The comfort of a cuddle bed

For many of us, something as simple as a cuddle brings so much comfort and peace. Those cuddles become even more important when one of our loved ones is facing a life-limiting illness.

Angie and Robin were together for 25 years. They met at work while Angie was living in Dublin, beginning their relationship long-distance before eventually building a life together in Somerset.

Robin, a former rugby player with a quick wit and a love of laughter, never lost his sense of humour, even during his time on the In-Patient Unit. When asked to introduce himself, he joked, “I’m the prince of Somerset, and this is my beautiful lady.”

Angie laughed at his quiet jokes and quips. He may not have had as much energy as he once did, but it was clear that their relationship was built on laughter, joy, and deep love.

After Robin’s cancer diagnosis, the couple’s world shifted. Initially admitted to the Beacon Centre for his first round of chemotherapy, Robin later transferred his treatment to the Somerset Foundation Trust’s base at St Margaret’s Hospice in Yeovil.

“The journey to the Beacon Centre was just too much,” Angie explains. “Taking into account the time for treatment and travelling back and forth, we asked to be referred to the Yeovil site. And that’s how we initially came to know of the hospice and the work they do.”

The couple were also referred to St Margaret’s. They initially had use of the 24-hour Advice Line, which Angie described as “an absolute lifeline,” and were visited by the community nursing team. Eventually, Robin was admitted to the In-Patient Unit.

“It was one of the lovely nurses who mentioned the cuddle bed to me,” Angie says. “I think because I was sort of trying to get into Robin’s bed anyway.”

When the nurse confirmed that a cuddle bed would be available for them to use, Angie says she was “absolutely delighted.”

In the evenings, they would lie side by side holding hands, watching television, just as they would have done at home. Angie stayed overnight with Robin during his entire stay on the ward, and in the mornings they would lie in bed together and share a cup of tea.

“It’s just a bit of normality that you get back,” she says. “Some physical closeness and warmth.”

For Robin, that closeness has brought something else back too.

“I’ve felt it became missed,” he said. “And I didn’t want to put any pressure on Angie. But now we have situations where we’ll get together and it brings back these sayings. Certain words that mean a lot to us – maybe not to anyone else – but to us, they mean a lot.”

Angie agrees. “It’s like muscle memory. The familiarity of being physically close means he’ll just tell me he loves me, or say special pet sayings that he used to say.”

Those small, tender words, understood only by the couple, spoken in the quiet of an evening or in the early morning, became incredibly precious.

The bed also meant special moments for Robin with his daughters, Hannah and Zoe, who travelled from afar to visit.

“They stayed at our house,” Angie explains, “They can come over and hang out, and they can climb in bed with him and give him a cuddle.

Time that felt like a touch of normality. Time that felt like home.

In late February, Robin died peacefully at St Margaret’s, with his family close by. Now, they are sharing his story to help ensure more people can have these crucial moments of closeness during the hardest times.

At St Margaret’s, we care for up to 12 patients at a time on our In-Patient Unit. While we are fortunate to have two cuddle beds, many families miss the opportunity for these moments of closeness.