my first death certificate, or a minute's silence for Mrs. B

my first thought was that my stethoscope must be broken - it took a second to remember that i'd been called by the nurses to confirm her death. Mrs. B had breathed her last, and as i peeled back her eyelids in turn, large inanimate pupils met my torch beam.

She had been tucked into bed and a crepe bandage wound round her head to hold her jaw shut. Under the dim reading light, the regulation pink hospital nightdress cast a rosy glow on her gaunt cheeks. A black and white photograph of her husband continued its vigil over her from the tray table. They must have been a handsome couple.

Mrs. B was 70, and had an advanced bladder cancer that had eaten into her vagina - she had bloody, fungating metastases - and blocked off her kidneys, causing them to fail. But as horrible as her disease was, I reckon she had died well. Early on, it was decided that she should have radiotherapy to keep the symptoms at bay, and stents put in to help the kidneys drain. She had a long line put in her arm so she didn't have to endure daily needlesticks for blood tests or medication. When it became apparent that her kidneys were failing despite all the treatment, a 'do not resuscitate' order was discussed while she was still lucid. She looked comfortable until the last, and was alert apart from her final 2 days, during which she drifted into a deepening sleep.