Rachel's dad Julian died from prostate cancer in May 2019. Here, she reflects on the last few months of his life, spent at the Marie Curie Hospice, Bradford.
Dad was a railway man, maintaining the track around Yorkshire. He always enjoyed working, and especially overtime (or maybe he just enjoyed having the extra savings). He absolutely loved a good night out and a tipple, so most of our time spent together was in a bar or restaurant, or on holiday.
He was extremely generous, kind and funny. He never took life too seriously, and above all he treasured his family. We just liked to have a laugh together – be happy and silly. Look at the photos of us, I couldn't find many normal ones when I was looking through them recently.
Dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2012. He was living in Scotland at the time, but when his condition progressed, he came back to live in Bradford so my brother Andrew and I could get more involved in his care. He'd been managing everything by himself before.
Dad had so many ups and downs, and was in and out of hospital with sepsis. His cancer was diagnosed as terminal in December 2018 – he went into the Marie Curie Hospice the following February and was there until he died three months later.
"The hospice wasn't his first option, but it was his best"
Initially, Dad had said he wanted to die at home. But when he realised how difficult things were going to become for him, he decided he'd prefer to be in the hospice. He was fiercely independent, and considerate. He didn't want to become a burden to Andrew and me, and he saw what the hospice could do for him.
I never really had any preconceptions about hospices, but when we first walked through the doors, I was massively amazed. It's just so different to a hospital – even though it's clinical, it doesn't feel it at all. It's homely, which makes you feel safe and protected.
"There was never anything we couldn't do with Dad"
The great thing about the hospice is that you can go there whenever you want, and you can pretty much do what you'd do at home. None of the staff ever make you feel like you're in the way. We had a couple of events where the whole of the family came down – Dad's brother came over from Canada and we had a big picnic in the garden. It was the first time we'd all been together in over 20 years.
I think when people hear the word 'hospice', they imagine you just sitting in bed waiting to die, but that's not the case. You can still live your life.
Rachel and her brother Andrew at the Marie Curie Hospice, Bradford
"It was a tough time for our family"
My mum had also just found out that she had lung cancer. She and Dad had split when I was four, but they remained best friends, and we were still a strong family unit. The nurses very quickly took her under their wings and made sure she was OK.
Obviously we were going through stuff with Dad, but she was also going through her own journey. I think it was really nice that they understood it wasn't just about Dad, it was about all of us.
The staff were just fantastic. They were always there if you wanted a chat. Every time something changed, the nurses took us to one side and explained where we were at, and what was going to happen next. They were extremely attentive and always checked in with Dad about his pain levels (he wasn't one to pull the cord and ask for pain relief).
Making every moment count
We had many conversations with Dad about the inevitable, and I find comfort in the fact that he'd come to terms with it and he was prepared. That made it easier for me too.
We were with him the night he died. It was quick, which was nice for him I suppose. We were all camped out in Dad's room in the hospice, I think it was about 11pm. I fell asleep, and Mum said that literally about three seconds after I started snoring, Dad just stopped breathing. And that was it. So she woke us up. It's funny, I always think he did that on purpose because he wanted to die while we were asleep. But we woke up and were with him.
One thing that stands out for us was just after Dad had passed away. The nurse came in and removed the medical equipment from him, then stroked his head and said, "you can rest now."
Dad was 67 when he died. We were all convinced that he'd outlive us all – he was fitter than any of us. It just goes to show that we all need to make every moment count. And that's exactly what we were able to do at the hospice. Some of our best memories were there.
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