Chapter 11

So This Is Goodbye

Back in Melbourne I had less than a week to farewell my old life and plan what I could for the immediate future. My one-way flight to Sydney was booked for the 16th of June.

Even though I thought it was unnecessary (I was young, I wasn’t going to die!), I took my parents’ advice and organised to meet with a solicitor and sign my will. While friends were signing their credit cards for their latest purchases, I was autographing my will. My dad and brother now had medical power of attorney. To my parents I just signed over my debt in the case of my death. “Surely, when I die I want to leave something good,” I thought sadly.

That done, I was determined to appreciate the days I had left. My closest friends organised a trip to my family’s beach house in Anglesea. They say salty sea air heals wounds, so I secretly hoped it would fix me and, if not, give me the clarity and distance I needed to get things into perspective.

Sisters and best friends three days before their lives changed forever. Em’s last trip with her girlfriends to Anglesea, 2005.

On that weekend we girls went everywhere together, our elbows linked. I was scared, terrified to let go. The mood between us was subdued. We’d exchange anxious glances and our eyes were often filled with tears. We tried to distract each other with anecdotes, but they seemed minor considering I was about to be cut away from the group.

For that entire time by the sea I inwardly paced, wondering if it was my last ‘girl holiday’. You suddenly appreciate everything so much more when you realise it may vanish soon.

I had knitted each of my friends a scarf and attached the following note:

Warm hugs
I’ve wrapped my hugs within this scarf
To bring you warmth when things go wrong
And to bring you sunshine on winter days
As well as to thank you for your caring ways
In each row I have stitched in a smile
It’s here for you mile after mile
As we walk together or walk alone
My cheerful thoughts are yours to own
So wear this scarf, full of special things
And remember me and all that our friendship brings
The knitting’s not great – there’s a hole or two
But it comes with warm hugs from me to you
Love always
Em

For every family member I bought a present to help them remember me. Unlike my Christmas impulse buys, suddenly I had to think of something that encompassed my whole relationship with each person. I chose items that could be engraved with a personal message. For Dad and Pete a silver key ring, for Mum a locket, for Bec a bracelet and for Kate a necklace.

I was surprised when Bec gave me a canvas print she had designed and painted, based on a childhood photo of us with a wheelbarrow of home-grown apples. The words, Two halves make a whole, were etched across it. For the first time it really hit me that this wasn’t a thing that would just rock my life. I would be missed.

Em (L) & Bec homegrown apples, 1986. The photo Bec based her print on years later.

On the night of the 14th of June I had a casual dinner at my parents’ home. This was my last opportunity to thank people and to say goodbye. I knew how risky the procedure was going to be and that if I did survive the operation things would be very different. My family knew the seriousness of my situation but I hadn’t told my friends and acquaintances.

I wrote in my diary:

People were coming over for dinner – neighbours, netball friends, family friends, friends I’d rented with, school friends, work friends, everyone in my life. The room was filled with people. Sitting, standing, squatting people. I felt so lucky to have all this support. It was raining outside but the number of people and the open fire soon generated enough heat. The night rushed by in a blur. I would end one conversation and start another. I hadn’t even spoken to half of the people there and then the next minute I’m hugging them goodbye. It was too speedy. But I guess even if I’d had all the time in the world it would’ve been hard. What’s time, when time feels like it’s ending anyway? I think it was hard for everyone to understand how serious this is. Many hadn’t seen me since my diagnosis and although I’m walking with a stick, I’m probably looking better than I have for a while. The night was finished. Silence. Eerie silence. The people I cared about had now left. It felt like just me and the leftover peppermint slice.

After that I had only 24 hours left as ‘Em’ before surgery. There was no time to waste. Every second seemed vital.