'We ALL deserve a peaceful, dignified death': After the dreadful care her dying grandfather endured, nurse Maria vowed to spare others the same indignity. So she devoted herself to the hospice movement Surveys show most people want to die at home or in a hospice But most end up dying in hospital - often needlessly Hospices like the one Maria works at make a big difference They provide expert care and treat patients with humanity and kindness This year, the Daily Mail's Christmas appeal goes to Sue Ryder hospices Please give what you can By Maria O'neill Hospice worker: Maria O'Neill was driven to work as a nurse at a hospice because of the shamefully poor care her grandfather received when he was dying The patient was an ex-SAS officer in his mid-40s. He wouldn't admit he was dying and was scared of it, refusing to talk about it and fighting it to the end. All he said one day, gruffly, was: 'I've had my tests back. They're not good and that's all you'll get out of me. Now don't tell me any more.' He had only a few days left, and deteriorated rapidly. His partner found it hard to cope, so my job was not just to ensure that he was cared for and pain-free but that she was OK, too. Towards the end, we pushed another bed next to his for his partner to get in next to him. She wrapped her arms around him and he died peacefully nestled next to her. Afterwards, I wept with her. It is impossible not to cry when you see a patient dying in a loved one's arms - and the peace and togetherness that being in a hospice has made possible. Just talking about it makes me feel weepy. I know from my own experience just how different it can be if you're left alone to care for a desperately sick relative. Before I started work at Sue Ryder's Thorpe Hall Hospice in Peterborough 19 years ago, I had been a nurse at a hospital in the Midlands. Then, in 1992, my beloved grandfather Arthur Wilcox, who was 73, was diagnosed with stomach cancer - and the care he received in his dying months was shamefully poor. He was my granddad and my best friend, so I knew I would nurse him. But I didn't know much about cancer (as a nurse, I dealt with routine operations), and over the weeks I tended him I was very much on my own. We had no medical support, no carers and no hospice to call on. For nine months, I slept on a mattress on the floor in his house to be close to him, while also working full-time. My granddad had just one visit from a Macmillan nurse. At one point, he had to go into hospital because he couldn't swallow food. They overloaded his system with fluids and the lower half of his body swelled up. The staff thought he was putting on weight but, in fact, he was retaining excess fluid. They also neglected to keep a tube in his arm clean, which caused him to have a massive infection in his arm, turning it black. Then, just two hours before he died, there was a knock at his door. It was carers who announced they were coming to wash him. It was the first offer of help I'd had, but it was too little, too late. 'No, you're not,' I told them. 'I'll sort him now.' An inspiration: A 19-year-old Maria with her grandfather Arthur, in 1983 After he died, I decided I didn't want anyone else to endure that sort of care and looked into nursing cancer patients. That is how I came to work at Thorpe Hall starting as a palliative care nurse. Now I am ward sister, overseeing a team of 16 staff. We have five nurses at any one time caring for 11 patients, but we can increase that if patients' needs demand it. It is a job I love now as much as when I started. It is a privilege to look after a dying person. But it does break your heart. I can recall people I looked after years ago and still get a tear in my eye at the memory. Some patients particularly linger in your heart. Helen is one of those. She was only 23, and had been diagnosed with cervical cancer while pregnant with her daughter. Just months before she came to us, she had been shopping for her wedding dress and planning her marriage to her sweetheart, the father of her daughter. She spent the last few weeks of her life as a patient with us, and in the quiet of the evening, Helen and I would sit and chat about her life, her dreams - and the wedding she was trying so desperately to organise. 'I want to be a bride, to pledge my vows in front of our families,' she told me, her eyes sparkling. Her baby, who was by then six months, was brought to the hospice every day so she could be a mum for the short time left. She played with her, fed her and I often saw her lying on the bed with her baby nestled in her arms. When Helen realised she was not going to live long enough to be married, she told me: 'I want to wear my dress, just once.' I helped fulfil her dying wish, to be buried in it. I hope it gave Helen's fiancÃ© and all her family - especially her mother - some comfort. One of the hardest tasks I've faced is telling two sisters, one aged five and the other aged nine - then the same age as my daughter, Katie - that their daddy was going to die. He was a 34-year-old Army officer and his wife could not face telling their girls he was dying. She was struggling to deal with it herself, so asked me to break the awful news. I took them into a designated quiet room, sat them down and asked what they knew about their daddy's illness. In their innocence, they said he was very ill but that the doctors were going to make him better. I had a lump in my throat and held their hands as I explained: 'I am so sorry but the doctors can't do that and Daddy is going to die.' It was a hard thing to have to do but it was one less burden on their mother. Beloved grandfather: Arthur pictured in 1988, five years before he was diagnosed with stomach cancer They cried, I cried, and after I left them with their mum, I went to my team and sobbed my heart out. Months later, after their father had died, they returned for a Christmas service, looking so pretty and happy. They gave me a hug. That spoke volumes about the help we had given them. A hospice is far from a place of morbid fear and loss. It's a nurturing, happy haven, where even those who come to us deeply troubled and fearful find solace. Marcus was 18 and dying when he came to us four years ago. He was the youngest person we have ever looked after. He had a rare and aggressive cancer - but it was particularly sad because his father had died of a different type of cancer just six weeks before. His mum was in shock - she couldn't take it in - and the whole family, his mum, brother and sister, were all in need of a great deal of support. Marcus was an angry young man. He didn't chat with us, and gave us one-word answers. We couldn't break through his emotional barriers. Understandably, he did not want to be in the hospice: he wanted to be out with his pals, having a good time. Why me? What have I done to get this?' he'd ask. I'd tell him that I didn't know and I was so sorry but we'd get through it together - and that's the truth. He was rude to the nurses, surly and grumpy. One day, I turned to him and said, light-heartedly: 'If you don't stop being rude, I'll slap your backside!' He burst out laughing and we never looked back. One of my team bought him a remote-control helicopter and he'd play with it all hours of the day and night. We made a landing pad and he'd whizz it about the ward. Importance of family: Maria's parents Ron and Hazel holding her daughter Katie, in 1999 I am sure a small helicopter is the last thing anyone would expect to find in a hospice. But as Marcus skilfully navigated it through the air, he learned to talk and laugh - and we learned to duck! His family were fantastic. He couldn't go home, so we brought his home to him, filling his room with his teenage paraphernalia, his PlayStation, Xbox and the like. His brother, sister and mum would all stay overnight with him so they could be a united family for the short time Marcus had left. He opened up, talking about his frustration and helplessness. As he talked, the anger began to ebb away and the scowl was replaced by a handsome smile, so that by the end he'd come to accept what was happening to him. You can't ever understand what a person is going through when they are dying but we can walk with them and support them on their journey. We accept we can't make them better, but we give them quality of life. We are always open and honest with patients and their families if they ask what the final days and hours will be like. I tell them everyone is different, but they have to trust us as we will control their symptoms. They will probably sleep a lot, be pain free and peaceful. It is our job to ensure we achieve it. Small gestures: Maria, pictured this year with daughter Katie, encourages relatives of patients to hold their loved ones and talk to them We encourage people to hold their loved ones, talk to them, and lie down next to them - whatever they want to do. But as the end draws near, I take the family out of the room and advise them all to go in one at a time and have a private ten minutes with the patient to say their own final words of farewell. When my dad Ron died suddenly in 2000 after a series of heart attacks, I was 100 miles away and never got the chance to say goodbye, so I know how important it is. It's the small details that count. Just the other week, we had a lovely lady who came in very ill but was desperate to attend her granddaughter's wedding. We got her pain under control, then on the day we did her hair, nails and make-up, and helped her get dressed up. She ended up enjoying herself so much that she stayed until the end of the evening reception. The next day, her granddaughter and new husband came in. She said to me: 'Thank you for helping Gran share my day - the memory will live with us for ever.' Even after nearly two decades here, I still go home feeling I have made a tiny bit of difference to someone's life. I wouldn't swap my job for the world. My work has changed me - I am not afraid of dying, especially if I spend my final days in a hospice like ours. But our work is only possible thanks to volunteers and donations from the public. Their kindness and generosity allow us to offer the services we do. We all deserve a dignified and peaceful death, and we only get one chance to get that right. On behalf of my team and lovely patients, thank you. Patients' names have been changed to protect their identities. Interview by Sheron Boyle Last Saturday we launched the Daily Mail Christmas Appeal for Sue Ryder hospices. Survey after survey has shown that most people want to die at home or in a hospice - treated with dignity and compassion, surrounded by our loved ones and at peace. Christmas appeal: In recognition of their good work, please donate to the Sue Ryder hospices On average, just one-third of the money needed to fund this essential care comes from the state. Which is why, this year, our Christmas appeal is supporting Sue Ryder hospices.