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. Emâs 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. Weâd 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 âgirl holidayâ. 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
Iâve 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
Itâs 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 knittingâs not great â thereâs 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 wasnât 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 parentsâ 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 hadnât told my friends and acquaintances.
I wrote in my diary:
People were coming over for dinner â neighbours, netball friends, family friends, friends Iâd 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 hadnât even spoken to half of the people there and then the next minute Iâm hugging them goodbye. It was too speedy. But I guess even if Iâd had all the time in the world it wouldâve been hard. Whatâs time, when time feels like itâs ending anyway? I think it was hard for everyone to understand how serious this is. Many hadnât seen me since my diagnosis and although Iâm walking with a stick, Iâm 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 âEmâ before surgery. There was no time to waste. Every second seemed vital.
Chapter 12
The Quiet Before the Storm
I arrived at Dalcross Private Hospital in Sydney on the afternoon of the 16th of June 2005. I walked up the driveway from the car park with Mum, Dad and Bec at my side. Dalcross wasnât big and
Sisters and best friends three days before their lives changed forever. Emâs 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. Weâd 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 âgirl holidayâ. 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
Iâve 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
Itâs 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 knittingâs not great â thereâs 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 wasnât 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 parentsâ 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 hadnât told my friends and acquaintances.
I wrote in my diary:
People were coming over for dinner â neighbours, netball friends, family friends, friends Iâd 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 hadnât even spoken to half of the people there and then the next minute Iâm hugging them goodbye. It was too speedy. But I guess even if Iâd had all the time in the world it wouldâve been hard. Whatâs time, when time feels like itâs ending anyway? I think it was hard for everyone to understand how serious this is. Many hadnât seen me since my diagnosis and although Iâm walking with a stick, Iâm 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 âEmâ before surgery. There was no time to waste. Every second seemed vital.
Chapter 12
The Quiet Before the Storm
I arrived at Dalcross Private Hospital in Sydney on the afternoon of the 16th of June 2005. I walked up the driveway from the car park with Mum, Dad and Bec at my side. Dalcross wasnât big and
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