Kevin O’Boyle died at the hospice last October, aged 57. His wife, Jo, kindly took the time to tell us all about him and of the memories the pair made at the hospice during his last months:
Kevin was such a generous person, with a wonderfully dry sense of humour. He was a Charlton fan, and so am I. We got married in the year 2000, which made remembering our anniversary very easy!
We loved going on holidays together, especially to Egypt. In fact, I went back there the Christmas after Kevin died. It was the best thing I could have done — I wanted to know that people were nearby but that I could have space and time to myself if I needed to, and returning to the same hotel felt comforting. I got talking to people, and it turned out to be just what I needed.
Kevin and I had enjoyed a lovely holiday there the November before, but a month later, just before Christmas, Kevin woke up and was asking for his keys - for a car we’d sold years earlier. We went to A&E and were told he’d had a stroke. While in hospital they ran more tests as he’d also been losing weight - something we’d put this down to side effects of medication he was on -but sadly came to learn it was because he had oesophageal cancer. His illness progressed quickly and bit by bit we lost parts of him, especially his memory. He’d remember things from long ago, but not the present.
JoWhen Kevin was here, he was comfortable. The nurses were incredible, it wasn’t just about caring for him physically but helping us hold on to moments together. We’d walk around the gardens or sit in the courtyard with a coffee, sharing jokes at the nurses’ station. Those are memories I treasure.
There are a lot of myths about hospices. I first came here to speak to the social work team, and that helped me see what the hospice was really like — welcoming, supportive, peaceful. I joined ‘Tea and Talk’, and met people like Lou (who organises the weekly get togethers), and others who were just so lovely. I remember thinking, I’d love for Kevin to be here. And when he eventually came for symptom control, it was a huge relief — not just for him, but for me. I remember stepping through the hospice entrance — it felt like an oasis of calm. There’s a real sense of peace and tranquillity here. I have happy memories of this place. We made as many memories as we could while we had the chance, and the hospice gave us the space to do that.
During the time Kevin was here, we took walks through the garden. He could manage short distances, and when he couldn’t, I wheeled him around the courtyard. We’d stop to smell the sage, rub the leaves of the rosemary, and notice how the flowers changed as the summer went on. The waterfall, the bees buzzing around — it was all so beautiful. Beds were brought outside for patients, and it felt alive out there, even in the hardest times.
There are so many little memories — like the book I bought from the hospice library, The Bletchley Girls, which I got signed and later returned. I have a memory leaf here at the hospice with Kevin’s name on it. He loved his clothes — especially his Ben Sherman shirts — and I donated them to the charity shop. His guitar was also given to the hospice, and someone recently played it here, which meant a lot to me.
One of the most special memories was my birthday. I wasn’t sure Kevin would make it, but he did. The nurses took him to the hospice shop to buy me a present and a card. They even wrapped it for him. They made a cake and decorated a table for us in the restaurant. It was such a special day.
There was pet therapy too — dogs, puppies, rabbits… things that brought joy when we really needed it. Coming back now, people here still remember him — and me. There’s comfort in being known, in having people to talk to or even just share a coffee with.
Grief is strange. You think you’re prepared, but little things catch you off guard. I started crying on the bus once, and when I got to the hospice, I realised I wasn’t upset about being here — it just hit me, that he wouldn’t be calling me on my phone whilst I was on my way there anymore.
I went to the hospice’s Lights of Love service at Christmas, and I had no idea how or where I’d be at emotionally. I came to the event knowing it would be tough, but also that whether I laughed or cried (I did both!), I wouldn’t be judged, looked at etc, that others there would know and understand. We were all there and we’d experienced grief. It’s different for everyone — different ages, different losses — but we all have a connection to the hospice. And that brings us together. It was fun at the start, then later a song played and I was in tears. I stood in a corner, but compassion, understanding and a hug allowed more time to recover (as much as I needed) then it was back to laughs and giggles.
Even now, the hospice continues to support me — through ‘Walk and Talk’, through moments of calm and conversation. You can come for coffee, to chat, or just to be around people who understand — and there’s no pressure if you don’t feel like talking.
The hospice gave us dignity, care, and love. It wasn’t just a place for Kevin — it was a place for us. The hospice doesn’t just look after the patients, it looks after families too.
