Sinclair on life: This is the room where I'll die

By PETER SINCLAIR

I am writing this in the room in which, if all goes according to plan, I shall die.

It's a solemn thought: that this pohutukawa on a strand somewhere is the picture upon which my eyes will close at last; that the sounds I shall hear then will be pretty much those I am hearing now - sound, as a matter of interest, being the last of the senses to slip away.

From this bed, where I am enjoying "respite care," I have an unbroken view of Mt Eden and the houses of the well-to-do climbing to the lip of its crater - follies, some of them, expressing commercial rather than architectural acumen.

Who on earth can have designed, and who would now wish to live, in the miniature castle that peeps through trees heavy with lichen, its little battlement belching smoke? You'd need a sense of humour, if nothing else.

I am in St Joseph's Mercy Hospice on a wintry afternoon. And I can think of few places in which I'd rather face mortality, when the time comes, than this large, tranquil penthouse which mingles homeliness and saintliness in about equal proportions.

St Joe's, as it's affectionately known, is a working model of the "what goes around" principle, a tribute to simple warmth and the kindness of strangers. For it is sad to die alone.

Here on Earth, saints and angels come in various models, and they are all volunteers. I spoke to one, a gentle, genial Dutch saint called Henk who began giving the hospice an afternoon a week after his wife died here.

"I love it so much," he says, "I wish I'd started earlier." Henk is 76.

Robert is another. It is 5 o'clock, time for the drinks trolley to do its rounds, as is the civilised custom at St Joe's, and Robert arrives amid a tinkling orchestra of crystal - mismatched refugees from the drinks cabinets of the charitable, engraved, stemmed and carved for the ports and sherries of another age.

He's a young man. Why is he here, deftly mixing gin and tonic for the dying, on a Saturday night when most of his peers will be out somewhere having gin and tonic mixed for them?

"This brings balance to my life," he says. "I had a brush with death myself and I learned it's not something to be afraid of.

"More ice?

"It lets me give something back."

Then there are the registered angels - the team chosen by nurse manager Julia Thompson for their special qualities: compassion, companionability, a diverse range of age and experience.

"Cancer reduces a person to his or her essence," says unit manager Jan.

Colleen believes you need a mixture of understanding: physical, mental, spiritual.

"You're there to foster acceptance; to help people find their own way out of life. You walk with them, in a way."

Nell: "We're privileged to be part of what's happening to people at the end of their lives. It's a time of closure, of coming to terms.

"That's why many palliative care nurses [broadly, those charged with relief rather than cure] are mature - you must have suffered grief yourself to be able to understand and deal with it."

We're sitting on a balcony that overlooks the harbour, and she gestures at the yachts moored along Tamaki Drive. "Think of St Joseph's as a safe harbour."

Robyn believes in a holistic approach: "Our task is dealing with acceptance and preparation for the individual and the family.

"It's their last home so you have to get it right. Above all, there must be no sense of fear."

Nor is there. St Joe's is pervaded by warmth, tranquillity and that most human of all sounds, soft laughter. A candle flickers at reception, and this tiny flame seems to fill the whole hospice with its calm, clear light.

Fresh flowers are everywhere, too, for no detail is too small at St Joe's. They even get the food right - checking out your likes and dislikes when you check in.

So if that G&T isn't up to your standards, tell Robert and he'll fix it.

Spoiling is part of the deal here. St Joe's runs on the principle that a little spoiling never hurt anyone.

pete@ihug.co.nz