Sheila Dies



Trevor and Freda were marred in June 1962.  I was pleased to attend that simple but 
memorable ceremony in the picturesque village church.  They had bought a house in 
Norwich, and soon, Jack and I were being invited round.  With help from Trevor's sisters, 
we often spent a couple of days and nights at a time there.  Those marvellous times did 
much to bring us closer together.  We loved the homely atmosphere, and the four if us 
were firm friends.  Jack and I became familiar with the domestic scene, obviously geared 
to the capabilities of a disabled housewife.  But even with severe arthritis, Freda was far 
more capable than I.

The next two years passed by in the same steady pattern,  We were not envious of 
Trevor's and Freda's situation, for we realised that with an able bodied partner, most 
things were possible.  For us, it was different.  But we had our day-dreams!

Sheila was also enjoying her limited life.  She liked a drink, relished her food, and 
smoked a few cigarettes.  Besides her needlework, she did beautiful crocheting.  She 
had a pleasant singing voice, and often obliged with songs at parties or at church 
services.  Everyone knew her as "The girl with red hair, and a lovely voice."

Then one weekend, Sheila had arranged to go out for two days in succession.  On the 
second evening, she returned home unable to sit up properly, and too floppy to control 
her powered chair.  At first it was simply assumed that she was drunk.  But her violent 
headaches persisted, and eventually the doctor was called.

There was no alarm, at least as far as Jack was concerned.  We always knew that 
Sheila was never as fit even as ourselves.  She had a kidney disorder, which led to high 
blood pressure, and this had caused her many bouts of illness.  But she always fought 
back, often making quite remarkable recoveries.

But Jack's complacency was completely shattered when the doctor revealed that in fact 
Sheila had suffered a stroke, and was critically ill.

Sheila's mother was summoned, and both she and Jack watched and waited by the 
bedside.  They hated seeing Sheila in so much pain, and were relieved when the doctor 
paid a second visit with an injection.

After a time, Mother said, "There.  She's resting now.  Perhaps she'll feel better in the 
morning."

It was all too much for Jack, and the tears rolled down his cheeks, as he sobbed out, 
"I'm afraid she's not going to get better."

The vigil was kept until the staff persuaded Jack, for his own sake, to go to bed.

Sheila died in the early hours of November 4th 1964 – just a few weeks before her 
twenty-eighth birthday.

It was a great shock, and attending her funeral later that week seemed unreal to both of 
us.

Sheila was not the first to die, and obviously would not be the last.  The hostel now 
housed many young disabled people with similar serious conditions.  Ultimately, we all 
had to accept our own vulnerability.
Slowly, the loss sank in.  That our harmonica trio no longer existed was of least 
consequence.  Jack and I went mechanically about fulfilling our two outstanding 
bookings, but it could never be the same again, and we arranged no more.  A part of us 
had gone which nothing could replace.