The Titanic baker who cheated death with a drink

And what he taught a nursing home worker about how we really want to go out

They don’t tell you this in the aged care brochure: the D word has a sense of humour.

Last week we said it out loud. Death. Nobody combusted. Nobody even fainted. This week I read about a man who didn’t just say it – he looked it dead in the eye, somewhere in the freezing black North Atlantic, had a swig, and said: “Not tonight.”

His name was Charles John Joughin. Chief Baker. RMS Titanic.

April 1912. You know the story: iceberg, sinking, general catastrophe, Celine Dion. Charles ends up in the North Atlantic in water so cold it was essentially a martini without the olive. He survived in that water for over two hours. He pulled himself onto an overturned lifeboat like a man who had simply missed his Uber.

How? Charles said it was the liquor. He’d had quite a few. Apparently, alcohol keeps the blood vessels open, tells the body to stay calm, and instructs the nervous system: “Relax, darling. We are absolutely fine. Have another.”

Charles Joughin survived the Titanic because he was drunk. And in his own way, he chose how he was going to face whatever came next.

Let that absolutely marinate.

Here’s my problem with this story: if that were me, I’d get hypothermia at a backyard barbecue in July with a cardigan on. I am a woman who gets cold in a warm bath. I once needed a blanket at an indoor heated pool. Charles Joughin cheated death in the freezing Atlantic. I cannot explain the gap between us.

What nurses notice

When I work nights in a nursing home, I think about last things quite a lot. Not in a morbid way. In a “what actually matters” way.

Here is something I have noticed: the good underwear disappears almost immediately.

Not slowly. Not gradually. Almost immediately. You arrive with a drawer full of perfectly decent knickers and within what feels like a fortnight, you have somehow inherited a pair of bloomers that were white during the Hawke era. These are not your knickers. Nobody knows whose knickers these are. They have been on more bodies than a share house on moving day.

My mother raised me on one piece of wisdom above all others: always wear clean underwear when you go out, because you never know if there will be a crash. I have carried this advice for fifty-odd years. I walked into aged care and discovered that absolutely nobody got the memo.

This will be in my will. Non-negotiable. I will be in my own underwear, it will be good underwear, and it will have my name on it. In a font I chose. My family would absolutely let this slide if I didn’t say something now.

Left unsupervised, they would have me looking like I’d been dressed by someone who lost a bet. These are the same people who showed up to Christmas with a bag of chips and called it “bringing something.” I am leaving instructions. Detailed instructions. With diagrams if necessary.

What I actually want

I want to be done up like the Queen of England. Flashy, not trashy. Full hair. Someone who smells like she made an effort. I want whoever walks through that door to think: “Oh, she looks amazing.” Not: “Oh, she looks… comfortable.”

I will smell magnificent. Not lavender spray from the gift shop. The good stuff – the kind of perfume where people lean in and ask what you’re wearing, and you just smile.

I want to hear my children’s voices. Even if they can’t get there in time. A call. Even just: “Mum, I’m on my way.” I don’t need much.

I want warmth and light. Lots of both. It’s going to be dark soon enough — no need to rush it along.

What they actually ask for

Here is what I know from the residents I have cared for in those final months: not one of them asked for their filing system. Not one reached for their insurance documents or, God forbid, looked at their inbox.

They wanted a familiar smell. A song. Someone nearby who loved them. They wanted to feel like themselves – not like a version of themselves that had been dressed by the local circus.

It turns out that what we want at the end is almost exactly what we wanted at the beginning: to feel seen, cared for, and like we matter enough for someone to find the good underwear.

Charles Joughin had his whisky, stepped into the freezing black Atlantic, and somehow made it through the night.

I’m not planning on going anywhere just yet. But when the time comes, I want to smell divine, look flashy, be in my own knickers – and maybe, just maybe, raise a glass like Charles did back in 1912.

*Maggie Lawson works the night shift in an Aged Care Home. Her columns appear every Friday on Starts at 60.