Thank you so much for your kind words. Holding On is a very important story to me. I started writing it last year after reading a true story about an elderly couple who had spent the last days of their life in the same hospice that looked after my dad during the last two years of his.
While I don’t name it in the novel, this is very much about Ashgate Hospice (I can’t say enough good things about that incredible place, and about how much love, support, and agency they bring to families like mine—and to families like Ralph’s, Lily’s, Rachel’s, and David’s). It’s also very much about my hometown (Chesterfield), and about the challenges families face when the whole world can be turned upside down.
These challenges often go untalked about, and I wanted to shine a light on their struggles and say, I see you. I also wanted to share that while a terminal diagnosis can signal the beginning of the end, it can also radically deepen the quality of the time left. It can break families—but it can also heal them.
Thanks for taking the time to fill in the back story to your work. And I applaud your effort to bring organizations like these to light. Too often they go unnoticed or unappreciated. I look forward to the next chapter :)
Ashgate Hospice is a truly magical place. There’s a gentleness to the UK’s hospice system—a softness around the edges—that feels almost sacred. Here’s a moment I’ll never forget:
When my dad moved in, they told him he had less than six months to live. Privately, we’d been told it was more like two weeks. We were all raw, walking that strange line between denial and preparation.
That first night, I sat with him in a shared ward of about eight men. He wasn’t fully present, so I just stayed close. The hospice was generous with visiting hours, and I wanted to drink in every breath, every heartbeat of time we had left.
It got late—after 8, I think—and the ward had grown quiet. Just me and maybe one other visitor. Then, almost like a scene from a different world, a nurse appeared, wheeling in a fully stocked cocktail trolley. She moved gently from bed to bed, offering the men a nightcap.
I must have looked startled, because she caught my eye and smiled. Then, while pouring a whisky and soda for the frail man in the next bed, she leaned in and said, almost conspiratorially:
“It’s not going to kill them, is it?”
That blend of irreverence and compassion—of truly honoring life even at its end—is something I’ll carry with me forever.
The use of the book as an object to hold onto in a moment of stress while trying to figure out what the loved ones would say in that moment was very effective.
I think that I might together something on how I generate the artwork that accompanies my posts. I use a combination of ChatGPT and MIdJourney, along with an iterative process to fine tune the images to exactly what I want.
Does that sound like something that others might find useful?
I tried when you told me last time, but mine just ends up looking so AI—if you know what I mean. You’ve gotta have some secret prompt that works like magic... I’m still trying to figure it out.
Part of the trick is with the first ChatGPT prompt, where I give it the text of my post and ask it to generate a MidJourney prompt for an accompanying image. If there is a certain style (e.g. abstract or pointillist, etc.), I will often also give ChatGPT a reference image with the added instruction that the prompt should be in the style of that image.
This began as a short story after I read a piece about the hospice that cared for my dad. He was given two weeks to live when he was moved there. They stabilized him, and he ended up living another two years—spending one day a week there, held with such quiet dignity and care.
I started writing to honor that space, that time. But the story kept expanding. I think I needed to write something that sat with the before—all the moments we carry when goodbye hasn’t come yet, but the shape of it is already in the room.
Chapter 2 lands next Wednesday. I’m really grateful it’s resonating.
Beautiful! Can’t wait for the next installment.
This is such a strong beginning. I love this. Can't wait to see what comes next. You are my 415th bedtime story. :)
Hi Colleen,
Thank you so much for your kind words. Holding On is a very important story to me. I started writing it last year after reading a true story about an elderly couple who had spent the last days of their life in the same hospice that looked after my dad during the last two years of his.
While I don’t name it in the novel, this is very much about Ashgate Hospice (I can’t say enough good things about that incredible place, and about how much love, support, and agency they bring to families like mine—and to families like Ralph’s, Lily’s, Rachel’s, and David’s). It’s also very much about my hometown (Chesterfield), and about the challenges families face when the whole world can be turned upside down.
These challenges often go untalked about, and I wanted to shine a light on their struggles and say, I see you. I also wanted to share that while a terminal diagnosis can signal the beginning of the end, it can also radically deepen the quality of the time left. It can break families—but it can also heal them.
Thanks for taking the time to fill in the back story to your work. And I applaud your effort to bring organizations like these to light. Too often they go unnoticed or unappreciated. I look forward to the next chapter :)
Thanks, Colleen.
Ashgate Hospice is a truly magical place. There’s a gentleness to the UK’s hospice system—a softness around the edges—that feels almost sacred. Here’s a moment I’ll never forget:
When my dad moved in, they told him he had less than six months to live. Privately, we’d been told it was more like two weeks. We were all raw, walking that strange line between denial and preparation.
That first night, I sat with him in a shared ward of about eight men. He wasn’t fully present, so I just stayed close. The hospice was generous with visiting hours, and I wanted to drink in every breath, every heartbeat of time we had left.
It got late—after 8, I think—and the ward had grown quiet. Just me and maybe one other visitor. Then, almost like a scene from a different world, a nurse appeared, wheeling in a fully stocked cocktail trolley. She moved gently from bed to bed, offering the men a nightcap.
I must have looked startled, because she caught my eye and smiled. Then, while pouring a whisky and soda for the frail man in the next bed, she leaned in and said, almost conspiratorially:
“It’s not going to kill them, is it?”
That blend of irreverence and compassion—of truly honoring life even at its end—is something I’ll carry with me forever.
Oh, I loooooovvvvvveeee that. How special!
Wow, the voice on this is great.
The use of the book as an object to hold onto in a moment of stress while trying to figure out what the loved ones would say in that moment was very effective.
Loved this.
Thanks so much, Anne-Marie!
I’m just about to record chapter 2, which will be out on Wednesday! 😊
There’s something so sacred in the way you let silence carry weight.
Ps, I’m seriously tempted to steal all your cover art. (Just the visuals, I promise. Your words are safe… for now.)
I think that I might together something on how I generate the artwork that accompanies my posts. I use a combination of ChatGPT and MIdJourney, along with an iterative process to fine tune the images to exactly what I want.
Does that sound like something that others might find useful?
I tried when you told me last time, but mine just ends up looking so AI—if you know what I mean. You’ve gotta have some secret prompt that works like magic... I’m still trying to figure it out.
Part of the trick is with the first ChatGPT prompt, where I give it the text of my post and ask it to generate a MidJourney prompt for an accompanying image. If there is a certain style (e.g. abstract or pointillist, etc.), I will often also give ChatGPT a reference image with the added instruction that the prompt should be in the style of that image.
That’s it! I will try that!!
Let me know how it goes!
I've actually been thinking about printing those two abstract images that accompanied my recent poems.
Thanks so much, Amanda.
This began as a short story after I read a piece about the hospice that cared for my dad. He was given two weeks to live when he was moved there. They stabilized him, and he ended up living another two years—spending one day a week there, held with such quiet dignity and care.
I started writing to honor that space, that time. But the story kept expanding. I think I needed to write something that sat with the before—all the moments we carry when goodbye hasn’t come yet, but the shape of it is already in the room.
Chapter 2 lands next Wednesday. I’m really grateful it’s resonating.