I’ve known St Nicholas Hospice Care for nearly twenty years. It’s not just a place I visited once.

I first came to the Hospice in 2006, after being diagnosed with bowel cancer. I was terrified.

I didn’t know what to expect.

But I was referred to the Family Support Team, and that’s where I met Anne, a family support counsellor. She helped me breathe again. I had complementary therapies that helped me relax, and I could finally talk about the fears I’d been holding inside.

Anne never wrote anything down, but she remembered everything. That kind of care doesn’t just help—it stays.

Five years later in 2011, my mum was diagnosed with terminal bladder cancer. I came back to the Hospice, and Anne remembered me. Every detail. Every part of my story. That moment told me everything I needed to know about what kind of place this was. It wasn’t just about treatment —it was about being seen, being remembered, being held.

Then, in August 2023, my husband Ritchie was diagnosed with incurable pancreatic cancer. It was inoperable. “Six months without treatment, maybe a year with,” they said. I remember sitting in the hospital corridor, the same one I’d walked years earlier. That corridor became a symbol of everything we were about to lose.

Ritchie was strong. He’d grown up in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, served in the army, and later in the police.

He was stoic, practical, and deeply kind. But even he couldn’t hide the shock. “It is what it is,” he said. “We’ll fight it.” And we did.

I turned to the Hospice again. This time, I met Sarah, a Family Support Practitioner. She helped me understand what I was feeling—this strange, heavy thing I now know is called anticipatory grief. “You know how it will end,” she said. “You just don’t know when.” She gave me tools to cope, to reframe the thoughts that kept me awake at night. Even now, I still use them.

Sarah and I talked about Christmas. About how to make memories. About how to hold joy and sadness at the same time. “Take each day as it comes,” she said. And so we did.

We gathered the whole family. Together, the house was full—children, grandchildren, presents, and love. Ritchie carved the turkey. We have a video of it. He was smiling, proud, present. The grandchildren gave him a star named after him. Ritchie gave our son a cycling gift—a passion they’d shared for years. We laughed. We cried. We held each other close.

It was a happy Christmas, because we chose to make it one.

Ritchie passed away in May 2024, after what I can only describe as a tremendous fight. He was 65. He didn’t quite reach retirement. He didn’t get to see our grandchildren grow up. But he got to carve the turkey one last time. He got to be surrounded by love.

And I got to be supported through it all.

I still kiss his photograph every day. I wear a ring with his ashes and a pendant with his thumbprint.

On my wrist is a tattoo in his handwriting: “Love you more.” He’s with me, wherever I go.

This September, I travelled to Venice—a trip we always dreamed of. Ritchie hated water, but he wanted to see the canals and the history.

I went for both of us. I know he’d be proud.

That’s what care that stays looks like.

It’s not just the support you get in the moment.

It’s the kind that endures, it stays in the tools you’re given, the rituals you create, the memories you hold. It’s the kind of care that shows up when you’re cleaning your husband’s old office and suddenly can’t breathe. It’s the kind that helps you plant an oak tree in his memory, even when your hands are shaking. It’s the kind that reminds you, gently, that you’re not alone.

St Nicholas Hospice Care has been with me through three of the hardest chapters of my life—my own illness, my mum’s death, and Ritchie’s final months. And they’re still with me now.