These entries begin shortly after Anna’s funeral and cremation in July 2016. They are based on text messages, email and journal entries written at the time. Anna and Conal had been together since 1978.
July 19, 2016: I write to Anna’s GP who is moving to a new job. She had been Anna’s doctor for years.
I would like to also thank you for caring for my partner Anna. As you know, Anna died in late June. She left us peacefully and pain free. A week before Anna died we came and saw you for what was to be a final visit. You sat down in front of Anna, looked her in the eye and laid out the facts about what was to come: She was nearing the end of her life and there would be no pain.
In my experience it takes courage to look somebody in the eye – and tell them the truth.
It takes true compassion – and great empathy – to be able to tell that person that particular truth – and to make them feel comfortable, or at ease, about what was to come.
In the case of Anna, she registered what you were saying. Anna knew her spirit, her stubbornness and pure bloody-mindedness might not be enough to get over this hurdle.
Anna cherished the moment you came to see her in early March. She had been given “days to live, not weeks” in January by hospital doctors, but Ann decided not to die.
She fought the two brain tumors, they gave Anna radiotherapy, she recovered enough to go home.
That first week home, we dropped into your clinic on that March morning (for physio) and I mentioned to the receptionist that Anna was in the building. When you heard this news, you left your office and came out to see – and hug her – despite Anna being in a wheelchair.
Yes, Death is coming … but not today. Not today.
You, like me, knew how close Anna had come to death. You appreciated the effort and determination it took for Anna to find herself at Death’s door, only to ring that doorbell … and then calmly walk away.
No doubt the Grim Reaper came out of his house and was left wondering who had come calling.
As my daughter said on more than one occasion: “Yes, Death is coming … but not today. Not today”.
Between March and June of this year, you saw Anna on almost a weekly basis. You called Anna your Superhero, your Troublemaker. Anna took these compliments and wore them as a badge of honour.
Each time we came to see you, Anna was determined to show you she was on the mend. While other people might have been happy to stay in their wheelchair, Anna used her walking stick to help her walk. To push herself. Anna knew how impressed you would be that she had walked from the Waiting Room to your office.
“Now you are just showing off,” was your famous remark. And that inspired Anna. It really did.
It lifted her spirits. Increased her courage.
After being told the dreadful news in late January, we – our family, friends and myself – knew our time with Anna limited. Anna didn’t believe that: she was planning to get better, to go driving again, and to get a job as a teacher (now that she had a degree).
I remember the time Anna came to you looking for something that would give her more energy – she was inpatient, wanted to recover faster and literally get back on her feet faster.
“Anna, it is like you are close to the top of a tree and are reaching for the topmost apple. You are frustrated you can’t reach that apple.
“What you don’t fully appreciate is that a few weeks ago, they were about to bury you beside that tree. You have done so well. Achieved so much,” was your reply to her.
This was Anna, a stubborn superhero, determined to live. And she did.
We got an extra 150 days with Anna.
We talked, hugged, we did cake and coffee together, had fish and chips by the ocean, took photos, filled legal forms … and that was just the first week.
Each day – for those final 150 days – we told each how much we loved each other. We also told each other – every night – “Thank you for today”.
But time ran out for Anna.
We had both agreed – in March – when the Home Care would end, and when the Nursing Care would begin. For the vast majority of those final 150 days, Anna was at home with us – her family and friends. We talked, we laughed, we cared and enjoyed our time with each other.
We (her family and friends) would like to thank you for being a vital part of the glorious montage that was Anna’s life in those final months. I know Anna would like to thank you for the years of care that you gave her as a GP. Anna loved to see you, treated you as a friend, trusted you and your opinions.
And we’d like to thank you for that.
Good luck with the new job and God bless you.
PS: On the morning before Anna died, I woke up and thought to myself: “I wouldn’t be surprised if I walked into that hospital room to find Anna sitting up, demanding coffee and chocolate, and cursing because the doctors had got all wrong. And demanding to go home.”
Sadly, I was wrong.
Brain cancer: The facts
Brain cancers include primary brain tumors, which start in the brain and almost never spread to other parts of the body, and secondary tumors (or metastases), which are caused by cancers that began in another part of the body. It is estimated that 1896 new cases of brain cancer will be diagnosed in Australia in 2021. The five year survival rate for brain cancer is 22%.
