Veteran Adelaide journalist Rex Jory’s emotional diary on the death of his son David from pancreatic cancer
After comedian David Jory fell ill with cancer his father Rex began a diary that is both a tribute to his son’s pain and courage, and an unflinching account of the ultimate price of parental love.
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The grave was cavernous, a three-metre deep gash gouged in the red clay. At the bottom lay my son’s woven wicker coffin.
I tossed a bunch of native flowers which fell, soft as a bird, on the lid. My final gesture of goodbye to my beautiful son, David, who died late last year after a long and courageous battle with pancreatic cancer. He was just 46.
He leaves behind his wife Rebecca and nine-year-old daughter Georgia in their home in Katoomba in NSW’s Blue Mountains. They are shattered, frightened and, in many senses, alone.
It is beyond the capacity of a Shakespeare or a Wordsworth to find the words to describe the pain of his death, the pain of a small child losing a parent, a wife losing her husband or a parent losing a son.
It was 445 days before he died that David was first told he had a “mass on his pancreas”, a phrase we soon learned was a medical euphemism for cancer. We were later to learn it was a death sentence.
For David, it was 445 days of intense, relentless pain, nauseating chemotherapy, periods of hospitalisation and endless painkilling, mind-altering drugs. For those around him, particularly Rebecca and Georgia, David’s mother Margaret, his sister Kathryn and me, it was 445 days of agonising grief, fear, despair, profound sadness and humility.
At times the deadening weight of sorrow and hopelessness was almost unbearable. Through all those days I maintained a diary of the unfolding tragedy, recording daily activities, health developments, texts, conversations and personal emotions. It became a companion, building a record of the ups and downs, twists and turns, that would otherwise have been blurred by time.
It was painful but also cathartic, forcing me to face events which I could easily have pushed aside. And it brought me closer to David. While re-reading the entries as I wrote this article brought me to tears many times, the diary helped me get through.
David’s nightmare began in May 2019 when he experienced acute abdominal pains. By August scans had revealed the “mass” in his pancreas, and on September 25 David’s specialist told him he would require chemotherapy.
It was what we had feared, yet the shock was numbing. I remember thinking, as I tried to console David, Rebecca and little Georgia, that this was not real. It was something that happened to others.
It is impossible to erase David’s suffering, his courage, his gradual decline and his ultimate fate from our minds. But slowly, in small ways, our grief has morphed into a celebration of David’s life. The anger, the frustration, the unfairness has receded, to be replaced by memories of his courage and dignity and of a valuable and constructive life which has been cut cruelly short.
The chair of the sociological department of Boston University, Deborah Carr, says: “The death of a child is considered the single worst stressor a person can go through. Parents, and fathers specifically, feel responsibility for the child’s wellbeing and they’re not only losing a person they loved. They’re losing the years of promise they have looked forward to.”
Too true. My diary is a permanent record of what so many of us, people close to David, endured. There is one underlying message in its pages: no parent should have to bury their child. I weep for those who have had to go through it, as I weep now for my son.
There’s a painting by David that hangs on the wall of his home in Katoomba that shows perhaps 1000 bees, each individually drawn, zipping across the canvas in the same direction. In the centre is a single bee flying the other way.
That was him. Born in 1974, educated in Adelaide, he was drawn to the arts – performing, drawing, writing. He had a self-deprecating type of humour but he’d never be sarcastic or hurtful. He had a strong sense of fairness, too, and would quickly take the underdog’s side even if he was in the minority.
He studied graphic art after leaving school, moved to Sydney to design ads for Harvey Norman … and then quit to follow a dream to become a stand-up comedian.
I went to the Comedy Club in Sydney to watch David perform in unpaid, open-mic sessions. The club was adorned with photographs of Australian comedians, past and present. Six months later his photograph, larger than life, was on the wall. He lived his dream.
He met his beautiful English wife Rebecca, a psychologist, while working in comedy in Sydney. When she fell pregnant and they needed to buy a home, they moved to the Blue Mountains where David played Mr Mom by day and plied his jokes by night.
He entertained Australian troops in Afghanistan, passengers on cruise ships, made occasional TV appearances, and performed his show at the Melbourne Comedy Festival. He appeared hundreds of times at clubs, functions and festivals and, until his illness, wrote material for many of Sydney’s comedians and radio presenters.
The tributes which flowed from the Sydney comedy community leave no doubt about his ability and the affection in which he was held.
My diary began on August 27, 2019, when my daughter Kathryn called. There seemed to be a problem with David who’d had to go to hospital.
Two days later, on August 29, she rang again. I wrote in my diary: “David’s medical team met this morning. There was a growth at the top of David’s pancreas. On a scale of seriousness, it rated 8/10. The growth was likely to be a tumour and was likely to be dangerous and virulent.”
We didn’t need to be told what lay ahead. Chemotherapy, possibly surgery, and weeks, perhaps months, of hospitalisation and medical care. The following day, August 30: “David had contracted septicaemia and is too ill to have a pancreatic biopsy. His life is in the balance.”
I flew to Sydney. After our first meeting, I wrote: “At one point I broke down in David’s arms and said: ‘I would give anything to be able to swap places with you in that bed’.”
Father’s Day followed. We had breakfast together in the hospital canteen but David wanted to get out of hospital. So as a family we went to a local park. He was too ill to stay. I wrote: “I had a cry with David. God, I’m scared … how sad, how terribly sad when a son has to comfort his father.”
There was a deeper anguish, a cruel twist in the unfolding disaster. I wrote: “In November, 1948, my father, Len, died. He was 40, (my brother) Rod was 10 and I was four. My mother, Jean, had to raise us as a single mother. It is hard to look at Rebecca and Georgia and ponder the worst pathway this drama might take. It is too sad to contemplate.”
On September 2, I texted: “Home safe. So good to see you. You gave me strength. Who knows what we face?”. He replied: “We’ll be brave for each other, dad. Who knows what’s coming (maybe nothing)?”
On September 3, I wrote: “I collapsed. Broke down in helpless tears. Screamed hysterically about how scared I was. I was sure that David was going to die. I said something like: ‘I know he is going to die. A father knows these things. I could see it in his eyes’.”
And later: “I came good and it was somehow cleansing I had confronted things for the first time. Yet in another way the grief seemed to change. It became a constant, persistent, nagging pain. A lump in my guts. Words can’t capture it.”
On September 5, David texted from Katoomba: “I watched the sun come up with a cup of coffee. This is heaven. Bedroom windows open all night. Fresh mountain air. Feeling great.” I replied: “It’s the same sun that’s coming up here behind broken cloud. A pink sunrise. Happy you’re happy.”
On September 12, David was told a biopsy on his pancreas was inconclusive. A second biopsy was done on September 13. On September 18, we flew to Katoomba. David was in hospital. Doctors had told him he had pancreatic cancer. No more euphemisms. I wrote: “There were no tears. We all knew. I told David I saw it in his eyes weeks ago. He knew then that he had cancer and that he was going to die.”
On September 25, David saw his oncologist for the first time. I was there. The young specialist shuffled papers, X-rays and words until David said: “Am I f..ked?” The specialist said: “Yes. You’re f..ked.”
I wrote: “Never heard words quite like it. My son was going to die. David sat shaking his head. What was he thinking? I was devastated. Disbelief. A true horror show.” The specialist gave David between 10 and 18 months to live.
On September 30, I wrote: “Hope is our lifebuoy now. Hope and courage. Hope may crumble and falter. Somehow let my courage – and the courage of all of us – prevail. The inspiration and purpose is David. What I would give for a miracle. Or to change places.”
On October 2, David began chemotherapy which made him dreadfully sick.
On October 9: “This is a cruel and insidious thing we are battling. It seeps into every crack, every thread of life’s fabric. It is impossible to dismiss or avoid. There is nowhere to hide.”
Early in November we went to Katoomba and I talked with David about Christmas and the New Year. He said: “It will be a big year for me.” I said: “For all of us. Are you scared?” He said: “Yep.” I said: “Maybe there will be a plateau where you come good and get on with life for six months or so.” He said: “I want it to be seven years (until his daughter turned 18).”
After a specialist report on November 27, I wrote: “The tumour had not increased in size. The spots on his liver had not increased or altered.” But ominously: “He suspects at least some of the spots are cancerous.”
December 10: “David was in Katoomba hospital … he was dehydrated after vomiting most of the night.” And: “I’m beginning to tick off anniversaries, starting with Christmas. Will it be his last Christmas, his last New Year, his last birthday (January 8)? He has been sick almost non-stop for four months and oh, so brave. Hardly a murmur of protest.”
We shared Christmas Day, 2019, with my daughter Kathryn’s family in Adelaide and during the day David texted to say he was feeling as well as he’d felt since April. I wrote: “It was fabulous to know he was feeling so well. It helped me get through the day …”
On January 2, David said he was very low. He texted: “I look at Georgia lying in bed and feel so sad.” I wrote: “He said he was scared of the year ahead because it was the year in which he could die.”
After five bouts of nauseating chemo, doctors said David might hang on for a couple of years. He texted: “Guess I’m getting used to two years being good news.”
Hope is a fickle ally.
David spent his birthday on January 8 in hospital, dehydrated and nauseous. On January 12, David and I had a long conversation about giving up chemo and the associated nausea and letting the cancer take its course. I wrote: “I was shattered. No father should have to have that conversation with his son.” David asked the doctor for a letter to help him get his superannuation released. He was preparing to die.
January 30: “Georgia’s first day back at school. David was having chemo and must have felt dreadful but he got up and drove Georgia to school with Rebecca.”
February 3, my birthday: “Will it be the last birthday David and I celebrate together?”
February 9: “I’m tired all the time. Everything is an effort. Depression, I guess.”
February 12: “David rang and during our conversation about chemo said: ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to get another day with Georgia’.”
February 17. We flew to Sydney and picked David up from hospital after chemo treatment but he was still in his chemo chair. I wrote: “I was distressed to see him. So sad seeing your son in a cancer treatment centre literally fighting for his life.”
February 18: “David and I talked for ages during the day – not about anything deep or sensitive. Just father and son. David said later it was the best part of our visit.”
March 17: A preliminary report from David’s scans showed the tumour had shrunk. There was no need for any more chemo at the moment. David’s wife, Rebecca texted: “We now have hope which we didn’t have before.”
Hope is a tease.
March 26: “Spoke to David. He was pretty flat. Georgia’s psychologist said the little girl was worried about Daddy dying – and why not?”
April 6: “David rang. A most distressing call. Said he had terrible pain. He was worried about the pain and was confused about what was happening. I replied: ‘Mate. So sorry. Wish we could share the pain – give it all to me if you could. Be brave. At least we know you can do that’.”
April 8: “I have come down from the clouds of hope to the base of reality. David is pretty sick and there’s not much chance of him escaping.” By now COVID had restricted interstate travel. “Of course, what I now want is to see him and that is simply out of the question.”
April 14: “Georgia has been hitting David on the head and won’t stop. No doubt her frustrations breaking through. She’s eight. How can she understand?”
April 15, and David spoke with his specialist. I sent this text to a friend: “David goes into hospital on Friday for a possible nerve block in his spine (he’s been in terrible pain), a biopsy of his pancreas, a stent adjustment and scans.” He also had to have more chemo and his liver was not functioning properly.
April 19: “David had surgery and doctors found the bile duct was infected and he was heading towards septicaemia.”
April 30: “Quite suddenly I realise that David is going to die. There is no solution. No silver bullet.” I thought of friends who had died. “I delivered eulogies at their funerals. I knew they were dying. I wept for them in their decline. Why couldn’t I see it in David?”
May 1: “David texted: ‘I spend all day and night with my beloved wife and daughter. That is the ultimate quality of life. No complaints here’.”
May 2: “Spoke to David who said: ‘I feel terrible. The pain is dreadful.’ More than once he cried out in pain in mid-sentence. It was involuntary.”
May 26: “We are reaching a point where the medical profession is simply keeping David alive and he spends 95 per cent of his time in bed.” And: “I am visualising a time when we take an apartment in Katoomba to be with David in his final weeks, days, hours. No parent should have to contemplate that.”
May 28: “While I have plenty of support, I am solo in my own feelings and the way I am dealing with things. I think how it was, how David was a little boy, and now. How sad. How unfair.”
May 29: “(David’s death) is now … unavoidable, a constant, minute-by-minute thought that rarely goes away. I can’t expect anyone else to understand exactly how I feel or how this has affected me.”
June 3: “David rang (after talking to his specialist). It is the worst possible news. The cancer has spread to his liver and spine and he has six months. Blunt. David was in tears but being brave.” And: “I felt so sorry for (David’s sister) Kathryn, losing her brother. Now there are no escape routes, no way back. It is terrible for her.”
June 5: I texted David: “I weep to think of you telling little Georgia your sad news. It is impossible to imagine a more difficult responsibility.”
June 7: David rang and said that they had told Georgia that Daddy had just seen his doctor, and she said: “Daddy’s going to die, isn’t he?” And she became hysterical, sobbing. As they all did. They talked about the days ahead and the funeral and Georgia said: “I’m not going to have a daddy.”
David and I had a long talk and he said he wanted to be able to set up a Christmas tree for Georgia. I wrote: “I think he knows he will never set up that Christmas tree … His next target is Georgia’s birthday on July 19. She will be nine. Let him make that party.”
On June 8 I wrote David a long letter assuring him that Rebecca and Georgia would be looked after, they would not lose their house and Georgia would remain at her school. Towards the end I wrote: “I am profoundly proud of my little boy who grew up wanting to make other people laugh. The journey isn’t quite over. Let me walk the final steps with you. Take my hand and we will walk together.”
June 15: We returned to Katoomba.
June 16: “David said he was in a gradual decline. He would never be any better than now. I wondered whether he was warning me he was slipping away. In short: be ready dad, I’m going to die. How sad. It is awful yet there is something noble about being here, seeing him fight, to remain dignified and conscious of other people around him.”
June 18: David and I had a long conversation, mainly about his hopes and fears but we covered so much ground, about his childhood, the family, his school days. At one point, he said: “I have done nothing to deserve this.” But his anger was that he would miss seeing his daughter grow up. I wrote: “Our conversation was cathartic. Liberating and cleansing. Mission accomplished. I will leave Katoomba with a lighter heart.” David gave me a cap he received for entertaining troops in Afghanistan, Joint Task Force 633. We returned to Adelaide and COVID quarantine on June 24.
June 26: David said he had meetings with the funeral director and a solicitor to make a will.
June 27: “I had a shocker yesterday. David and Rebecca planning his funeral is hard to get my head around. It breaks my heart.”
July 4: David was rushed to hospital. He rang me at midday to say he was “terribly sick”. He was crying out with pain. He spent two more nights in hospital and was fitted with a portable morphine pump.
July 9: A palliative care team was now visiting David twice a day.
July 15: We decided to return to Katoomba before borders were shut because of COVID.
July 16: David and I had another long talk about his holidays in the UK, Mexico and Japan and his love of performing on stage.
July 18: David and I had breakfast in a local coffee shop – something he was determined to do.
July 19: Georgia’s ninth birthday party. We all dressed up, David in a jacket and tie. Lovely food and an entertainer for the children. We sang, played games. I wrote: “I felt so sorry for him. He knew it was his last birthday with Georgia. It was so sad.”
July 22: David said the palliative care people are now his only friends. The medical people, the specialists, have gone. They are of no further use.
July 23 David texted: “Good morning guys. Lovely morning here. I’m feeling like I could live forever.”
August 13: “Let’s surmise David has three months to go. That’s to mid-November, the time given by his specialist back in May. It’s too scary to think about.” It was also prophetic. Later that day we caught the tram from Glenelg to the city: “I completely broke down on the tram, a meltdown, sobbing and tears flowing. I was inconsolable.”
We decided to return to Katoomba on August 31. Rebecca texted: “David is losing weight now, so brace yourselves for a change in his appearance.”
August 28: Rebecca sent a broadcast text saying David was very unwell and it was a tough time. I replied in part: “I seem to have lost all motivation and energy. For you it must be so much harder. What you are doing for David is magnificent but it must drain you, physically and emotionally.”
September 1, in Katoomba. “I sat with David. He was pretty much unconscious – no real conversation. He is pretty sick.” Rebecca and David decided to go to a local resort for the Father’s Day weekend. His nursing team gave him medication to assist him.
September 6: David’s last Father’s Day. Shocking. David and his family were in a local resort. We went over for breakfast with them but in a quiet moment he said: “Dad, I’m slipping away – absolutely”. How terrible to hear those words from your son. Later I wrote: “I feel I can let him go, however tough. We didn’t need to make peace but we are at peace.”
September 8: “David told me part of him wanted to go now but part of him wanted to stay until Christmas for Georgia and Rebecca.”
September 9: “David plaited Georgia’s hair before school – it was heartbreaking.”
September 16: “Somehow David found the energy to walk to a local coffee shop where we had a long chat. Rarely do father and son have so much opportunity to talk. It has taught me a great lesson. Stay close to your kids.”
September 24: “David was awake all night vomiting and in terrible pain. I sat with him during the day. At one point, he said: ‘I can’t go on like this’.”
September 26: I sat with David for most of the day and wrote: “I tucked David into bed for the first time since he was a seven-year-old.”
October 2. A close friend of David’s flew in from Adelaide. Also, friends from his comedy days in Sydney were dropping in. David’s mum, Margaret, had also spent weeks at his bedside.
October 7: “David and I had an intense and intimate hour together this morning. Tears and great sadness. We have no fences to mend. I told him gently he didn’t need to keep fighting … permission to go, if you like. I can’t imagine it will get any harder, any sadder, but I know it will.”
October 12: “David was rushed to Nepean hospital. I was in tears as he was wheeled into the ambulance.”
October 14: David had surgery to put a nerve block in his spine. During the procedure, the surgeons had punctured his lung and he spent the night in intensive care. “David told me the pain of the procedure was horrendous and he was scared about his punctured lung. What else does he have to endure?”
October 22: After 55 days in Katoomba we made a quick trip back to Adelaide. “If he dies while we are away I am at peace with that. I don’t want him to suffer anymore. Goodbye Buddy, I’m so proud of you.”
November 2: Katoomba again. “Seeing David was a shock. He looked thin, gaunt, sunken-eyed, haunted. He was vague and agitated.”
November 3: “Nurses were now coming twice a day to see David. David’s sister, Kathryn, flew up from Adelaide. At one point Margaret (David’s mother), Kathryn and I were with David. The last time our family would ever be in the same room again. How sad.”
November 6: “David called for me … I talked about his childhood, his school days and so much more. He didn’t speak but sometimes raised a finger of understanding.”
November 7: “I had 20 lovely minutes with David. Sang him songs from his childhood. He couldn’t speak but he clearly recognised them.”
November 8: “Rebecca and a close friend decorated David’s room with candles and flowers. He is in a peaceful place.”
November 10: “David woke up and I had a long talk and told him how brave he was. He pointed to Rebecca, suggesting she was the brave one.”
November 11: “David and I had a long talk, although he could only gesture with his finger. As I left him he whispered: ‘See you later’. They were to be the last words he spoke to me.”
November 13: “David was lying in bed looking at the ceiling. Obviously, he knew I was there. When I leaned over to give him a hug he reached up and stroked my cheek. He was beyond speech. It was impossible to describe how thin, frail and vulnerable he looked.”
November 14: “David was unconscious, non-responsive. His breathing was shallow. I sat with him and chatted and sang to him. I sensed he was listening. A nurse came and I gave him a kiss, said goodbye and told him I loved him.”
I was leaving the house when the nurse called me back. David had died. The little boy who wanted to make people laugh had left the stage.
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