Kate Campbell: A love letter to adored aunt Ros Worthington who has made my life and countless others better

This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write — a love letter to one of the most important people in my life who I will soon be given a time and date to say goodbye to. You may know or have heard of Ros Worthington, as a charity powerhouse who has been such a force for good for so many causes. To me, she is Aunty Ros. And this extraordinary woman, who has been a cornerstone of my world, has entrusted me with helping her with the last mission of her life: to tell her final chapter and why she has chosen to access voluntary assisted dying after a devastating terminal cancer diagnosis. I’ve never been able to say no to her. So here I am, grappling to find the right words, with the right gravity, praying to do this remarkable woman and her remarkable life justice. As a reporter for more than 20 years, I’ve written about more than my fair share of death and tragedy but never this close to home. Ros doesn’t want her ending to be seen as tragic — rather, she’s lived a full life and is grateful it’s coming to a close at a time when VAD is legal. I support VAD and welcomed it becoming legal in 2021, but hoped I wouldn’t be touched by it for a very long time. I would do anything for Ros to have more time, but I respect her decision to know how much she can take. But it still doesn’t seem real that she will soon be gone. In our family and close circle, she’s mum, Aunty Ros, sis, cuz, Rossy to her countless friends, Woffy to her grandkids or Wazzy to her three-year-old great-grandson Leo. She’s at the root of our extended clan. We’re so proud of all Ros has achieved and the immeasurable difference she’s made to so many lives — from setting up Make-A-Wish in WA to founding Breast Cancer Care WA, creating seminal community events like Lifeline WA’s Black Diamond Ball and Stepping Out of the Shadows Walk. It’s a mark of the woman and her resilience that her charitable work only intensified after the worst moment of her life, her husband’s suicide. A little event she started in her hometown of Geraldton 15 years ago — Mid West Charity Begins at Home — to help her cousin, a single mum with breast cancer, has since gone on to raise more than $2.5 million for more than 300 local families. In recent weeks, Ros has become a beneficiary of that very charity. So when you come across Purple Bra Day, see a pair of Steel Blue purple work boots, attend the Black Diamond Ball or Stepping out of the Shadows Walk or visit the Cancer Wellness Centre in Cottesloe, say a silent thank you to Ros. None of those would have been possible without her vision and ability to unite an army of like-minded people to turn them into reality. Besides my parents, Ros — my father’s sister — has been the biggest influence in shaping my life. From the first time we met when she visited from New Zealand for my second birthday, she’s always been there: a constant, guide force, championing me and believing in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. She’s always had a magic about her — the fun aunt I adored growing up, the aunt who welcomed me with open arms into her home when I moved to Perth at 17 to start uni, the aunt who jetted off with me on my first overseas trip. To this day, she’s the only person I still allow to call me by my childhood nickname Magoo. I simply cannot imagine my life without her. But now I, and all those close to her, have no choice but to. In hindsight I think I will be grateful for having this time. Of not letting things go unsaid, of just holding her hand and sharing memories, of having moments when tears turn to laughter and laughter turns to tears. But knowing death is waiting around the corner for someone so close to you is a surreal, gnawing feeling. Acceptance ebbs and flows for me, depending on the day. I’m sure the dam walls will break soon, but for Ros I will try to be strong yet allow myself to be vulnerable. Ros certainly has not lost her wicked sense of humour in the wake of this crushing news, instead it’s only become blacker. When asked if she should be riding on the back of a Harley, she replied: “What’s it going to do? Kill me?” Once or twice, she’s played a practical joke forgetting to remember people before breaking into laughter. Ever the visionary, Aunty Ros is bossier than ever and planning every nuanced detail of her farewell, a “celebration of life” (don’t call it the f-word, although the other f-word is now a more regular part of her vocabulary post-diagnosis, and rightly so). People will remember the big things about Ros, but I feel lucky enough to know the small things. I will miss her indescribable hugs, the way she listens unlike anyone else, the way she smiles and laughs with her whole face, the weird and wondrous ways her mind works at a million miles an hour. I don’t know what I believe in after we die. But I know those who love Ros the most will soon be gaining an angel on their shoulder. Aunty Ros, it has been one of the greatest blessings in my life to bear witness to, learn from and be inspired by you. We don’t think in days, weeks or months anymore, just moments. I’m not sure how many more moments there are to be spent in your presence, but I’ll be sure to cherish every single one and carry them with me always. I know I say this on behalf of your closest family and friends – we love you more. And we know, you always want the last word. “People say to me, I can’t be brave as you,” you told me recently. “But I’d like to say when I leave, you will be braver.” Kate Campbell is Mid West Editor at Seven West Media