The hospice nurse asked me if I’m afraid of dying – I told her ‘yes’

When I arrived at the hospice on Tuesday morning, I could hear the hospice’s cheers. The wellbeing center was hosting a festive party all year long. It must be working, is all I can say.

I know, laughter’s not what you expect, is it? It’s not what I tend to think of when I think “hospice”. Which I try not to, if I’m honest!

But I’ve been going regularly now for a while, for physio and reflexology, and it’s all starting to feel a bit more… normal. It’s normally a quiet place – I can’t lie. However, they do everything in this, including social groups, and one of them hosted the party. Before your final visit, they essentially establish a relationship with you. It sort of gets rid of the elephant in the room.

The lovely nurse I met didn’t seem to care about large animals. She came in like a bowling ball, northern and chatty, and asked me if I’d “thought about any arrangements”.

I must stress this wasn’t our first meeting. She is just lovely and nursed Bernie. It was in my face, but at the same time I didn’t mind. I need to discuss this subject. And, being me, I’ve made very few “arrangements”.

She asked me straight if I’m afraid. And I replied that yes, I am afraid of dying. And sad, too. And she said I could call her anytime, that they’re there to talk about anything.

You don’t typically consider hospice care to be a long-term solution. The quality of end-of-life care has been a hot topic in the wake of all the discussion surrounding assisted dying. What you often don’t realise is the care can begin many months beforehand.

I didn’t mind her making me think. I’ll probably need to talk to the entire family. I haven’t planned anything because Bernie had her funeral planned down to the cars people were driving. It’s not made me feel low, but maybe more in control. More like “this is my moment” kind of thing. Well, that’s showbiz.

Talking of showbiz, I felt properly glam again at the end of last week. I had a full-on magazine photoshoot at a fancy hotel, rooms overlooking a lake, stylist, make-up artist, the works. Seven people in a pack for the young me.

Boy, did I need them. Just before we left the house, I climbed out of the stairlift and slammed into it, hitting the mechanics with my head. That sounds more like it, doesn’t it? There was even blood.

I’m fine, and we were only a tad late. And thankfully, there was enough make-up to hand. They’d received the trowel memo…

But I don’t do things by halves, do I?

Source: Mirror