‘I get to do it on my terms. I like that’

ELIZABETH Caplice - a blogger whose brave words had grabbed countless people’s hearts - has died at the age of 32.

Elizabeth Caplice died at 1.35am yesterday.

AT 1.35am yesterday Elizabeth Caplice died, surrounded by her friends and family. She was 32 years old.

I met Elizabeth because she was dying of bowel cancer. As well as being a journalist, I’m a cancer survivor and her incredible blog grabbed me by the heart. Her words — usually written straight off the top of her head and left unedited — were a rambling, brutal and naked exploration of illness and dying. She wrote unflinchingly about blood, poo and the humiliation of a failing body.

Elizabeth posted numerous hospital selfies to Instagram.

It was a cancer conversation that I always wanted to have, but never could because no one seemed able have it with me; that was until I met Elizabeth.

Among the emotion and humour of Elizabeth’s writing was, and still is, great courage. I write this particular sentence knowing how much she would have hated it. One of the things that made Liz most angry was the sanitised representation of people with cancer as white-clad heroes fighting a “brave” battle.

Elizabeth blogged about cancer in an unflinching manner.

“If this is a battle, I’m a loser. There’s no winning, I’m not going to win,” she told me.

Elizabeth wasn’t brave because she was a “cancer hero”. She was brave because she’d say the things no one else would say about what it’s really like when you have a stoma. What’s it’s like when your liver is failing. What’s it’s like knowing you won’t survive.

In May, the pair of us recorded a long in-person interview, which frankly turned out more like a raw and overheard conversation between friends. That audio became three stories — two for ABC Radio National’s Life Matters and one for news.com.au

The stories — listened to and read by thousands of people — were something Elizabeth was proud of. She’d managed to propel her ideas about facing up to death, palliative care and even getting a colonoscopy into the cold light of day.

“If you’re 30 years old and you’ve got irritable bowel and you’re concerned, find a doctor who’ll give you a colonoscopy,” she said during our interview.

Liz believed she wouldn’t be dying at that moment if she’d had a colonoscopy five years earlier and the cancer had been detected.

Before she got so sick, Elizabeth’s passions were many. During my visits to the apartment she shared with her partner, Liz showed me her cats, rabbit, balcony plants and substantial personal library of books. She described herself as a library archivist “on hiatus.”

Once our articles were published, Elizabeth got a slew of offers from media outlets around Australia, including a number of women’s magazines. She found this late-won fame highly amusing.

She emailed to say: “This is so amazingly funny, I’m loving it — it’s actually making this hellish hospital stay less horrific.”

After a month in hospital, Elizabeth finally got a palliative care bed at Canberra’s Clare Holland House.

“This time I’m actually OK with ‘brave’ because choosing to not go with treatment is so often viewed as giving in, while I think for me it was a brave choice to make,” she texted.

“It is pretty sad that the time has come for this,” Liz continued, “but I get to do it on my terms. I like that.”

I feel immense grief at Elizabeth’s death. And also a bit like an imposter because we only just met and so many other people loved her for so long.

As Elizabeth faded in the hospice on Monday night, her dear friend Fiona (who was always called “Fi” by Liz) posted a message on Facebook to let people know the time was near. A river of grief followed.

“I missed you every day until we met and I will miss you every day until we meet again,” one friend posted.

“You have taught us all so much and enriched our lives in ways that you will never quite know,” another message reads.

The minute Fi met Liz, she immediately “felt like we were already old friends.”

Fi knew that Liz believed wholeheartedly in palliative care and was with her in the final hours.

“Being able to stay by her side at hospice is the most important thing I’ve done in my life.

“I am furiously grateful for every moment I ever had with Liz, and especially for the dignity and peacefulness of her last days,” Fi says.

Liz met her partner, Alex, at a wedding in April 2012.

Liz and Alex.

“At the reception, we bonded over our distaste for weddings,” Alex says with a laugh.

As Liz’s friends know, this bluntness was characteristic. She wasn’t one to “beat around the bush”.

“Elizabeth was the second person I came out to about being transgender. She accepted me immediately, and her support allowed me to live,” Alex says.

Liz was a person who “defended those she loved,” Alex continues, “she wanted to help everyone, even people who had hurt her.

“Because she was so honest and open, people would meet her and feel a deep connection,” Alex says.

“What is it like for you to imagine life without Elizabeth?” I ask Alex.

“There is an Elizabeth-shaped hole in our lives,” she replies.

Elizabeth and I were diagnosed with cancer at the same age and I can’t help asking why she died and I live. (Although I know Elizabeth herself didn’t think about it like this).

Liz told me that if we had more time, we would have been great friends and had many coffees together. But we didn’t have time. I popped in to see her in Canberra Hospital a few weeks ago and promised I’d visit the hospice this week. I left it too late.

Wherever you are, Elizabeth, you still shine bright.

Note: Liz will have a small, private funeral with a natural burial. There will later be a large memorial service on a date yet to be decided.

For more information on bowel cancer screening, click here.

Ginger Gorman is an award winning print and radio journalist, and a 2006 World Press Institute Fellow. Follow her on twitter @GingerGorman