Christine’s Story

In April 1988, I’d just been posted back to RAF Benson after returning from overseas. I was a Chief Technician enjoying a rare quiet pint on the May Bank Holiday weekend with a colleague. The bar was quite busy when a woman walked up to me and asked if she could look through my music tapes, which meant I had to go back to my room to fetch them. She didn’t like a single one, mind you, but she made sure we had reason to keep talking. Ten minutes later, she asked me to dance. I said no. She said that she never asked twice. She asked again. I said no again. Eventually, she came back a third time: “I’m making an exception. Would you like to dance?” My mate nudged me and said, “For crying out loud, Bob, go and dance with her.”

And so, I did. We stepped into a little room with a glitter ball that wasn’t even meant to be open that night. In those next two and a half hours of talking, something happened that neither of us expected. By the time we walked back out, we’d already decided we were going to get married.

Her name was Christine. She’d lost her first husband suddenly, and she had two grown-up sons. She was bright, funny, and warm, and that night was the first time she’d been out socially since her husband died. The next morning, she phoned me from the village. She said she remembered what I’d been wearing, but not exactly what I looked like. “Come up,” I told her. And she did.

We got engaged that August and married on 17 June the following year, in 1989.

Illness and the long road

Life was good for many years, but in 2007 everything changed. After struggling with her health, Christine was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver. It was a complete shock, as she didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, and didn’t do any of the things people associate with liver disease. But the doctors told us that her life expectancy was no more than ten years. We walked out of the hospital feeling numb.

Christine carried on with such courage. She tried to live as normally as possible, even when eating made her sick and hospital visits became regular. Her heart remained incredibly strong, but everything else slowly began to fail. More than once, we were told she wouldn’t survive the night, and yet she always came back. I stayed beside her every minute. I slept on floors and in chairs — anywhere they’d let me. I wasn’t leaving her.

How Sobell House became part of our lives

Sobell House came into our world at a time when we were struggling to accept what was coming. We first heard from one of their nurses, Fiona, in 2013. At first, Christine didn’t want to see her, as she refused to believe she needed palliative care. But eventually, and reluctantly, she agreed to one meeting.

That meeting changed everything. Fiona wasn’t just kind; she had an extraordinary way of making Christine feel safe, understood, and respected. Within two days, she had arranged a blue badge for us. She visited us at home, and those visits became moments of light in some of the darkest times of our lives. Christine trusted her, and I will always be grateful for that.

As things worsened, the JR told us that if anything happened again, we should take Christine straight to Sobell House. I couldn’t bear to tell her that.

I wasn’t ready. Christine wasn’t either, but early one morning, when Christine was in unbearable pain and slipping into ‘liver fog’ again, she finally gave me permission to call an ambulance.

Sobell House welcomed her with calm and kindness. They gave her real comfort in those final hours.

I went home briefly to sleep, believing she would rally like she always had. But at 6 a.m., I got the call from her son: “Get here. She’s not good.”

I held her hand as she died peacefully at ten to twelve on 11 December 2015.

In that moment, as heartbreaking as it was, I knew she was no longer in pain. It was a blessing she deserved.

What grief looked like for me

When I got home after she passed, I cooked pizzas for the family because none of us had eaten. People didn’t always understand how I coped, or how I tried to, but you do what you can in the moment.

At two in the morning the following day, I sat at the computer and typed words that I still believe came from Christine herself:

No More
No more injections
No more blood tests
No more medication
No more scans
No more x-rays
No more endoscopies
No more ultrasounds
No more prodding
No more embarrassing moments
No more indecision
No more incorrect diagnosis
No more trolley trips
No more trips to the hospitals
No more eating food I didn’t want
No more shuffling about
No more confusion
No more pain
I’m Free.

That wasn’t me writing. I pressed the keys, but those were her words.

After the funeral, packed with over 120 people who loved her, I completely fell apart. Once again, Sobell House stepped in. They sent Marge, a bereavement counsellor, who visited me for over a year. She let me talk about Christine, about my grief, my confusion, my anger, my emptiness. She listened to me, and she helped me stay afloat when I honestly didn’t believe I had anything left in me.

Later, Sobell asked if I’d speak to junior doctors about our journey. I shared my experience with them five or six times because I wanted them to understand the importance of empathy, kindness, and humanity. I would cry, they would cry, and eventually I had to stop because it was too painful to relive it again and again. But I’m glad I did it, and I hope it made a difference for someone else’s Christine.

Keeping Christine close

Ten years on, I still write to Christine every day. Letters, memories, photos, stories — there are so many pages now. I tell her what’s happened, what’s planned for the day, how I’m feeling. They help me stay connected to her. They give shape to the days.

I’ve written about the night we met, about the last year of her life, about the hardest decision I ever made … letting her go to Sobell so she wouldn’t suffer.

I’ve even begun to write a book. Maybe someday it will help someone else walking the same devastating path.

Every week, I buy fresh flowers, which sit in a vase by Christine’s chair. It helps me to remember every single day that she is here with me. My poppet. My best friend. My fluffy. My cuddles. My life.

What Sobell House means to me

Sobell House gave Christine dignity, safety, and peace in the moment she needed it most. But they also gave me something I didn’t expect, the strength to survive losing her.

Every single one of the staff at Sobell treated us with compassion that I will never forget. They cared for Christine as if she were theirs, and they cared for me when I was broken. Even now, years later, I hold them in the highest respect.

Christine was only at Sobell House for one day. But the impact they had on us will last my lifetime.

Thank you so much to Robert for kindly sharing his family’s experience.