By Kristy Hocking
Once a watering hole, 1880’s Broken Hill heritage has been immortalised within the walls of the Gladstone Hotel, now a charming bed and breakfast.
Inside the dense walls of the 1920s salon-style bar, a cheese platter out, drinks topped up, we’re ready for barstool chats.
“Time, that matters,” said Sharon Hocking. “That makes me wake up in the morning and the heart’s racing. I think what’ve I got to achieve today before I die.”
Sharon is sitting between her two nieces – my sister Regina and I.
Sitting opposite her dear friend, former journalist and The Gladstone owner Mel Manar Gates is behind the camera.
“I can’t say it now.”
“Breathe,” I say.
“I want to leave you something that isn’t about sadness but about love and the kind that doesn’t end even when my time here does.”
Conviction is returning.
My aunt is a force. Never one to shy from calling out what needs to be said, she’s devoted a lifetime to community. Working with various associations such as Lifeline, the Broken Hill Chamber of Commerce and 2DryFM community radio, having been acknowledged recently with a Broken Hill Citizenship Award.
Now, she’s dedicated to advocating for death – her way.
“You all know what’s ahead for me I’m not pretending otherwise – my time is getting shorter and when the moment comes, I’ll be going by voluntary assisted dying.”
The front room is dotted with photographs, liquor and wax-dripped candles. Strong bones from the original build, the front bar would be cool and dark, a haven from the searing desert heat, but today our film lights and the warm amber of modern liquor infuse a warm cosiness. Wafts of incense invite a breath of modern, bohemian air.
“The choice is mine, I’m making it with a clear head. It’s the way I want to go, on my terms with dignity and without dragging you through a long. painful decline.
“I’m at peace with my decision.”
Regina, a North Queensland transplant, and I, a Sydneysider, have not arrived in the middle of the outback quickly.
Driving the first 600km out of Sydney the bright lights, trees and signs of life start to fade, giving way to large blocks of empty red, dusty dirt.
Phone service dissipating as carcasses splay out in piles, littering the length of the road.
For Sale signs at property gates, punctate the windy roads.
Death is rebirth, in another postcode.
It’s a wonder how anyone maintains their sanity staring toward an endless horizon, I’m empathetic to our nation’s truckies.
It has not hit me fully as I drive through the unmarked roads that this could be the last time I see my aunt in the flesh for this lifetime.
After almost 1200km and an overnight stay in Cobar where my sister and I join forces, my aunt’s white picket-fenced home is just off the long straight highway bordered, naturally, by a pub.
Though the town is famous for its many taverns, they’re outnumbered significantly by the amount of art galleries.
The car’s vents are a gravesite to thousands of dead bugs as we head out west to chase the sunset and visit the rest of the family at Broken Hill Cemetery, with a quick pitstop through the carwash.
Catching the last warm rays sliding down the horizon, Sharon insisting it’s not too far to head to the sculptures. From visiting the dead, we head to the Living Desert.
Broken Hill is a community of artists, photographers and creatives. The purity of the light here has been a source of inspiration for years.
“You girls go ahead, I’ll just slow you down.”
Astonished by the intense bright stars that scatter through the inky sky, back at home we eat alfresco, after a potluck dinner assembly and much admonishment over one another’s tastes: “Could never be vegetarian … Brussels sprouts are just – no.”
We catch up on stories new and old and how Aunty Sharon has been feeling day to day.
“I live until I die. I’m not dying every day. I’m living every day. And … yeah, I’m prepared for death now.”
“How does it actually work? Have you ticked all the boxes, do you have the concoction?” I have a lot of questions.
“So once this chemist comes and I have the mixture in the house, then I can completely relax because I know I’ll be able to go on my terms when my time comes.”
With a trusted friend on speed dial a garden party is planned for when this time comes – it will be celebrations to the very end.
As the token extroverts in the family, Regina and I are impressed with her gusto.
“When the bowel twists, and it’s become too painful. That will be it.”
Sharon is keen to take us out for some fun, so we head to the iconic Palace Hotel’s Wednesday night karaoke.
Packed with Priscilla Queen of the Desert memorabilia, sitting at moderate capacity with an eclectic audience, this is a night that brings out miners, tourists and artists.
There’s a couple of solos, followed by a sister duet, then a tricky quartet finale.
Featuring a very much coerced Aunty Sharon, Regina, myself, and a kind woman with a voice that could outbelt Amy Winehouse – clearly pitying the out-of-towners punching above their talent – we commit to our parts in Lady Marmalade.
“What’s that expression – do the things that scare you before you die?” I say.
We make a beeline for the exit, the crowd’s getting rowdy.
“I could have died without that.” Sharon’s deadpan humour has not left her.
After many previous years battling cancer, sticking to a strict diet and having nursed several, sick loved ones, it’s with full volition she has completed the lengthy legal process of qualifying for VAD.
In NSW VAD has only been legalised for the past three years. The Northern Territory was the first to legalise in 1995, however was quickly overturned by Federal Parliament.
Recently ABC veteran journalist James Valentine documented his journey through a cancer diagnosis and qualifying for VAD in a bill to destigmatise end-of-life choices.
Death Doulas worldwide are becoming more mainstream amplifying the death positivity movement, with Nicole Kidman recently sharing her inspiration to train in end-of-life care after the death of her mother.
Renee Adair, a birth and death doula, felt as though these roles chose her, after supporting several friends during the AIDS crisis at Sydney’s St Vincent’s hospital.
“I think we’re very fearful about end of life in our culture and I think that’s because it’s been done behind closed doors for a really long time,” Adair said.
“Talking about end of life won’t kill you. It’s in fact a really important conversation to have with your loved ones.”
Back at the Gladstone Hotel, Sharon’s wishes for her loved ones echo through the dense walls.
“It gives me serenity, not fear. I need you to hear this clearly – your lives will keep going forward. I don’t want my leaving to hold you in one place, I want you to keep living.”
Owner of the newly renovated B’n’B and dear friend Mel has requested an interview for a new series she’s working on for guests – Barstool Chats.
An opportunity to pick the brain of the woman who has inspired her in work and life.
“Do you feel spirits around you? What do you think comes after death?”
“I got a few people around me – Jeff’s been with me since the day he died. I know that we’ve had lives before, we’ll have lives after. Our soul lives on. It’s not the end. It’s not.”
“I will miss you,” says Mel.
“You said to me ‘okay you make sure you send me a sign’ and I said ‘well, I’ll try’. Right now I’m not scared of dying either.”
“I know.”
We reward our focused effort with sharp cheddar and cheap champagne as the day fades.
In its finite nature, life’s every little drop is celebrated.
Featured image: You won’t catch Sharon Hocking wasting any time. Photo: Kristy Hocking