She was so cool. The sunglasses, the MG, always surrounded by friends, with a glass in her hand. We all wanted to be with Liz, which makes today so much harder.
If Liz had the opportunity to comment on an invitation to be here today, I know what she would have said ‘I might be able to make it’
Whenever we invited her to anything, the party of the year or a weekend away, the answer was always the same ‘I might be able to make it’ or I’m seeing one of my friends that weekend. She liked to leave you wondering.
When I offered her a job at Northwest back in late 2015 do you know what her answer was? Yeah, I might come and work for you. And that was how we left it. I couldn’t get a firm answer out of her and I wasn’t quite sure until she turned up at our house the day before starting whether she was actually going to take the job. It still took several months for her to sign the contract.
She was a free spirit, not to be tied down. And we are all eternally grateful for those special moments when we were able to spend time with our friend Liz and indulge our mutual love for travel, food and wine.
Liz was always fun to be with and as much as she would hate me saying it, you needed to keep an eye on her. Has she disappeared off the piste because she’s had a hypo and is in trouble, or did she overtake me because her fiercely competitive spirit won’t let me ski faster than her. I can’t count the number of times we would dismount a chairlift and discover that she had just disappeared. And Louise will tell you of the time in Africa where despite Liz’s assurances that she was indeed ok, her glucose was probably negative and Louise rescued the day with a banana from a roadside stall, much to Liz’s disgust at needing help from her friend.
Many of you had the pleasure of working with Liz and recognised her endeavour for clinical and scientific rigour. She cared deeply about her patients and colleagues. I first met Liz at the AHT in 2006 and quickly decided that she was the kind of person I wanted to both work with and be friends with, despite her opening welcome to me ‘well you should have come last week, we had a brain to do’ – I really wasn’t sure if I had made a mistake but it turned it was Liz that put the wrong date in the diary. That was all I saw of her that day – as a first year resident she put me with Louise for the next few days until she realised that I was actually alright at the job.
Every workplace needs a Liz. ‘I’ll have an aunty Liz chat with them’, she would say. Whether it was someone who was upset and needed some support, aunty Liz was there. Or maybe it was someone that had stepped out of line and needed a gentle talking to. You know who you are, and yes I was on that list more than once.
Liz liked to refer to more junior colleagues as ‘her children’. A number of you here, despite your current seniority, have in the past been part of that group. Liz had a real passion for educating others in anaesthesia and so many times I saw her help others to understand topics in anaesthesia that they were struggling with, or navigate through a difficult case with absolute calm. Liz was calm both above and below the surface.
Whilst Liz was not the most outwardly organised person, inwardly, she had a plan. However, to try to organise her was a risky business. And I feel like she left us a to do list – some of those on my list;
-Write that paper we’d been working on together
-Travel to those far flung places – she desperately wanted to visit the pantanale in Brazil so that’s one that’s moved up my list!
-Drink the wine that she had collected over the years. Happy to help.
-Fix the washing line - I failed to get it to stay straight, and I know others tried!
-Together, we tried to get Rachel to understand that there are different glasses for different wines – Liz, I’m not sure I’m going to complete that challenge.
For those of you that spent time with Liz walking up mountains, she’s left you with plenty more to climb
For those of you that enjoyed her holidays with her, there’s a whole world out there that she wants you to explore

Liz has left a huge gap for many of us in our friendship circle and it’s going to be hard to fill that void.
Who’s going to have that 10am vin chaud with me on a skiing trip?
Who’s on the end of a message to rant at when something at work isn’t as we feel it should be?
Who going to eat all those Michelin starred meals with matched wines?

Having the approval of Liz was important to many of us and I will leave you with something she certainly did approve; of;
My friends, in victory you deserve champagne. In defeat, you need it.

Dear Liz,

We are here — where, without rhetoric, we would never want to be. We are here to remember a person who faced her terrible illness with extraordinary courage. Your smile, together with your kindness and sensitivity, has been — and will always remain — an example for all of us, and for those who knew and loved you but could not be here today.

For those who don’t know me, I am also a veterinarian, and I first met Liz in 2017 when I moved to the UK with my family. The first years, I must admit, were not easy — socially, personally, and professionally. Everything felt different from what I was used to.

The turning point came in June 2019, during a very dark time in my professional and personal life. I needed help — someone who could guide me through paths I had never imagined taking. I immediately felt that Liz was the right person, and she, probably sensing my sincerity, chose to stand by my side from that moment on.

As we began working more closely, our friendship grew. We eventually moved our work to Wakefield — 94.7 miles north of Cheshire — and a new routine began: meetings before sunrise, long hours in traffic on the M62, returning home at impossible hours, only to meet again the following morning on Fluin Lane in Frodsham, where one of us would leave the car for the day.

Tired of the endless travel, we decided to find a house to share during the week, and we found one in Lepton, near Huddersfield. But then COVID arrived, and the desire to return home won — and so the compulsive travelling began again.

Through it all, my family — including our dogs — welcomed you and Ogwen as part of us. I will never forget how our six dogs accepted Ogwen, especially Prego, our disabled dog, who was truly in love with her.

Sadly, from the spring of 2021, I began to see your growing suffering, despite your constant reassurance that everything was fine. We hoped, as we stood beside you and tried not to be intrusive, that the surgeries and treatments you faced with such courage might help and stop the terrible disease. But by April, our daily routine had ended — partly because we moved closer to Wakefield, and partly because your health was worsening.

At that point, we tried to accompany you as best we could, and my wife Anja, like me, wanted you to feel our presence and care — just as you had been there for us in the years before.

Dear Liz, there is never a right time to leave the people we love. But I can assure you — you will always live in our hearts. Those who live in the hearts of those who remain never truly leave.

I want to remember you joyful and free, with your incredible and extraordinary love for life.

I will end with the words of Henry David Thoreau:

“On tops of mountains, as everywhere to hopeful souls, it is always morning.”

Ciao, Liz, I’m sure you will climb all mountains of heaven.

Even on glorious days, it is only when the sun goes down that you fully appreciate how brightly it shone.

Before I start I feel I have to preach …

- Stop complaining about your body – move it, nourish it, and be grateful – it is the thing that carries you through your days
- Put down your phone, be present with the people you love
- Spend your time and your money on experiences, not things
- Say I love you more often, forgive faster
- If there is something you want to say then say it, something you want to do then do it
- Live each day as if it were your last – one day it will be

What I’ve come to realise is that there are no great mysteries in life, we humans over complicate things when really it’s all very simple. Give or take there is only really one true version of ourselves, and it is everybody else’s interpretation where the variances are.

I have no doubt each of you here have your own picture of Liz to paint; your own story to tell. I’ve heard so many of them these last few weeks. What I want to do here is to paint a very brief picture of my own.

I thought the easiest way to do that would be to share my unsent letter to Liz

Dearest Lizzie

Well you bugger, you called it. You said this would happen – 20 odd years ago you warned me of your failings in health and in love, predicting a premature and solitary end. On the former, while you undoubtedly got dealt a duff hand, I think your prediction was just luck – or bad luck as it turns out.

On love – you told me you wanted to be swept off your feet. Looking around - you are loved a hundred times over.

Did you live your life the way you did because of or in spite of what you thought you knew? I have little doubt it was the latter.

Over the course of a lifetime people come and go into the frame, a few remain indefinitely, and a few have a monumental impact. On rare occasions both happen and having a bestie like you for more than half of my adult life has been the most rare and incredible gift I could have been given.

What makes a bestie?

We travelled the world - saw some amazing places, skied so much we always ran out of leave by April, gut stuck in the world’s biggest sand dunes, your sympathy when I skewered my hand multiple times on a sea urchin in the Seychelles was, like any good medic, barely perceptible

We saw so many bands and musicians – festivals and stadium gigs to tiny venues and student union bars (The Killers). We watched some of our favourites grow from virtual unknowns to stadium fillers. In May this year you finally got me to see Hurts in Brixton, preceded as always with excellent food at some uber trendy London venue.

We spent Xmas’ together. We helped each other through some huge experiences – loss of family members, moving house, jobs, and country

Through you I met so many incredibly friends and I fell head over heels with all of your dogs (and I quite liked the cats too). The times I dog sat for you in my pristine little cottage with a white carpet, to come home to find pigeon had raided the pantry and eaten a bag of flour across every room

We had such a memorable day this summer in the forest – seeing the joy on your face to be out on your bike, the sun on your back, with lunch in the cafe and laughing until we cried.

So many incredible memories but perhaps the one thing I will never forget – before I moved overseas - were the years of nightly bedtime phone calls – on the landline - just to say a few words on what we had eaten for dinner, football, work, people, fears and dreams.

I don’t imagine I told you enough how much you mean to me, but I think you know.

Knowing and seeing how much you also mean to so many other people too makes me love you even more.

What a wonderful friend you are and will always be.

Thank you all for coming to celebrate Liz’s life today, and for the outpouring of love that has followed her passing.
As I was writing these words, thinking about all the wonderful family, friends, and colleagues gathered here, it occurred to me that if all of us came together professionally, Leece Referrals would be the most kick-ass referral hospital in the western hemisphere. And I know Liz would be absolutely thrilled to know how loved she is by you all.
I’d also like to thank Abigail, Annie, and Rachel for all the time and love they’ve poured into today. You are wonderful humans.
My role in “Team Leece” during Liz’s long battle with cancer was to terrify consultants (especially the surgical ones) and junior doctors on the rare occasions when Liz couldn’t advocate for herself. So it feels very fitting to be able to speak to you all today about some of the many reasons I love her so much.
I haven’t known Liz as long as some of you here today. We met in 2016 when we worked together at Northwest Surgeons — and despite racking my brains, I can’t actually remember our first meeting. What I do remember is my first telling off, when I didn’t wait long enough for a patient to sedate before removing the nasal packing post-maxillectomy. Let’s just say, I only ever made that mistake once!
When I think back, it feels as if we’d somehow always been friends — kindred spirits in stubbornness.
So, where to start in celebrating our darling girl? So fierce, so determined, so stubborn, so full of mischief and joy. One of the first things Oscar remembers about Liz is that unique, cheeky laugh she had whenever she was up to no good. I somehow caught that laugh from her, and even now, Oscar calls it my “Leece Laugh.”
Liz faced many challenges over the course of her life and emerged from each one stronger and brighter. Some of her choices may not, on the surface, have seemed entirely sensible — like deciding to do three back-to-back spin classes because her blood glucose was too low to drive home, or hiking up a mountain just eight weeks after Whipple surgery (when most people take six to eight months to recover). But Liz owned every single one of those decisions, and somehow, things always turned out as if they’d been perfectly planned. Her courage, I’m sure we can all agree, is the stuff of legend.
A common thread in the many beautiful messages we’ve received since her passing has been how much she inspired people — both within the veterinary world and beyond it. Liz believed deeply in the potential of every person she worked with, regardless of their title or credentials. She was an extraordinary teacher and a tireless advocate for her nurses, interns, and residents. I know many of you here today can pinpoint the exact moment when a bit of Leece magic changed your life or your career. To be part of “Team Leece” was a privilege indeed.
When she wasn’t in scrubs or on a spin bike downing packets of Mentos, Liz was most often found on the top of a steep hill in the Lake District — usually with her beloved dog, Ogwen, and one of the many friends she had cajoled up the most vertical path imaginable. The joy of the wilderness was deeply embedded in her soul, and hiking brought out that brilliant, unstoppable smile we all loved so much.
Many of my other memories with Liz involve great food, great travel, and, admittedly, a fair amount of alcohol. She once made George and me a single margarita each that was so strong we were still hungover twelve hours later — on a school night! She swore it had a mixer in it, but I’m convinced she just showed the tequila a lime in passing.
Liz loved exploring the world — the more remote, wild, and full of strange wildlife, the better. She had wanderlust in her heart, and it would be a fitting legacy if each of us carried a little of her spirit on every future adventure we take.
To close, I’d like to share a poem by Donna Ashworth — words that say far more eloquently than I ever could what so many of us feel: that Liz will live on in everyone whose life she touched.
So, look for her in the ether — when you place that tricky arterial line, when you bring a patient safely through anaesthesia, or when you reach the top of a hill, pause, and take in the wonder of the view. She’ll be there, with you, in your heart.
“When you feel you are without me, close your eyes
Retreat within
Sink deep beneath your skin
I am the blood that flows
I am the courage in your gut that grows
I am the chamber in your heart that feels like home
Only my body has flown
But me, I dwell still within your bones
My voice and all the good I have ever known is yours to own
When you feel you are without me
Listen close
I whisper louder when you miss me the most.”

Liz was an incredible anaesthetist, mentor and friend. An inspirational character, her warmth and enthusiasm were so empowering for so many colleagues, students and nurses.

Liz was a Past President of the AVA and a huge contributor to our community. Our world will be a little less bright and a little less fierce without her. She was very special and will be hugely missed.

We will honour her legacy.
Rest in Peace.