The year I tried to die
Helen Andreoni thought she had only two months to live, and started preparing for VAD. Then everything got turned upside down.
I am an 81-year-old academic, deeply grateful for a life rich in relationships, languages, experiences, and generous communities. My journey with colon cancer began eight months ago. While it has brought pain and uncertainty, it has also revealed moments of profound beauty, resilience in the ordinary, and connections with kind, thoughtful human beings.
By sharing my story, navigating the complex landscape of end-of-life choices, I hope to offer solace or a new perspective to others facing similar paths, or to the professionals who care for them.
Each day now brings its own rhythm, some filled with quiet reflection, others with laughter and connection. If I can still savour these moments, however fleeting, I feel content to continue this chapter of life. It is in this delicate balance of gratitude and acceptance that I navigate the choices ahead. For now, life remains manageable, but I live with the Sword of Damocles hovering.
My father died badly of colon cancer, over an extended period. I looked after him at home and saw him riddled with pain and morphine, yet still lucid. I was devastated when I had to make the decision to send him to hospital, something neither of us wanted. After this experience, I was vigilant, undergoing colonoscopy every five years, as recommended. Despite this diligence, the diagnosis came unexpectedly—only two years after my last procedure.
The specialists were clearly baffled, even confronted, by my response.
After multiple visits, tests, MRIs, and consultations, the specialists recommended chemotherapy, radiotherapy, and surgery to remove the cancer and install a colostomy bag. I refused this highly medicalised path. I explained that it would severely affect my quality of life, and the idea of wearing such a device felt deeply unaesthetic. The specialists were clearly baffled, even confronted, by my response. They tried hard to persuade me, graphically describing the suffering I would face without treatment. They implied I had only a couple of months to live.
Medical specialists are not used to patients, elderly, female patients especially, defying their advice. My decision was immediate, determined, and remains unchanged. One of them, in a final gesture, said, “If you change your mind, come back. I don’t hold a grudge.” It felt like a reprimand cloaked in benevolence.
The Tension: Palliative Care vs. Voluntary Assisted Dying (VAD)
When I visited my lovely, supportive GP, she too tried to persuade me toward medical intervention. That was understandable; doctors are trained to “do no harm.” When I stood firm, she wondered aloud if I might simply be trying to join my husband, who had died two years earlier after a long decline with Alzheimer’s. I assured her it was not so.
Not long after, I experienced two serious haemorrhages, sudden and terrifying, both times when I was home alone. I had the presence of mind to video the bathroom floor. It was compelling undeniable evidence of the seriousness of my condition.
With a prognosis of two months to live, I began serious 'Swedish death cleaning'.
After consulting with a colleague, my GP concluded I was eligible to apply for voluntary assisted dying (VAD), a possibility I had already begun researching. She also referred me to palliative care nurses. These wonderful nurses began visiting and calling weekly. They helped me confront the reality of a shortened life expectancy, a body growing harder to manage, and the emotional complexities of considering VAD. At every stage, they respected my choices, acknowledged my clarity, and offered practical advice that helped me feel more comfortable and in control.
Involving my immediate family in both the diagnosis and the decisions proved much harder. I felt it was important that they knew as much as I did. I still carry the memory of the harm caused by keeping cancer diagnoses secret in previous generations. My beautiful, supportive children were present at key consultations: in person, via recordings, and on FaceTime. Together we explored what we were confronting.
Friends and relatives from farther away made the effort to visit, believing, along with us, that time was short. Those who couldn’t travel stayed in touch through FaceTime and phone calls. These moments were precious: tender, loving, and difficult. Long goodbyes and trips through shared memories. There were so many people to tell that I would not be around for long.
With a prognosis of two months to live, I began serious 'Swedish death cleaning'. Finances needed sorting. Files cleared. Subscriptions cancelled. Passwords recorded. The list was long and often trivial but necessary, strangely grounding, busy, and distracting. It was something I could still do easily.
Two months to live had now become more than six.
Then came the visit from the VAD assessment team, a process both hopeful and fraught. Over two weeks, there were interviews, questions, and reviews by GPs, specialists, and palliative care nurses. In the end, the VAD doctors decided I was not eligible. I was not expected to die within six months.
Under laws in most Australian states, VAD is only available if your illness is likely to cause death within that time frame (unless it is a neurodegenerative disease). How to manage this conflicting information? Two months to live had now become more than six.
What I Have Learned: Reflections and Insights
Being told I was not eligible for VAD turned everything upside down. Instead of preparing to die within weeks, I now had to plan to live, however uncertainly, for months. That shift was not just logistical; it was existential.
An important insight is this: our medical systems, however well-intentioned, struggle with ambiguity. I was not dying “fast enough” to qualify for VAD. My care fell into a gap. It made me more aware of the rigidity in our definitions of suffering—and how many people must slip through those cracks. The tone of some medical interactions implied: you’re not as sick as we thought you were. I felt like a fraud. I have learned how many people, even close ones, want you to “fight,” to hold on, to hope, to try the next thing.
Facing death honestly can be a gift.
Sometimes this comes from love; they can’t bear the idea of me not being around. Sometimes it’s fear, perhaps of their own mortality. Some accepted my decision at once, others needed time, and a few just could not cope. They continued to argue and suggest more treatments. I’ve learned that it takes courage to say: I appreciate your care, but enough.
Pain, loss of control, indignity, these are not abstract thresholds. You know them when you live them. The difficulty lies in recognising when the situation becomes intolerable. I have learned to trust my own sense of what is enough.
Facing death honestly can be a gift not only to oneself, but to others. It invites clarity, honesty, even tenderness. People say things they never said before. So do I. Conversations deepen. Silences become less awkward. So much tender caring from family and friends is expressed in a myriad of ways: through words and through quiet deeds. It’s as though my wake has arrived early and what a tender, generous one it is.
Where I Am Now
I do not know how much time I have, no one does, I now realise. What matters most is the present. I still live independently. I still cook and shop, think and love. My mornings are often unspeakable. It’s when my body betrays me so completely that life feels unliveable. However, my afternoons and evenings are filled with laughter, family, friends, delicious food and wine, films, music, books, art, advocacy, and protest. I am enjoying whatever time I have left. I live near extraordinarily beautiful nature. Sometimes I am too weak to walk with my dogs, but I can still sit and admire the artworks around me. I look out at a beautiful river and mountain. Both surely powerful Indigenous places with healing qualities. I feel held by them as I prepare to let go. I am at peace.
Helen Andreoni is a retired academic whose career spanned language, literature, and multicultural education in Australia and New Zealand. Her work has focused on cross-cultural understanding, Indigenous studies, and human rights. She is currently engaged in advocacy related to Ukraine, Palestine, and Israel.