Saying Goodbye

How do you prepare for a trip knowing it might be the last time you see and say goodbye to so many significant people in your life?

I’ve heard the usual responses countless times: “None of us know when it’s our turn to say goodbye.” Or, “A bus could hit any one of us tomorrow!” These comments often come from those trying to avoid the uncomfortable topic of death.

And I understand that.

Because I understand, I let those comments drift away, carried on the breath that formed them. But for me, the receiver of such remarks, they can feel dismissive of my reality. My life, to some degree, is suspended in limbo—its strings controlled by the unpredictable behaviour of the condition I live with.

Living with a Terminal Tag

Why?

Because, like so many others, my life carries a luggage tag that reads “terminal” or “palliative.”

As I sit on this plane, I look around at the dozens of people in my cabin—some travelling with family, others alone, many couples, and of course the cabin crew. I imagine each of them is engrossed in their own travel experience, their own lives. I wonder where their paths are leading and what stories they carry. I assume, because I want it to be true, that none of them are living with a reality like mine.

Returning to the Skies

Today, I’m flying to London. The last time I took this route was in February 2006, but I was heading in the opposite direction then—scared, bewildered, and helpless.

I now recognise that what I experienced on that journey was anxiety. The panic attacks that surged through me during the nineteen-hour flight were rooted in fear and uncertainty.

On that trip, my daughters were with me. They wiled away the hours in their own worlds, keeping each other company because I often couldn’t. All the while, they were grappling with the knowledge that they had just said goodbye to their beloved Grandma for the last time. They also knew we were flying home to Australia early because, only days before, I had been diagnosed with breast cancer.

At a young age, they were learning that life offers no guarantees.

Distraction and Numbness

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of activity as I prepared for this six‑week trip. I orchestrated it that way—keeping busy distracted me.

Dozens of times, people asked me excitedly if I was looking forward to seeing my family and friends. I’d smile and say, “I will be, the closer we get to going.”

The truth was, I felt numb.

And now, here I am, sitting on a plane with hours of uninterrupted thinking time. There’s no escaping the thoughts that have been trying to break through the leathery membrane I’ve kept in place to contain them.

It’s a strange feeling—being an observer of life’s vitality all around me while living with the fragility of my own.

The Weight of Reflection

Reflection is inevitable for those facing their mortality. Confined to this capsule thousands of feet in the air, I find myself reflecting again.

What if, at eighteen, I had acted on my promise to return to South Africa, the land of my birth, to get to know my family?

What if I hadn’t rebelled my way through high school, feeling labelled by socio-economic background?

What if I had studied then with the determination I discovered in my thirties?

What if I had said “Yes” to Mik’s proposal to leave England for Australia in 1982, instead of saying “Yes” to Jeff’s marriage proposal in 1983 and emigrating with him and our daughters in 2004?

What would my life look like today if I had made different choices?

Reverie, that place we often go when reflecting on life, is ultimately pointless. It assumes different choices would have resulted in a better, easier, or more fulfilling life. But we can never truly know that.

Facing Mortality

There is nothing good about realising you are dying. This trip home is forcing me to peel back the thickest layer of emotion surrounding mortality: the intense sadness that dying brings.

I’m not afraid of the process itself. I’ve made peace with the likelihood that I will die within the next two years. But fear of dying is just one layer.

The layer pressing most heavily today, the one this trip highlights, is the loneliness of knowing how much I will miss the people I love.

The ache of this realisation is profound. It’s the knowledge that I will miss so many who have been, are, and will remain significant in my life until its end. It’s the ache of knowing how deeply I love them—and how deeply they love me.

The Gift Within the Ache

But this ache also brings clarity. It compels me to be fully present with the family and friends I will see on this trip—many for the last time.

This journey offers me the chance to weave myself into their memories, to secure my place in their hearts, where I will remain long after the lights in my own life have dimmed.