world and fought against hatred,” Irene whispered to me. 'Her monologue was painful to hear. She stumbled past this ward, dangerously tipping the equipment over until a nurse managed to calm her down and slowly guide her back to bed.” Irene concluded reproachfully: “You slept through it.”

I have never imagined or experienced anything like this place.

Several medical teams accompany our four patients continuously from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. No doctor stays in the department for long. Every hour counts because invisible patients wait in our places and behind the calm in the department lies a sense of urgency. But far from being depressing or terrifying, I find it to be filled with tender love non-stop.

Few of us truly understand the power and strength of true love until we are on the brink of losing it. And as I sit in the front row of the critical care unit, I watch and almost feel that loving devotion. From the four dedicated nurses who care for us day and night to the families and friends who come to visit.

I have asked my own sons not to visit me because one is in bed with bronchitis and the other is working in Greece. When they are in Britain, they always come as soon as possible when they hear that I am in hospital. As a mother, I must have done something right, even if it didn't seem like it at the time.

Here I learn that death does not separate you from someone you love but can no longer see, someone whose hand you held for the last time. “What will survive of us is love,” said poet Philip Larkin, and I imagine he is right.

Far from gloomy and depressing, I have seen a room full of soft light. Something I never expected – and which makes me feel awed and blessed (Stock Image)

Nowadays I feel it all around me. Love that is gentle, caring, patient, hopeful and steadfast; love that death does not kill, a love that lasts forever for the one who feels it; the invisible umbilical cord that is never cut – no matter what life throws at it, a mother's love is reflected as it fades.

I see sons and daughters who refuse to face their loss because they hold on to the woman who has always been there for them.

I see the desperate hope, the determination not to lose a minute of what's left of Mom, and then the suppressed flood of fear and the howl of pain as your love's body grows colder. Her spirit has left you – bereft and frantic when you realize she's gone.

Earlier I stumbled on my pusher to the bathroom. When I returned, Katerina's room was empty. The bed was gone, along with Katerina and Irene, her suitcase and her brown bag of apples. It was dead quiet in the department.

Because I am recovering, my bed will soon be moved to a less intensive department. But I will feel elevated in ways I could never have anticipated.

To me, this hospital scene is not an example of the odious phrase, “Saying goodbye to a loved one.” A bland and angry expression that trivializes the pain suffered. These women fade away, but the immense love for them will remain.

At my age, I know, like everyone else, that death is my fate. But witnessing the bleak reality of a death in a hospital has, surprisingly, been almost a religious experience. As if a veil has been lifted to reveal the raw flesh of feeling.

Far from gloomy and depressing, I have seen a room full of soft light. Something I never expected – and which makes me feel impressed and blessed. Together with those who felt it quietly slipping away, I experienced the power of love.