Imagine knowing the exact moment your life will end. For former Lismore mayor Jenny Dowell, this isn’t a hypothetical—it’s her reality. But here’s where it gets controversial: she’s chosen to embrace it with remarkable clarity and courage, opting for voluntary assisted dying (VAD) as her final act of autonomy. Her story, shared in a deeply personal podcast interview, is both heart-wrenching and profoundly inspiring.
If you’re active on social media, you’ve likely heard whispers of Jenny’s journey. Last Thursday, I sat with her on the veranda of her Goonellabah home, surrounded by a lush backyard that seemed to mirror her resilience. Over the course of our conversation for the Talking Lismore podcast (https://talkinglismore.buzzsprout.com/), Jenny recounted her life’s defining moments—from her breast cancer diagnosis just four days after becoming mayor in 2008, to her recent terminal cancer diagnosis, and the peace she’s found in planning her final days.
Seventeen years after beating breast cancer, Jenny believed she was in the clear. Regular check-ups showed no signs of recurrence. “I had 17 years of blissful ignorance,” she reflects, unaware that cancer cells had silently spread to her spine and pelvis. It wasn’t until last May, after a bushwalk in Mount Kaputar and a seemingly minor back injury, that scans revealed the devastating truth: incurable cancer. “It hit me like a ton of bricks,” she admits.
Initially, Jenny tried a new hormone-blocking treatment linked to her original cancer. But the side effects were brutal—nausea, fatigue, weight loss, and a complete loss of appetite. “I was barely functioning,” she recalls. Faced with a prognosis of just six to twelve months, she made a bold decision: to prioritize quality of life over quantity.
And this is the part most people miss: Jenny’s choice to pursue VAD wasn’t about giving up—it was about reclaiming control. Under New South Wales legislation, she’s undergone two independent medical assessments to confirm her mental capacity and prognosis. So far, the process has been straightforward, but the decision between doctor-administered and self-administered medication is anything but simple. The former is quicker but means a doctor’s presence; the latter requires physical ability to self-administer. Jenny leans toward the latter, valuing privacy and autonomy in her final moments.
Her family—husband Ron and their two adult children—have been her rock. “We’re very open,” she says. “Nothing’s off limits.” Their unwavering support has allowed her to find peace, though she acknowledges not everyone is so fortunate. “I’m lucky. I have everyone around me,” she adds, her voice filled with gratitude.
At 75, Jenny isn’t just planning her death—she’s celebrating her life. She’s written her eulogy, gifted cherished belongings, and even embraced daily mindfulness rituals to stay grounded. “Five things I can see, four things I can hear, three things I can feel…” she explains, a practice that keeps her present and calm.
When asked how she wants to be remembered, her answer is simple yet profound: “That I cared… that I always had time to listen.” Her legacy isn’t just in her political achievements but in her unwavering humanity.
Jenny’s story is bound to spark debate. Some will applaud her courage; others may question her choices. But here’s the question I leave to you: In a world where death is often shrouded in silence, does Jenny’s openness challenge us to rethink how we approach our own mortality?
To hear her full story, listen to the Talking Lismore podcast (https://talkinglismore.buzzsprout.com/). It’s a conversation that will stay with you long after it ends.
