My Name is Gail

I’m 66, and I’ve lived in Gravesend all my life. I have a wonderful husband, two amazing children, and two grandchildren, who all make me proud every day. And I’m blessed to have such a strong, supportive network of friends around me.

When life feels perfect – so normal, so similar to the way it’s always been – it tricks you into believing it will stay that way forever. But in February, after waiting almost 14 hours in A&E for an MRI scan, doctors told me that the lump I’d been worried about presented “serious abnormalities.

After more tests, it became clear just how serious it was.

I had a rare, aggressive form of vulva cancer that had spread to my pelvis and groin. 25 long, gruelling rounds of radiotherapy and chemotherapy would follow. They all failed.

When the eventual prognosis came, it was as earth-shattering as it was inescapable: I had between one and three months to live.

With that news came a flood of emotions. Anger at being told by doctor after doctor that what I knew was serious was a benign lesion. Frustration at the failure of the crippling course of radiotherapy, and the physical and mental horrors of chemotherapy. And a sheer, crushing devastation in the knowledge that, in just weeks, I would be losing my life – and leaving my family behind.

But with the tremendous weight of those realisations came, strangely, a sense of clarity and peace.

I thought: I’ve brought up my children well; I’ve been an excellent mother and grandmother, and a devoted wife of 48 years. I’ve always been something to someone else.

Now, I began to tell myself, it’s time to choose what I want to do.

Within a few days, I was on the ward here at ellenor – where I’m writing these words now. And, in the circumstances, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. Because, from the moment I came through these doors, the fit just felt right.

The nurses and doctors here are incredible – as is the food. And to anyone yet to experience ellenor, it might be surprising that a place which supports patients and their families facing life-limiting illnesses can be simply brimming with life, and love; and laughter.

But if you’ve been here, you’ll know what makes it so special. You’ll know.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a tough cookie – I don’t like anyone doing anything for me. But being in here has taken that pressure completely off my shoulders. No request ever feels too large; no wish ever seems beyond reach. There’s colour here: from the sun-drenched garden beyond the glass of my room’s large window, to the vibrant greenery of my evening meal. There’s joy, too – even the cleaners, doing their morning rounds, are always singing!

I’m fed, I’m washed. I’m made to feel comfortable and happy. But above all, my overriding emotion being here is humility: I feel truly humbled being here at ellenor.

I feel empowered to make decisions around my care, and how I want to die – and know that my wishes will be carried out. After my stay here, for instance, I know I don’t want to die in a hospital, shuttered within the confines of four walls and a single door. I want to die at home. But if that doesn’t end up being possible, I will die here at ellenor.

And honestly? I couldn’t think of anywhere better to die.

I still don’t know exactly how long I’ve got. ellenor’s Dr Sarah has told me that it’s between four and 12 weeks, now – so I’m hoping at least two months. What I do know, however, is that each day here will be filled with the faces of my friends and family.

One day, for example, ellenor nurse Anke came into my room through the back door, instead of the route she normally takes. I soon figured out why – she was sneaking ten of my best friends in for a surprise visit!  We spent time listening to music, playing cards, and sipping tea; it was a day I’ll never forget.

Yet seeing my family come to terms with my prognosis has been unimaginably hard. I’ve never seen my 42-year-old son cry like he did that day in February. It was heart-breaking. I even find myself being thankful that we’re a small family; because at least, this way, there are fewer people hurting.

What reassures me, though, is knowing that ellenor is caring for those closest to me and will continue to do so after I’m gone. My children are already receiving counselling – because grief and bereavement don’t just happen after someone you love has died – and my grandchildren, whom I gave up work nine years ago to look after, are receiving play therapy here

People are always telling me I’m strong. And I know I am. Yes, I no longer have the mobility I used to have. Yes, I have lumps and bumps everywhere. Yes, each day brings fresh pain with it.

Yet I’m still strong – but I’m not strong for me. I’m strong for them.

My faith helps me through, too. Funnily enough, one of my oldest friends Lesley is the chaplain here at ellenor. The last time I attended the church we share was 14 April earlier this year, for my youngest grandson’s belated christening. I want to return their one more time – just once – before I pass away.

Thinking back to February, when I received my cancer diagnosis, seems like a lifetime away. But I remember asking my doctor in the simplest terms: “Can you cure me?”

The answer was “No – but we can give you longevity”. The only thing is, it was never made clear exactly how they would give me that longevity; or, in fact, what that word even means.

But I think, whatever longevity is, I’ve found it here at ellenor.

ellenor is a truly magical place. I can spend long days, on the ward, with my family and friends. The nurses know what I want, because they’ve asked me what I want. They treat me with dignity and respect, and they’re always quick with a joke.

And, even if I only have another 30 days to feel a warm summer breeze on my face, I can open up the windows onto the flower-filled garden beyond.

Yes, there have been tears. But, when I close my eyes for the last time, I won’t hear them. Or the sadness. Because I’ve been the best wife, mother, and grandmother to my family: and I hope I’ve prepared them for life after I’m gone. I can’t stay here, in this world – I know I can’t stay here.

But while I am here, my strength will be, too. As will my sense of humour; and the sound of my laughter, echoing – along with that of my friends, and ellenor’s nurses – through this extraordinarily special place. It gives me comfort to know that the families in our community have places like this to rely on during the most unimaginably challenging times they'll ever face. have places like this to fall back on when they’re thrust into the most unimaginably challenging times they’ll ever face.

That’s why I need to say this: please, please do what you can to support ellenor. Donate, because the people of Gravesend should never, ever have to be without hospice services.

You may, today, not be familiar with how much of an impact ellenor makes, or how much our community needs it; and, until I came here to be cared for, neither was I.

On behalf of me, and my family, thank you. Your support means everything.