Hannah
Hannah is a senior cardiographer for Leeds Teaching Hospitals.
Her dad Nick died in 2023.
“Last offices are the final duties you perform for a patient who’s died in your care before they go to the mortuary. It’s a real privilege; an honour.
We put two labels on them - one’s on the feet facing outwards so the undertaker can see who they are and the other is on their chest facing them. Always facing them, as if they could look down and know who they are. We open the window to let the soul out if we can.
A lot of things in hospital can be rushed, but whenever we’re doing last offices it takes as long as it takes. There are things you have to do and things you might feel you want to do, like brush a lady’s hair.
With Dad, the professional side of me took over. I was a grieving daughter and a carer. I laid him flat and lifted his bed up so I could be quite close to him. I stayed with him and I spoke to him.
I always speak to the deceased I’m dealing with. “I’m just going to wash you”; “I’m just going to help you look your best”. I’m not just an NHS number; none of us are. I’d want people to treat me like that.
“Sometimes emotions can get missed, glossed over. writing it down, though - it’s permanent. No one can take that away. ”
The first time I saw a person who’d passed away I was only 18. I’d cared for her in her last days. She was very elderly, she looked like she was in pain. The nursing staff knew it was my first time. They were like, ‘Let’s go face it head on.’
They opened the door and we went into the room. She looked like a different person. The wrinkles had dropped from her face and she looked so peaceful. She looked younger, even.
And I thought, ‘Oh, it’s nothing to be afraid of.’
I still struggle going onto the stroke ward and seeing people who remind me of my dad. But I remind myself that they’re someone else’s dad or husband or brother.
When Dad had a stroke, he lost the power of communication. His speech was really muddled and jumbled and robotic.
He lived in a nursing home for seven years. During Covid, I couldn’t visit him so I wrote poems for the nursing staff to read him.
I’ve always been a writer, but poetry really took off for me at 13 or 14. I was a bit of a troubled teenager - the usual angst.
One night, me and my mum were at the kitchen table and she handed me a pen and paper and said ‘Write about this’. Loads poured out, just off the cuff.
I thought, this is a really good way of getting the stuff that’s in my head out.
My poetry is my story. It’s the book of my life.
It’s a way of making myself heard. Sometimes there’s a pressure to keep a brave face on things. Emotions can get missed, glossed over. Writing it down, though - it’s permanent. No one can take that away.
I go into a different world; I feel like it’s a different me.
I keep it very close, though. I’m scared of being judged, I suppose. It’s so personal. I write about everything: mental health, my miscarriage, my dogs, a cup of tea.
Grief is a big part of my story recently, but I don’t want it to be the be all and end all. I hope that I’ll be able to write about more positive things.
At the end of the day, we’re all born and we’re all going to die. The bits in between might look different. But we all feel feelings, we’re all sons or daughters or friends, and we’ll all feel grief.
And grief doesn’t have to mean the end. It’s just part of the journey. ”