THE other day I walked past a charity stand in the supermarket and offered the man behind it a couple of pound coins. “I’m afraid I can’t take cash today, but...” he said, reaching for a form. I politely declined and kept walking.

I can’t afford to sign up to donations, but still. I felt guilty. This wasn’t just a charity - it was a hospice charity.

The worst day of my life was the day my dad went into a hospice. After a traumatic week in hospital, where I have to say the care was poor, he was discharged. When my sister and I arrived to collect him he was hallucinating, ranting and hitting us. Our lovely mild-mannered, good-humoured dad had turned into a different person on that ward.

As he was in the later stages of a terminal illness, we’d arranged for a home care package, but when we got him home the care manager who came to assess him said it wasn’t a safe situation, for the carers or for us. I rang the palliative care team in tears and they said they’d try to find him a hospice.

Dad was in his armchair, the place where he’d always sat to watch TV and read the paper. He was still ranting and lashing out and as we tried to calm him down I remember looking at the medical bed delivered the day before, and the new bedding I’d put on it that morning. It was in the living-room, with all the other home care paraphernalia. I’d started the day looking forward to bringing him home and making him comfortable for whatever time he had left. Now I felt overwhelming sadness that we couldn’t do that.

When we got the call that a hospice bed was available, I re-packed his bag. We were about to take him away from his home, probably for the last time. The guilt I felt was a raw, searing pain. Somehow we managed to get him in the car and as we reached the Marie Curie, I saw him read the sign. In a quiet voice, he said the word. “Hospice”.

I’d always thought of hospices as sprawling Victorian institutions; gothic, grim and deathly quiet. Bradford’s Marie Curie Hospice is nothing like that. When we arrived, it was like walking into a hug. The Lead Nurse spoke to Dad calmly and politely; he relaxed before our eyes. The dignity he’d lost in hospital, where the staff had been brusque and stressed, was starting to return. The nurse was furious he’d been discharged in such a state; she could tell straight away he’d had an adverse reaction to medication. She took charge - a beacon on a dark, traumatic day - and I will never forget her kindness.

Dad spent the final weeks of his life in the hospice. He was calm and comfortable, and the staff were wonderful, from the day we walked in to the day we collected his things. It’s a fantastic place.

Hospices provide crucial services in end of life care. Many people will find themselves in a hospice at some point - and they will be thankful, as we were, for the incredible people who work there. But the services they provide are at risk, because of what Hospice UK warns is a “devastating” financial crisis. The charity says the hospice sector is reporting an estimated collective deficit of £77 million for 2023-24 - its worst financial results in 20 years. The shortfall, says Hospice UK, is driven by staffing costs, with hospices, which rely largely on fundraising and donations, struggling to match NHS pay rises, despite recruiting from the same pool of staff.

Running costs are rising and without a new funding model, Hospice UK warns the coming years could be devastating for end of life care. Many hospices are considering halting vital services, which will impact on patients, families, staff and the NHS.

Hospice funding will be debated in the House of Commons on Monday. More Government support is crucial. Without it, many hospices will be forced to “shoulder extra costs through relentless fundraising”. And that chap in the supermarket, one of those relentless fundraisers, wasn’t getting much attention from cash-strapped shoppers.

Dignity in dying is a right. Without the quality end of life care that hospices provide, it could become a privilege.