Charlie’s story

It’s that time of year again. Believe it or not, the human heart has been used as a symbol of love on Valentine’s Day cards for the last 300 years. It’s an easy way of expressing our deepest, most personal, emotion. Whether it’s an emoji, or a rough drawing in a lovesick schoolgirl’s exercise book, it connects us to people we cherish.  

My name is Charlie. This year, thanks to the thoughtfulness of staff on the In-Patient Unit at Willen, the heart signifies something truly special, everlasting love at a time of loss. I can literally feel it, touch it. It is with me everywhere, bringing me closer to my partner, Jason, who passed away at the Hospice in December. 

“I was with him at the Hospice every day”

We thought we had only a week left together. It turned out we had just shy of three months. When he was admitted to the Hospice, I was with him every day, and often stayed overnight. He was given a ‘cuddle bed’, which is wider, so we were so grateful that we could snuggle up together whenever we wanted. I gained a new family, in the doctors, nurses, healthcare assistants, pharmacists, ward hostesses and volunteers who do so much to create an atmosphere of care and compassion. 

So where does the heart come in? Well, one day I was sitting in the Lakeview Room while Jay was being tended to. As the name suggests, the large windows give a panoramic view of Willen’s North Lake. It’s a place to pause and reflect, with a cup of tea and your innermost thoughts. 

As I was sitting there, one of the staff, Hannah, gave me two knitted hearts. They were small, soft and grey. She explained that, together with her mum, Jo, she was co-ordinating the nurses and other staff to knit as many hearts as possible in their spare time. The plan was to decorate the building with them and, who knows, invite the public to join in.  

“One heart was his to keep, but only after I had sprayed it with my favourite perfume.”

It was such a lovely gesture – a simple, beautiful idea. I immediately took the hearts to Jay. He loved them. Grey reminded him of the colour scheme at our house. One heart was his to keep, but only after I had sprayed it with my favourite perfume. I took the other one home, and soaked it in his favourite aftershave. It has been with me ever since. 

It meant a lot. It still does. I found it gave me so much comfort. I keep it in my coat pocket and even sleep with it, like a child. My twins, Kobi and Finn, check that it is with me when I go out. Jay was so attached to his heart that he kept it in bed with him. Occasionally he’d lose sight of it, and panic a bit until he got it back. When he passed away, I asked the funeral directors to place it in his hand. 

“He was the softest, most gentle giant”

How can I describe Jay? He was funny, moody, with the driest sense of humour. A family man, very caring. A massive character, and a big bloke, who had been a doorman and a bodybuilder in his earlier years. To sum him up, he was the softest, most gentle giant.  

He ran his own business, Cooky’s Windscreens. Everyone knew him as the Cookie Monster, the character from the children’s tv show Sesame Street. Jason loved the puppet’s shade of blue. He had his face on t-shirts and even had a Cookie Monster duvet cover when he was at the Hospice. 

Jay had been diagnosed with glioblastoma, the most common type of cancerous brain tumour in adults, in April 2024. I gave the tumour the name Terry, to try to make it a little less forbidding, and even the oncologist played along with it. The first six months were a battle. Jay was in and out of hospital, and our whole lives changed. 

“At the Hospice, knowing everything was being done for him, I could go home and rest”

We knew that Willen would be the last place he would stay, but it was full of light and laughter. It was the perfect place for the situation we were in. I worried all the time when he was in hospital, and struggled to sleep. At the Hospice, knowing everything was being done for him, day or night, I could go home and rest. The children and grandchildren were able to pop in whenever they liked.  

I was there all the time, but was able to take a step back. I became Jay’s partner again, and not his carer. It felt like home. I was able to meet the families of other patients. We might have been strangers, but we had so much in common. 

Jay and I were relatively young – he was 52, I was 42 – so we didn’t have many friends who had the personal experience to truly understand what we were going through. They really cared, and were there for us, but it was a hard thing to get their heads around. Other relatives on the ward at Willen knew. They just knew. 

“By the Monday I was back on the unit … I didn’t know what else to do with myself”

Jay passed peacefully on a Saturday, and by the Monday I was back on the unit. I had one of Willen’s towels to hand back, but to be honest I didn’t know what else to do with myself. I was welcomed back with open arms. Jay had become part of everyone’s lives, and his loss was obviously widely felt. 

I have now joined the Hospice’s walking group. We meet every Thursday at 10.30am. It’s run by the Therapeutic & Wellbeing team for patients, carers, bereaved loved ones, volunteers and staff. We do one lap of the North Lake then go into the Wellbeing Centre for tea, biscuits and a chat.  

I’m determined to do as much as I can to give something back to the Hospice. I couldn’t sign up to do a skydive for Willen, because the thought terrifies me, but Jay’s son Rick, his wife Sabrina and my son Finn are going to do it. We are also having a fundraising day at Jason’s favourite pub, the Chequers in Houghton Regis, on 12 July.  

“Thanks to Hannah’s heart, I also have something special to remember him by”

As for me, I’d love to work at the Hospice as a volunteer. It gave Jay a whole new lease of life, and made everything so much more bearable. Thanks to Hannah’s heart, I also have something special to remember him by.