In September, I found myself back in a hell that was all too familiar. My mum was in a hospice, dying of cancer, while I camped at her bedside or paced the halls desperately. Four years earlier – almost to the day – I had been in the exact same position with my dad after his cancer diagnosis became terminal. How was this happening to us again? And so soon? It felt like the past had looped back on itself, trapping me in a recurring nightmare.
And yet something fundamental had changed in the short period between my parents’ deaths – the quality of end-of-life care has undergone a shocking and rapid decline. It is a growing crisis that I have had the misfortune of witnessing first-hand.