The injuries left him with severe brain damage and needing round-the-clock care. Our kind, cheeky, and caring Lennie could no longer speak or do anything for himself. But he was still with us, and we were determined to give him the best life we could.

After a long stretch in hospital and rehab, we brought him home, where our family cared for him for the next 30 years. Mum and Dad adapted the house so he could live with them at home, and they dedicated their lives to his health and wellbeing. Thankfully, we were blessed with some incredible carers to help throughout the years, and many became part of our whānau. Rima, Lennie’s main carer, walked alongside us for 30 beautiful years. She and Mum shared a bond like sisters, and to Lennie, Rima was a second mum. And then there was Lee, our other main carer who was with us for over 20 years – she became his other big sister.

Lennie never spoke again, but he communicated through his eyes, his laughter, and his unforgettable smile. He had a way of making any sad or bad moment better with just a giggle or smile. Tears in our home? His smile would instantly cheer you up. A disagreement in the house? A giggle from him would stop that argument in its tracks and we’d all just laugh! He had a wicked sense of humour, and nothing made him laugh more than someone else’s minor misfortune. We still laugh about the time Mum got stuck upside down under the barbecue while cleaning windows. Lennie watched through the glass from inside, his face lighting up with laughter.

Then one day, Lennie developed a kidney infection which turned into sepsis. He was rushed to hospital, and we were told he didn’t have long. That’s when we were introduced to Tōtara Hospice.

We didn’t know much about hospice care at the time – like many people we thought that it was where people went to die. We were heartbroken and anxious. We didn’t want our beautiful Lennie to pass away in a cold, sterile hospital after a life filled with love, laughter, and warmth at home. However, we also didn’t know if we could manage his final days ourselves. We’d spent over 30 years caring for him as a tight-knit team, but this was a new and daunting chapter.

But Hospice wrapped itself around us like a warm hug. The doctors and nurses were incredible. It felt like home, but with the comfort of knowing expert care was right there when we needed it.

After 10 days in Tōtara Hospice, we were preparing for his death – even having met with the funeral directors, but it just didn’t feel like Lennie was ready to let go. The challenge was, there was no baseline for someone like Lennie. So, Dr James ran blood tests to see what was going on. Because Lennie couldn’t speak, he couldn’t tell us. Lennie surprised us all. He had fought off the sepsis! What we thought were his final days turned into another beautiful year and a half. A bonus, we called it. A gift.

When Lennie’s time finally came earlier this year, it happened quickly. Pneumonia took him quietly and swiftly. But he made it to Hospice – just in time. Mum, Rima, and I were all there with him when he passed. It was peaceful. He simply stopped. It felt like he knew it was time to let go – to be free from the weight of the life he’d been dealt since the car accident, and of seizures that had become more frequent. His body had carried him as far as it could, and now he could rest.
That moment mattered.

Hospice was there when we needed it most. Not just for Lennie, but for all of us. They gave us the space to be family, not just caregivers. For the first time in a long time, we could simply be with him, knowing he was in the best hands. Lennie couldn’t speak, but his laughter said everything. Lennie taught us that joy doesn’t need words – it just needs love, a little mischief, and a great smile.

Help Tōtara Hospice be there for more families like ours.

Lennie’s story is just one of many—but at Hospice, they saw him, not just a patient. And they saw us too. What struck me most was how they treated every person as a life story, not a clinical file. Their care wasn’t just medical—it was deeply human. Hospice is about people, not just patients.