Charmane's Story

27th June 2025 started like any other day.

I got up, got myself ready and did what I always did. I co-parent my grandchildren, so I drove them to school before heading towards my daughter Chelsea’s house to help get ready for my granddaughter’s birthday party.

There wasn’t a single warning sign.

No headache.
No dizziness.
No blurred vision.

Nothing to tell me that, within the next few hours, my life was about to change forever.

As I drove across the Devonport Bridge, something happened that I still struggle to explain.

Suddenly I had absolutely no idea where I was going.

I remember looking around thinking, “Why am I on this bridge? Where am I meant to be going?” I knew I needed to get to East Devonport, but I couldn’t work out how to get there. It was like someone had switched part of my brain off.

I wasn’t frightened because I had no idea anything was medically wrong. I just got crabby with myself for not concentrating.

Somehow, I still managed to get to Chelsea’s house.

Chelsea tells me now that something wasn’t right from the moment I walked through the door. I was quiet, distant and barely spoke. I wasn’t myself. I seemed irritated and withdrawn. Looking back, the signs were there, but at the time no one suspected anything serious.

I devistatongly cared for and lost my beloved partner to cancer through  COVID before losing him in 2021, and grief still hit me hard. We all simply thought I was having one of those days.

After a couple of hours, I suddenly decided to leave.

I don’t remember saying goodbye.

I got back into my car and started driving home.

Again, I found myself completely lost.

I knew these roads. I’d driven them thousands of times. Yet I couldn’t work out where I was or how to get home. Looking back now, it’s terrifying to think that I somehow managed to drive myself safely along narrow back roads surrounded by water before making my way through the busy streets of Latrobe Tasmania multiple roundabouts and afternoon traffic.

I had no idea my brain was shutting down.

I had absolutely no understanding that my life was in danger.

When I finally made it home, my memory becomes scattered.

I remember looking for batteries for my blood pressure machine because somewhere deep down I knew something wasn’t right.

Instead, I found myself wandering around my house and yard barefoot doing laps over and over again.

I couldn’t complete the simplest task.

My brain and my body were no longer working together.

Looking back, I honestly believe my body had gone into survival mode, trying to hold on until my grandchildren got off the school bus. When they got home they couldn’t find me so they went looking for me and I had collapsed against my back door and suffered multiple clonic seizures.

Imagine being that age, coming home from school expecting your Nan to be there waiting, only to find her unconscious, having seizures and trapped against the back door.

They had no phones.

They couldn’t call an ambulance.

They couldn’t even get outside to me because my body was blocking the door.

By nothing short of a miracle, two of my close friends stopped by to drop off some eggs.

If they hadn’t chosen that exact moment to call in, my story could have ended very differently.

They immediately took over, called Triple Zero and contacted both of my daughters.

The next thing I remember is waking up in the Royal Hobart Hospital.

I had no memory of the ambulance, the seizures, the scans or the LifeFlight.

I later learned that the incredible paramedics and staff at the Mersey Community Hospital Latrobe Tasmania had saved my life before a scan revealed a large mass on my brain. I was airlifted to the Royal Hobart Hospital where, after several days of reducing the swelling and stabilising me, I underwent brain surgery.

My family, especially my girls, dropped everything to be by my side. They barely left the hospital while I was there, and more than a year later they still haven’t left my side.

Then came the words no one is ever prepared to hear.

“You have Stage 4, Grade 4 Glioblastoma.”

An aggressive, incurable brain cancer.

A life expectancy of just 12 to 14 months with chemotherapy and radiation.

In the space of one day, I went from being a fit, healthy woman who had worked for both Commonwealth and State Government to becoming someone living with a terminal brain cancer.

That diagnosis didn’t just change my future.

It changed my family’s future too.

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Before cancer, I was always the one helping everyone else.

I’m a mum, a Nan, a volunteer and someone who has always loved giving back to my community. I co-parented my beautiful grandchildren, and they have been one of the greatest joys of my life.

After losing my partner to cancer in 2021, I understood just how precious life was. Instead of letting grief stop me, I threw myself into helping others. Whether it was volunteering, supporting local events, fundraising, caring for family or simply being there for someone who needed me, that’s who I was.

I never imagined I would become the one needing help.

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After returning home and recovering from surgery, I met with my oncology team and began six weeks of daily radiation treatment followed by oral chemotherapy.

Every weekday I travelled two hours each way for treatment.

My family and friends rallied around me in a way I will never forget. They organised a six-week roster so someone could drive me to every single appointment and stay with me each night because my doctors said it was no longer safe for me to live alone.

Treatment was kinder to me than I expected. Apart from overwhelming exhaustion, I experienced very few side effects. I know how fortunate I was because so many others battling this disease aren’t as lucky.

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The hardest battle of this journey hasn’t actually been cancer. The first part was being told “It was nothing I had done…it was just BAD LUCK “

It’s also been fighting for support through the NDIS.

Despite having a terminal diagnosis, I was knocked back over and over again.

Eventually my case ended up before the Administrative Review Tribunal.

Having to spend the last year of my life constantly proving that I was dying, proving that I deserved support and proving that I needed help was one of the cruellest experiences I’ve ever endured.

It was exhausting.

It was confusing.

It was degrading.

There were days I felt completely worthless.

Without my family, my friends and especially Kim, I honestly don’t know where I would be today.

She stood beside me through every setback and every appeal. I made myself a promise that I would never give up this fight, but it nearly busted me.

I often think about the people who don’t have that support around them, and the Guts and determination to keep going.

this process almost broke me, so how are they supposed to survive it?

No person who is dying should have to spend their precious time fighting for basic dignity.

After 51 weeks of what was meant to be a 52 to 60-week life expectancy, I finally won.

After twelve months of court hearings, paperwork, appeals and heartache, I have finally been granted an NDIS package.

I am now waiting to hear exactly what support it will provide.

I consider myself a strong woman.

This battle nearly broke me more than cancer itself.

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This journey hasn’t only affected me.

Cancer doesn’t just happen to the person diagnosed.

It happens to every single person who loves them.

My daughters have carried far more than children should ever have to.

My family and closest friends have rearranged their lives to care for me.

They’ve driven me to appointments, cooked meals, stayed overnight, sat beside me through appointments, celebrated every small win and cried with me through every setback.

Their lives changed the day mine did.

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For almost twelve months after my surgery, my scans remained stable.

We knew glioblastoma would eventually return, but we held onto every piece of hope we could.

Sadly, my latest MRI confirmed what every person living with glioblastoma fears.

The tumour is growing back rapidly.

There are no more surgeries.

There are no more chemotherapy options.

There are no more treatments available to stop the cancer.

My medical team has now started me on high-dose steroids.

The steroids can’t treat the cancer itself, but they help reduce the swelling around the tumour and ease the pressure inside my brain. This helps control some of my symptoms, such as headaches, weakness and confusion, and hopefully allows me to have a better quality of life for whatever time I have left.

They aren’t giving me more time.

They’re helping me make the most of the time I have.

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Among all the heartbreak, one of the greatest blessings of this journey has been finding Peace of Mind Foundation.

Through pure luck I learnt about their brain cancer retreat in Melbourne and was fortunate enough to be offered a place.

I travelled from Tasmania to spend three unforgettable days alongside thirty incredible women, all living with different forms of brain cancer.

For the first time since my diagnosis, I didn’t have to explain myself.

Everyone there understood.

They understood the fear.

The uncertainty.

The grief.

The hope.

The exhaustion.

The heartbreak.

It was comforting and heartbreaking all at the same time.

We laughed together, cried together and formed friendships that I know I’ll treasure forever.

The incredible team at Peace of Mind Foundation, who we lovingly call our Earth Angels, have given me so much more than a retreat.

They gave me friendship.

They gave me hope.

They gave me understanding.

Most importantly, when I was completely defeated by the NDIS battle, they stood beside me and fought with me and together we won.

I will never be able to thank them enough.

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As I look back over the past year, I’ve realised that while glioblastoma has taken so much from me, it has also shown me just how extraordinary people can be.

To my daughters, thank you for dropping everything and never leaving my side. No mother could ever ask for more love than you have shown me.

To my grandchildren, you are my greatest reason to keep fighting every single day.

To my family and friends, thank you for every meal, every lift to treatment, every late-night phone call, every hug, every lunch and coffee dates,every prayer and every moment you have stood beside me.

You have carried me through the hardest journey of my life.

To Kim, thank you for never giving up and getting in the ring with me.

And finally, to the incredible Peace of Mind Foundation, thank you for reminding me that I am more than my diagnosis. Thank you for giving women like me hope, dignity, friendship and a place where we feel understood.

Although my future is uncertain, one thing I know for certain is this:

I have been deeply loved.

I have been fiercely supported.

I have been incredibly blessed.

For that, I will be forever grateful.
My final legacy of granted is to have Peace of Mind Foundation representation and services in Tasmania.