I agreed, lovely Shane.

They gave him a bed bath to pass the time, make him more comfortable and maybe even blow-dry his hair, and yes, they could use Margaret Rose’s hairdryer. Don’t wake her. She won’t mind. Whisper Thank You.

Hearing is the last to go.

Vigil at the bedside.

Hankies, phones, Club Orange, energy drinks, crisps, rosary beads and apologies.

One ran out for Juicy Fruit. And then for Hula Hoops. And salted popcorn. Sweet.

His input was nil.

His output was nil.

His peg feeds had stopped.

Jane woke Margaret Rose and they searched deep in their nightstands, tugging out extra religious paraphernalia for The Cure to Save Shane. Margaret Rose was busy. This was the best way to be after Niquita’s exit. Jane was busy, as this was her only way. The search for this cure went in a hierarchy of inanimate but precious objects, with head nods, and everything was displayed on the stripped shiny mattress of Jane’s bed like an eccentric May altar. The two women hummed and hawed as they pawed over beads and cards and plastic statues of saints full up with water. If they could only get in the mitten of Padre Pio or a drop of blessed oil of St Thérèse of Lisieux or even a lock of St Francis of Assisi’s hair, even a hair from one of his pets, but they were unsure that Assisi had left behind any cure at all. But he was a lovely man. Yes. Lovely man. Loved animals.

Margaret Rose put Michaela on the Nokia to someone in Navan who had the mitten of Padre Pio. She’d been given it for her son who had developed itchy and incurable warts, and it would be sent down on the next bus with a trusted bus driver and hopefully make it in time for Shane, if not this evening, with any luck it would arrive by the morning. Jane blessed herself backwards which, according to Margaret Rose, was motioning in the Devil, and Jane stared at her blankly then began blessing Margaret Rose instead, misunderstanding the instructions, so we all blessed ourselves ten times at Margaret Rose’s request, for fear we’d bring the work of the Devil onto the Ward, and she encouraged a proper blessing. Michaela instructed that we all do it like soccer players, and she demonstrated to her mother and Jane. They copied her and blessed themselves, kissed their thumbs, then lifted their kissed hands to the ceiling, thumbs clutched, and finally patting their hearts. With the help of good God and all of his many archangels, especially the favourite one, Michael, or so they thought, although they were unsure as to which archangel was the favourite, the glove would get here, safely, off the Navan bus.

The taller nurse leaned in, opened Shane’s dry mouth and rubbed a giant cotton bud across his cracking lips, dipping it into his mouth a little, while holding his head in the crook of her arm. His face reminded me of a dying cow, down after birthing a difficult calf.