‘If a dying patient is alone, I’ll sit with them. It’s the best job in the world’
As he lay dying of cancer, a patient called me into his room to tell me his final wishes. I could see the pain in his eyes. He told me that many years before, he had fallen out with his daughter. Now he had learnt he had a new grandchild. He didn’t want to die without being reunited with his daughter and seeing the baby just once. I took his hand in mine and reassured him, promising that I would try to help him get back in touch.
I kept my word. And a few days later, his daughter came into the hospice, bringing her newborn baby to meet her grandfather for the first and, sadly, last time. The pain in his eyes was replaced by pride and love, as he held his granddaughter in his arms, and posed for photos that she would one day see.
Helping people like this man find peace in their final days is a large part of my job as chaplain at Marie Curie’s Glasgow hospice. I want to make sure everyone can go on to the next stage of their journey without any regrets.
Another of my patients was consumed by guilt and shame. In a whisper, she confessed that almost 60 years earlier, when she was a teenager, she had stolen makeup from Boots before going to a party. It was something that had cost only a few pounds, yet she had carried the guilt with her throughout her life. Now it was preoccupying her in her last days.
I suggested that she send an anonymous letter to the company, telling them what she’d done, and enclosing a £5 note. Next time I saw her, she told me that she had sent it, and how relieved and at peace she now felt.
Working as a chaplain is my life’s vocation. I began my career as a nurse and a midwife, then went into the Salvation Army’s Ministry College. My last job was as a Marie Curie nurse. Four years ago, I saw the chaplain’s role advertised, and it felt like my life had come full circle. I still remembered patients from my days at the hospice 40 years before. They had left such an impact on me, and I wanted to give back.
I also had personal reasons for wanting the job. My dad died during Covid. Unfortunately, he ended up in a nursing home, and none of us were able to be there with him. I didn’t want other families to go through that.
Although my Christian faith is central to my identity, many of the patients don’t have a faith. That doesn’t matter. I meet with everyone, regardless, and don’t impose my beliefs on them. While some do want to talk about their fear of dying, others just want to chat about their cats and dogs, or their grandchildren. I’m there to be a safe, listening ear; to help people talk about things they feel they can’t discuss with their loved ones.
I’ve helped people make funeral arrangements and even write their own eulogies, so that they know what will be said about them. One guy wants to make sure everybody laughs at his funeral, so he’s packing his eulogy with funny life stories.
Naturally, many people are afraid of death or dying, or both. But so often, what worries them most is what they’re going to miss out on in the future: weddings, graduations, babies being born. They may fear their little grandchild won’t remember anything about them when they grow up.
I help them make sure they remain part of their family’s lives, even though they’re no longer physically there. We create little memory boxes together, with Post-it Note sized cards inside that they can write messages on. The notes are printed with the start of sentences, like, ‘I just want you to know how much I loved you,’ or ‘I remember when,’ and the dying person can complete the sentence. Commonly, the memory boxes are left in the patient’s locker for family members to discover later, when they clean them out.
Once, I helped a lady write 35 birthday cards for her 35-year-old daughter, because she wanted her to receive one every year until she turned 70. Others have written wedding cards for people who are not yet engaged, new baby cards for people who are not pregnant, and university graduation cards for children who are still at school. A grandmother made a locket containing a photograph of herself for her six-year-old granddaughter’s future wedding bouquet. People want to know they will be there at significant moments in their loved one’s lives, and that they can pass on their words of wisdom.
The hospice is a beautiful place, with a reception area decorated with stained glass imprinted with daffodils (the Marie Curie insignia) that brings a sense of peace as soon as you walk in the door. We’ve tried our best to make it homely without it being tacky, so people feel comfortable and not like they’re coming into a hospital. We don’t have a separate chapel, but there is a multi-faith quiet room, with subdued lighting and battery-operated candles, if people want to use them.
In the two-and-a-half days I work, I’m chaplain for the families and staff, as well as the patients. When I’m in, I make sure I visit every patient on the ward and, if they’re approaching the end of life, I’ll make sure their family members are okay too. Staff pass on messages saying someone wants to see me – or if they think the family would benefit from a conversation. The doctors will also refer patients to me.
If a patient doesn’t have someone who can be with them when they die – if they have no family, or the family can’t make it in time – I will sit with them, so they aren’t alone. When people are estranged, I try to help them reach out and make amends. One man had pushed away all his old friends when he became ill because he didn’t want them to feel sorry for him. I persuaded him to contact them, and before he died, some came to visit.
One of the most joyous parts of my job is as an unofficial wedding planner and officiator. Sometimes people have left it too late, or they feel the urge to marry so their partner is financially secure after they die. One woman told me she was marrying her partner so the surname on her headstone would match that of her children. Weddings usually have to be planned within days, even hours. As a result, I’ve ended up with my own little wedding boutique, with a stash of wedding dresses, bridesmaid dresses, veils, shoes and jewellery.
Marrying so close to death is bittersweet – as marriage is meant to be the start of something, not the end. I usually quote that famous theologian, Winnie the Pooh: “Always remember that you’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, smarter than you think and loved more than you know.” I think this acknowledges the fact that the couple is not going to be together for long but, at the same time, gives them reassurance.
Some patients can get under my skin, and there are some who make me cry on my husband’s shoulder when I go home at night. The ones who affect me most are those who have had terrible lives – those who have been abused or lost their jobs and homes and families. They have known nothing but grief and pain, and then they are struck by terminal illness, often in their 40s or 50s. Life can be so unfair. I wish someone could have given them a break. When I die, that’s the question I want to ask God: why are some people’s lives so hard?
I get so much more from my patients than they ever get from me. I’m grateful that I am able to walk the same path as them for a short time. It’s such a privilege – truly the best job in the world.
Marie Curie is the UK’s leading end of life charity. It provides expert end of life care for people with any illness they are likely to die from, and support for their family and friends, both in its hospices and at home.
Visit mariecurie.org.uk or call the free Marie Curie Support Line on 0800 090 2309.