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I’m Sam. I want to tell you about my wonderful dad, Graham, and how Thames Hospice helped us spend our last Christmas together. My dad was taken too soon but he packed 54 years with joy, adventure, and a love for life.
My first encounter with Thames Hospice was during my university placement, visiting their new building in Bray while it was still being built. I had no idea then how important they would become to my family. Dad’s first experience with Thames Hospice was as an outpatient, surrounded by others with a terminal diagnosis. To him, it wasn’t just medical care, “it was a nice, calming place.” He enjoyed the lake view and chatting with people in a similar situation. For us, knowing he had somewhere safe and supportive eased our worries.
He was the kind of dad who pushed us out of our comfort zones and took us on adventures to places like Mexico and Egypt. But most of all, he always made time to listen. He used to say, “trust the process of life.”
He taught us to be brave, to live fully, just like he did. As a great adventurer, he loved to travel, and the ocean became a big part of who he was. He introduced me and my sister, Amy, to diving when we were young – something we loved and I always thought we’d share for years to come.
Knowing he had somewhere safe and supportive eased our worries.
He truly lived life to the fullest – curious and passionate about everything he did, from scuba diving in the Red Sea to perfecting the heat level of his homemade curries. His eccentric quirks, including a deep obsession with chillies (I can’t imagine ever looking at one without thinking of him), were loved by all. At his funeral, music from Foo Fighters and Paul Weller filled the room and friends, colleagues, and family wore chilli ties, a tribute to how deeply he had touched so many lives.
He passed down his love of music to me too and even taught me to play guitar. I love gigs and festivals like he did. He was also a massive West Ham fan, a lover of languages, and he was full of knowledge – you definitely wanted him on your pub quiz team.
“Going to one last West Ham game together was something we both wanted to do. We went for a beer before and then walked over to the stadium.”
His diagnosis of bowel cancer came as a shock. The symptoms hadn’t seemed serious at first, but by the time he was checked, it had already progressed. It was treatable, not curable. But he faced it with quiet courage. He didn’t want to talk about timeframes, he just wanted to get on with life, on his own terms. Even in pain, he never complained. He just carried on. I really admired that.
He’d been passed around a bit but when the Hospice stepped in, it was a huge relief. Seeing someone you love deteriorate is scary, but knowing there was always someone to call, someone who understood, took away some of the fear. They even supported my sister Amy afterwards with counselling, which gave her real comfort.
All he wanted in the end was to spend his final Christmas at home, surrounded by family. And because of Thames Hospice, that’s exactly what he did.
That last Christmas sticks with me more than any. It meant everything. The same cheesy decorations, the same smells coming from the kitchen. He always bought a turkey that was way too big just so he could make leftover curries and turkey sandwiches for days. My uncle, cousins and dad’s friends came over too. He got to see everyone. It felt right.
At his insistence, we played video games from his childhood and watched Harry Potter. It was perfect. It was home.
He passed away just weeks later. But he died where he wanted to be - in his own home, comfortable, with the people he loved. We are forever grateful that we got to have that last Christmas at home together, something that was made possible by the care and kindness of the Hospice at Home nurses.
His final days were hard. The deterioration was quite rapid towards the end. He was still cracking jokes and asking for a Guinness with his meds, but it’s painful to watch someone you love change physically and mentally.
I think about dad all the time – when I travel, when I hear his music. His friends still message me: “I’m eating a really spicy curry and thinking of your dad.” Those little moments bring him close, even though he’s gone.
Dad quietly gave back by playing the Thames Hospice Lottery. Now it’s my turn. I’m running the London Marathon to honour him and say thank you by raising money for the Hospice. Losing him was incredibly hard, but I’m finally in a place where I can celebrate the memories, so it feels like the right time.
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