Vassi Terreux

I'm a Nurse, but I've taken some leave to get away. I work in hematology with cancer patients. A lot of the time, it's not successful, but we do our best. Some patients can be in the worst agony, but they never complain. Disfigured and wiped out, but they're selfless. You strip them bare. They come in as a person, and they leave a shell. We get to know them and their families, and they become a part of you.

A lot of people are scared of dying. We don't manage death very well, and specialists are not good at letting go either, so patients often have more treatment than they probably should. Some people get offered the tiniest carrot, and ninety-nine percent of people take it, but there's quality versus quantity, and many of my patients do not have a quality of life. There's a lot of suffering.

We mostly see leucemia from the age of about seventeen through to seventy-five. A lot of people say, 'I was gonna do this, and I was gonna do that, and I was gonna retire.' It's why I like to travel. A lot of people do not see their retirement. And we get mothers who have had a couple of kids, so you learn there is no pattern. There is no rhyme or reason. There's also no guessing who's going to survive and who's not. Someone can come in extremely well and go for a routine medical for insurance purposes, but the blood results detect cancer. And others go from ED to ICU because it's so aggressive.

Most patients are easy to look after, but sometimes, they're not compliant. They yell and abuse you. Sometimes you're just a listener, and sometimes you get told things they haven't told their family. Things they regret, like work. 'I wish I hadn't worked so hard. I wish I'd retired a lot earlier. I wish I hadn't taken things for granted.' We're with them to the very end. Most people have family members, but it's hard for those with no one. No kids. I feel very sad for the people who are alone.

I'm very passionate about euthanasia. Like it or not, we do passive euthanasia all the time. Doctors make decisions, and I think if they're completely sane and they have no outside influence and they have a wish, but they're denied it, I think it's really sad. If people knew how much others suffered, if they saw these patients on the ward, they'd understand. It's confronting.

Some are taken way too early. The young ones are the hardest. I remember this Greek patient. He was about nineteen and had a medical disease, and his Mother never got over it. She'd go to the grave every day. She lived nearby, and every time I saw her, she'd have her cross on, and she'd say, 'My Jimmy.' Her life was finished the day her son died, and that does happen. There was another Mother, a GP. Her Daughter wanted to go, but she wouldn't accept it and did not want treatment to stop. After her death, she couldn't work. You can tell when it's going to be too much. Some people are resilient, but for others, the grief is just too much, and they cannot get past it, no matter how much counselling they have.

A lot of the time, it's a relief for the person dying, and a lot of them are peaceful when they pass. It's tough when families are dysfunctional because you get a lot of angst and yelling. They're like, 'do something. You have to do something!' Some people cannot let go. The young ones are always difficult. The young ones are traumatic because so often, they don't want to let go. They don't want to die.

And men cannot cope on their own. Most women who have lost their husbands may marry way down the track, but when they've got young kids, and they're keeping the house together, it's not even in the picture. But the men will not stay on their own. I had one couple, and he was so devoted to her, but I saw him in my area about twelve months later, and he introduced me to his new lady. And that's hard for us because we've known the woman who passed. But you know, it's not our life.

You have to take moments to yourself. We can chat with other nurses, but it's hard to go home and debrief. My Husband doesn't like talking about anything medical. And it does change you. I always think how lucky I am to be healthy. How we live today is so artificial. All these material possessions don't count for anything if you're not healthy. Money won't alter your status. People take their health for granted.

People don't look after themselves, yet the minute they're sick, they want everything. There is a tragedy of obesity and kidney disease, and most of it is preventable. I could never work in dialysis. You're seeing these young people whose lives are almost over because of poor choices. And you can't say, 'I didn't know,' because there's a lot of education. I'm old school. I'm over sixty. So at some point, you've got to be in charge of your destiny. I see the flipside of people who have looked after themselves and, through no fault of their own, have been dealt a blow, and even with that blow, they'll do their best to get better. I don't have a lot of tolerance for idiots. We've got a lot of idiots. I'm at the end. I'd like to retire in another twelve months.

I could go next week. Nobody knows, and that's why I travel. I've been part-time since having kids—about twenty-eight years. I've been very blessed. Full-time shouldn't be allowed. I don't know how they do it. In a hospice, you can only do four days a week, and that's plenty, and I think in the cancer services, four days should be it. I would never do this job full-time. Having said that, and people might think it's a bit harsh, I go to work and do the best I can, but when I'm at that door, I leave it behind. You have to, or you wouldn't be able to cope. It's not for everyone.

I was born in a country town called Riverton, about an hour and a half out of Adelaide. We were the only poor Greek family, so racism was there. My Father was a very typical Greek man. Strict, arrogant and domineering. Typical back then. The male rules the household. It was his way or nobody's way.

He had a work accident. Back then, it was called an invalid pension, so he wasn't working. I'm one of seven, so it would have been pretty challenging. He came to Australia post War. Greece was a very poor country, and he heard they wanted workers here. You just had to be married, so arranged marriages were a big thing.

My poor Mother. I don't know how he picked her out, but they married. They didn't know each other. They came out on a boat to camps. They got jobs. He was working on the railways, and he bought a home. I can't remember how he had this back accident, but he was in rehabilitation for over a year. They told him he wouldn't walk again, but he was stubborn, so he did. But back then, there were no rights like today. Miss a payment on your mortgage, and the creditors come in. We lost the house and went into public housing.

They offered us a rough area in the northern suburbs or a country town.

But if we'd stayed in Adelaide, it would have been much better. My Mother would have had some Greek friends. She was very isolated. She had a terrible life. No friends, not much language. My Father spoke good English, but because my Mother had never worked, her English was poor.

She was a very gentle soul, and she suffered a lot. It’s only when you're older and have your own children and talk amongst your siblings that you realize it would have been pretty tough. There wasn't a lot of affection, but she was a gentle soul. People that met her could understand—she was always asking about people. Had her circumstances been different, she would have had a much different life.

We were poor. It didn't matter if it was forty degrees or raining, we had to walk to school, which was about forty minutes, and you'd see people you knew with a car driving past. When I got older, I got a bike, and that was a lot quicker. We didn't have a lot of space—a three-bedroom house with seven kids. No holidays and no friends. My Father wasn't big on having people around, and you didn't have a lot of friends anyway cause you were the "wogs". But we had each other, so it wasn't that bad.

One thing that we never went without was food because back then, all the vegetables were homegrown. We had our own chooks and fruit trees. So we'd just buy meat, and we'd get the whole sheep all butchered up.

I left the town when I was seventeen after I finished schooling and got a job in a nursing home for a couple of years. Then, I did some training, and I've been in nursing ever since, but I've had long breaks. I travelled in the late eighties, which is how I met my Husband, Marc. He's French, but we were both working on farms in Israel.

We went to France for a couple of years and then returned to Australia. I knew he'd love it cause we'd have a big backyard, a big house. The beach, everything's handy. It's worked out pretty well. Sometimes there are challenging moments, but we've got two healthy kids. We've done alright. He's down to earth. Very laid back. Nothing phases him too much. What drew me to him initially was physical attraction in the middle of the desert (laughs). He was a pretty good catch.

My oldest was two, and I was pregnant with my second when Mum passed, and it was pretty hard. Her GP misdiagnosed her for years, and it was my older sister that insisted she get checked out. She had cancer, but it would have been a very curable cancer if caught earlier. She was taken at sixty-nine. Way too early. He just kept giving her cream and did not investigate, and of course, we didn't do anything about it because there was no point.

My Father plugged on for ages. If it had been reversed, my Mother would have had another ten good years without a domineering husband. Her whole world would have opened up, but it wasn't to be. So yeah, that was pretty hard. I was pregnant and very sick at the funeral. The end was peaceful, but I still miss her every day. There was no real grief from my Father. There was sadness but no grief. Were they in love with each other? They had moments, but no, I don't think there was any real love there. It was a marriage of convenience to get here.

No one would visit my Father. They didn't want to see him. He never understood why no one would visit. He thought he'd done everything for his family, and he used to ask, 'why aren't people visiting me?' As true to nature, when he needed somebody, he'd call, and when he got sick, I'd get a call at the hospital in the middle of the night. And you bend. It was difficult because he'd ask, 'why haven't you seen me?'

It was tragic in the end because he used to be a very strong man, but I can still see these tiny little legs in the bed. He was so little. No strength whatsoever. He'd come in with an infection, and there was a discussion around antibiotics, but he said no. So it wasn't long.

All my siblings are still alive. The relationships are a bit fractured. Well, not fractured, but they're all different, so some don't get on with others. One of them is a bit of a black sheep. She does pop around occasionally, but she's been a bit difficult.

We've got two boys. Twenty-eight and twenty-six next week. Both are completely different. Both are well grounded and live very simply. I have a pretty good relationship with them. The second one, we click a bit more. My other boy is a bit quieter. You know you send him a text message, give him the whole story, and you'll just get, 'yep, yep.' And I don't hear much from him. Not as chatty. But my other one, we're in touch every day. They don't tend to get on very well because they're so different. If they weren't brothers, they wouldn't really have anything to do with each other.

I've been in Broome since mid-June, and I love the quirkiness. The pros far outweigh the cons, but I'm a coffee person, and it's hard to get one late afternoon. But the vibe's pretty relaxed. I'm used to Broome time. I'm at the Covid clinic (vaccinations), which has been interesting. I get to meet a lot of people, locals and tourists—different characters.

Some are Broomies, and some are just here for a few months. Everyone's got a story. The locals preferred old Broome. They could be walking home at 3 am, and when they went to the pub, they'd know everybody. Everyone knew everyone. My housemate said businesses that have been here for thirty-five years are just shutting up shop, but yeah, places do change, and it has brought a lot of positive things.

I'm a budgeter. Probably because of my childhood. I'm definitely a minimalist. I've never spent over what I've got and always had money for an emergency. I come with a carry-on bag, and that's it. Everything gets stuffed in there, and that's all I travel with. It's so much easier when you're flying. That bloody carousel, you wait forever.

I stay in hostels, and it doesn't bother me. I've never had a bad experience. You meet the most extraordinary people, and they may have money, but they choose not to spend it on expensive accommodation. I'm not tight, just good with my money and generous with good friends and my boys.

I'm not religious but I was always told that being polite doesn't cost you anything and makes a big difference to people. I've always believed if you've been fortunate enough and you're in the position, you should give back. There are twenty-four hours in a day, so if people say they haven't got time, they're not making time. It's good for the soul. To be able to help someone less fortunate. Not for money, just because you can. And not for the thanks but to see the difference it makes.

On one of my trips to France, we took someone to the ocean. She was about ninety and had never been. We got her feet in, and she was over the moon. Being lonely is an issue. Many of the people I did care work with didn't have family or kids, and they were all alone except for a volunteer visit once a week. They love it, but there are tears at the end because they return to their life within four walls. It's sad how society has gone like this. In the Western world, if you're old, you're left.

I consider myself a Christian person. I have values, but I don't believe in the afterlife. I think this is just it. It's the cycle. You're born, and you go, and that's it.

I read a lot. My favourite book? Oh God, I can't pick one, but I love nonfiction. I love people's written stories. Actually, I've picked up a lot of great books up here about the outback—people on stations. To Kill a Mockingbird. That was a good book.

I hope this has been okay Bec. I hope it's been interesting enough.

Could I trouble you for a lift back to my bike?

VASSI TERREUX

30.12.61