David’s Story.
I’m Kellie Hartnoll-White, director of Embrace End of Life Services.
It’s my privilege to share with you my husbands story - from my eyes.
How it all begins - quietly at first
David was 41. Healthy, grounded, and quietly devoted to the things that mattered—his family, his garden, cricket, and the occasional nod to Shane Warne. Life was simple and full: a couple of kids, a small circle of close friends, and a rhythm that felt familiar and safe.
Looking back, it was around December 2019 when the subtle shifts began. He’d wake some mornings feeling nauseated, sometimes vomiting without clear cause. It wasn’t frequent—just enough to prompt gentle nudges toward a lifestyle change or a visit to the GP. He also mentioned a dull ache in his abdomen, mostly when lying on his right side, and was always unusually tired after work. Instead of joining us at the beach, he preferred to stay home and rest. We joked about age catching up with him. We were all a little too casual.
Then in February 2020, our youngest child became unwell. She was five, and her temperature kept spiking. After a week of managing symptoms, I took her to the GP. The diagnosis was viral, with instructions to return if things didn’t improve. I booked a follow-up appointment before leaving the clinic.
This pattern repeated for another week—until one morning, she woke up completely fine. As kids do.
We still had the GP appointment booked, and rather than cancel, I suggested David go in her place. He agreed. That decision changed everything.
GP appointment Friday.
Ultrasound Monday Morning
Monday afternoon the GP phones “David I’d like to see you tomorrow – please bring your wife with you.”
Tuesday morning at the GP clinic “You have a tennis ball sized lump in your pancreas – I am referring you to a Gastrointestinal Oncologist he will be in touch by the end of the week, try not to google the heck out of this”
The word I’m learning to hate
Tuesday afternoon, the GP calls.
“Change of plans. You’re to see a specialist in Sydney. They’re asking if you can be there by noon tomorrow. They want to operate. You’ll be there for roughly 7 to 10 days. Someone will be in touch later today.”
It’s early March 2020. The world is shutting down. COVID is no longer a whisper—it’s a roar. Schools are closing. My business is decimated. We have two children still at home, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead. We pack bags and head to Sydney. A little worried, but nowhere near prepared for the storm that’s coming.
The next two weeks crawl by. Endless tests. A revolving door of doctors. David is admitted to a public hospital, placed in a general ward. I stay nearby in a small apartment. He hates it when I leave him alone at night. The hospital is slowly locking down, piece by piece. And still—no surgery. Just one more test. One more scan.
Can I extend the apartment for three more days? Can someone watch the kids a little longer? “Mummy and Daddy will be home in a few more sleeps, honey.” Rinse. Repeat. Still no answers.
Frustration doesn’t quite cover it.
But amid the waiting, we learn how well David’s body is holding up. Test after test confirms it—his lung capacity rivals that of a 25-year-old, despite smoking since he was 15. Cholesterol? Perfect. Weight? Ideal. Blood pressure? Normal. I’ve been researching pancreatic cancer—an old man’s disease—and my husband is in peak health. Surely things can’t be that bad. I feel oddly calm.
He’s granted day release, and we spend our time together in a surreal world slipping deeper into isolation. Information trickles in—usually by phone. His tumour isn’t where pancreatic tumours usually are. The PET scan “lit up like a Christmas tree.” His official diagnosis is Stage 4.
David has asked me to stop crying so much- it’s stressing him out. My inability to stop makes me cry more and I really, REALLY miss my kids.
Finally his surgery is booked for early April 2020.
Post-op, he’s admitted to ICU. A zipper-like scar runs from under his rib cage to below his belly button. The surgeon stops by. It was worse than expected. He’s never seen a tumour like this. The tumour had wrapped around his stomach and small intestine. Another week and he likely would’ve died from other complications. It was in his appendix, the fat lining his stomach, his liver, his lymph nodes.
“He’s lucky,” the surgeon says. “He is young and healthy, otherwise, it might’ve been a different story.”
I am slowly growing to hate the word Lucky.
47 days after we left our home, David is discharged and we return to Port Macquarie, not only is our world upside down and inside out, but so is society as a whole, we are navigating a terminal cancer diagnosis and everyone else is navigating home schooling, and online workspaces. Our village blesses us the only way they can, with an abundant of food, flowers and dinners. No one can visit legally, and I am terrified of this new virus that is taking over the world, yet 6 weeks after surgery, it is decided David is strong enough to commence chemo.
His tumour is sent around the world—Melbourne, Boston, Singapore. It’s rare. No one’s quite sure what it is. Eventually, a diagnosis. I Google our oncologist. His reputation precedes him—professionally and personally. We’re told we’re lucky to be under his care.
The doctor introduced himself , small talk was made and then the diagnosis “You’ve been diagnosed with a very rare and aggressive cancer. It’s usually found in children’s bones, so this is highly unusual. The chemotherapy you’ll need is intense—unlike anything I’ve given before. Even the nurses asked me to double-check the dose. You’ll definitely need hospital care. Please make sure your ambulance cover is up to date. There was only one other known case I could find. That person didn’t survive treatment. The chances aren’t good”
I dislike this man instantly but I’m naturally a glass half full kind a gal – “All David needs to do is beat this and instantly the odds of surviving this cancer rise to 50% right??” His oncologist chuckles , “IF you beat this – I will retire and spend the rest of my days writing about you in medical journals”.. David laughs, I seethe, but take a breath - afterall we are lucky to have this man looking after us.
Although very very sick, David’s chemo journey is pretty uneventful, one week on, one week off. Repeat.
But he’s terrified—of dying, of dying alone, of dying in pain. He makes me promise he won’t die alone. It’s a promise I don’t hesitate to make.
January 27, 2021—David is declared cancer-free. It’s incredible. He’s “lucky.” We feel blessed.
And although now different people, we attempt to continue our lives as normal.
We know we are on borrowed time, scans are scheduled every 12 weeks, which bring up raw emotions in the days before them..Our youngest is only 6 years old, so while paying bills and cooking dinners, I am also researching grief and its effects on young children, can you die at home legally? How much is a cooling bed?, How long does rigour mortis last? My family and close friends think I’m mad. They say I will change my mind when the time comes, “No one dies at home anymore”.
Life is uneventful. Blissful. Until It isn’t.
June 2022—the cancer returns. Chemo isn’t an option. His body won’t tolerate it. Our only hope is a medical trial at St Vincent’s in Sydney.
July—we’re accepted. Only 33 participants. We’re “lucky.” Monthly visits. Daily pills. It seems manageable.
August—David’s health declines rapidly. His symptoms don’t match the expected side effects. “Keep going,” we’re told.
September—he’s worse. The trial is stopped.
Pain, fear and a lack of hope take over.
December 12, 2022—palliative care visits for the first time. This will be his last Christmas. Easter? Probably not.
David begs the nurses to end his life. Repeatedly. They decline. Repeatedly.
As David’s health declines even further and his care needs rapidly increase, I am told it is ok to change my mind and send David to a hospice; it’s a normal thing. People do it all the time. I promised him I wouldn’t. And whilst it's a little overwhelming at times, I have done my research, I am prepared – sort of,
Surely our decision for David to stay at home until the end shouldn’t be this hard or isolating?
I enquire about after-death “stuff”. Legally, I can place him into our home-made coffin, with pine bought from our local Bunnings, and drive him to the crematorium – but none of the funeral homes will accept him if not bought in a hearse by their staff – why I enquire? Business policy” they say
“ It’s how we make money” is what I hear.
At 4pm on 21 st March 2023 my David dies. I ring Palliative Care, the nurses are expecting my call. They will be around tomorrow to help me with the body. I phone his GP, she will be around tomorrow to do the paperwork. Everyone is calm. Everyone is kind. Everyone is sure I have this under control.
The stillness after
“Try and get some rest, Kellie,” they say.
And I do. I sleep deeply that night, curled beside my husband’s body. The house is quiet. The air is heavy, but not frightening. There’s no panic. Just stillness. I wake with the sunrise, and for a moment, forget. Then I remember. And I breathe.
The Palliative care nurses arrive mid-morning. They move gently, speak softly. They treat David with reverence. I am grateful. His GP comes soon after. She doesn’t rush. She fills out the forms, and we talk about how peaceful he looked. Someone makes me a coffee. I keep moving.
After 5 days the funeral home arrive. They take him away forever.
The service and the days that followed passed in a haze. Family departed—grateful, yet hesitant—as if returning to their own lives offered refuge from an unspoken question: what now? None of us, myself included, knew the answer.
And just like that, the house feels empty.
The silence is different now. Not peaceful. Not sacred. Just hollow.
I sit with it. I let it settle. I begin the slow, aching work of grief.
