AN ENDURING VOW

by Joe Palermo (Melbourne, Australia)

As there is not enough awareness about Ovarian Cancer, I am doing
whatever I can to change this so other women won't have to go
through what Kim did. My daughter, Sarah also wrote a very
inspirational song dedicated to Kim which we are now selling with
all proceeds going to Ovarian Cancer Australia.

to hear a sample of the song, click this song title:
BE STRONG by: Sarah

Kim's story is below...


A tiny fair-haired girl zoomed past me on her bike seconds after our
school bell sounded. She let out a yell. "Fancy coming to the
pictures?" she called. It was my first year at high school in Keilor
East, Vic, and while I was still finding my way around the maze of
classrooms, bubbly Kim Wilcher from Year Eight was full of
confidence. Watching this pint-sized tornado flying past, I found it
hard to believe she was older than me. But what Kim, 13, lacked in
size, she made up for in personality. "So are you coming?" she
asked, when Isaw her later at the shops in East Keilor. It was
February 1971 and I'd never had a girlfriend before, so I said yes.
The movie wasn't great but sitting quietly in the dark holding Kim's
hand was the best moment of my life.

For the next few weeks we were inseparable. We hung out around the
oval at lunch times and held hands by the shops each night.

But timetables and homework proved too intense for our puppy love
and by the end of term we were content with being mates again.

I was 17, with a new career in the computer industry, when I leaned
that Kim had moved to Adelaide seeking adventure. But my intentions
already lay with the Italian girl I'd met at my friends 18th
birthday. We'd had a few dates and soon Renza and I were in love.

We married on January 15, 1983, in a traditional catholic ceremony.
We had three children David, Sarah and Lisa but, over time, we
weren't happy together.

Towards the end, our relationship deteriorated rapidly and I spent
our 19th wedding anniversary in 2002 - alone in my office.

What's to celebrate? I thought, as an unexpected late night email
popped up on my screen. "I don't know if you remember me, but you
were my first boyfriend. I used to ride my bike on Milleara road
towards the centreway shops. Are you married now? I'd love to hear
from you." Who's this? I wondered, racking my brain. Then suddenly
it all came flooding back. The girl on the bike? Kim, I smiled,
hitting the reply button. Only three days earlier, I joined a
website called friends reunited. I hadn't expected to hear from
anyone so soon, and certainly not from my first girlfriend on my
wedding anniversary.

I smiled at the irony as I logged on the next day and was thrilled
to find another email from Kim. "I can't believe you're still in
Keilor East," she wrote, asking about my family. It was great to
catch up with her and soon we were emailing daily, reminiscing about
our school days. "That's you in the year seven photo," she said,
emailing an old primary school picture. Kim and I had got on like a
house on fire all those years ago and things hadn't changed one bit.
What's more, our lives had amazing similarities. We both had three
kids and were in long-term relationships which were not going well.

Two weeks later, rather than email, we decided to speak in person,
so Kim gave me her mobile number. It was lovely to hear her friendly
voice on the end of the line, and a month later we met in Sydney. "I
can't believe it's been 30 years," I said. "You've put on more
beef," she teased, hugging me. "You haven't changed a bit," I said,
studying her dimpled smile. We chatted away about life, our failing
relationships and Kim told me about her three daughters, Melissa,
24, Jodie, 22, and Belinda, 17. "I've only stayed for the kids," she
admitted. "Me too," I said quietly. But Kim had plans. "When Belinda
finishes her exams in November, I'm leaving," she said. And in that
instant I realized that I still loved Kim. Fate had brought us
together at last. "I can't lose you again," I whispered, tenderly
kissing her goodbye.

Back in Melbourne our daily emails and calls made life bearable as
we planned a new life together. I'd already redecorated the rental
unit I owned in sunshine for Kim's big move to Melbourne. But I felt
so guilty about my children. "I can't do it," I cried to Kim down
the phone one day. Her soft sobs drifted back down the line to me.
"It's hard for me, too," she whispered.

But another dinner at home with my family spent in stony silence
brought things to a head. Renza and I discussed our relationship and
decided it was best if we went our separate ways. Relieved things
were out in the open at last, I packed my bags. I was waiting at
Melbourne airport in November 2002 with a huge bouquet of red roses
when Kim's smiling face appeared in the crowd. "This was meant to
be," I said, hugging her.

But although I loved Kim dearly, I desperately missed my kids, in
bed one night, Kim sensed my sadness. "If you want them to live with
us, I'll care for your children," she offered. In 2004, she was true
to her word when Renza agreed to let the kids come and live with us
for good. "Cuddle me," asked 9-year-old Lisa, climbing onto Kim's
knee. The children adored her and by New Year 2005, Kim was as busy
as ever, juggling renovations with being a full-time mum.

We were now one big happy family. "You need to slow down," I warned
one night, worried as she flopped into bed, exhausted.

For weeks she'd complained of backache. Now, with a tummy ache and
bloating, she finally rang the doctor. "No more beer or nuts," he
warned. But Kim wasn't convinced diet was her problem.

In June 2005, as we snuggled in bed, Kim began gasping for air.
"Something's terribly wrong Joe," she panted, as I dialled triple-0.
The doctors at the local hospital in sunshine studied her x-rays.
"There's fluid around her right lung," they told us, then arranged
for Kim to be transferred to Footscray hospital for more tests.

I was working when the specialist rang me. "I need to speak to Kim
and you urgently," he said, his tone serious. "How soon can you get
here?" Arriving at the hospital, Kim and I went into the doctor's
room. Stroking her hand gently, we waited anxiously. "What's wrong
with Kim?" I asked. "It's not good news," he said solemnly". "Kim
has ovarian cancer." My heart shattered into a million pieces. After
so many wasted years. Fate had led Kim back to me and now I face
losing her all over again. "But I have pap smears every two years,"
Kim stated, shocked. "Pap smears are no protection against, or
indication for, ovarian cancer," the doctor said bowing his head. He
explained only a CA125 blood test could identify ovarian cancer and
only then combined with a transvaginal ultrasound and CT scan. "It's
called the silent killer because the symptoms are so vague," he
explained. "It's often advanced by the time we find it."

While I struggled to cope, Kim astounded me with her positive
attitude. "What do we need to do to beat this?" she asked. "I have a
family to care for." Treatment started immediately and over the
coming weeks Kim was rushed to surgery for a hysterectomy and
removal of her ovaries. Gruelling bouts of chemotherapy followed. To
get through it, Kim found a new focus. "I'm going to be here when
Jodie has her baby," she vowed, looking forward to becoming a
grandmother, "and for my 50th birthday in January."

While her nearest and dearest crumbled around her, she was
everyone's rock. "You can't get rid of me that easily," she told us.
Yet in our quiet times, she'd confess that cancer wasn't part of her
plans. "We've only just found each other," she'd say. "I know,
love," I'd croak, trying to stem my tears.

Holding her hand through each blood test and chemo session, I
banished thoughts of losing Kim, sharing her pride when, on January
28, 2006, she held Jodie's newborn son, Jackson. "I'm your nana,"
she whispered to, vowing that she'd be around for his first
birthday.

A few weeks later, my daughter Sarah, then 16, came home from school
with some surprise news "I've won the music schools annual singing
contest," she said, "The prize is to record a CD." Sarah refused to
tell any of us what her song was about. We heard it for the first
time when she took to the stage of the M and A School of Music.

"It's called Be Strong," John St. Peters, owner of the academy,
announced to the audience. I could barely find the words to speak as
Sarah sang of courage and hope. "She's written this song for you,
Kim," I whispered, as tears trickled down her cheeks. The next day I
contacted Ovarian Cancer Australia, the national charity supporting
women suffering with ovarian cancer, telling them all about Sarah's
CD in hope that it would inspire other women battling this disease.

In January 2008, Kim celebrated Jackson's first birthday and her
50th. We marked it with a photographic portrait of the entire
family, including Kim's mum Norma, and a meal at Crown Casino's
Conservatory restaurant. With no sign of cancer in her tests, the
doctors stopped her chemo and we had hope.

But, two weeks later, Kim interrupted her birthday treat - a
helicopter ride across the city. "Something's wrong," she said
gasping for air and ordering the chopper to land. At St Vincent's
Hospital, doctors explained Kim's lung had collapsed. "We need to
prepare her for surgery urgently to drain the fluid from around her
lung," they said. Kim returned home weak from the operation but,
within a few days, was readmitted. "You won't be going home," her
doctors warned gently, as Kim began to fade. Throughout the day, Kim
told us she loved us, and instructed me to dress her in black
stilettos and her favourite red dress. "Don't forget the red
coffin," she said. "Or the video that I've made for afterwards.". At
9:30pm on March 2, the last day of Ovarian Cancer Awareness Week,
the girl I'd first fallen in love with at school finally gave up the
fight. A week later, we lay Kim to rest at Fawkner Cemetery. Back at
home we watched the video that she had recorded for us. "To Joe, the
love of my life," Kim began. "Six years just wasn't enough," I
sobbed. "You will never know the depth of my love," she continued,"
I will never leave you."

I'll treasure those words in my heart. Kim's video stands among
photographs of her in a shrine I've created as a legacy. Surrounded
by Ovarian Cancer teal ribbons, wrist bands and silver bell
brooches, this little corner of our hallway is a reminder of a new
mission in my life, which for weeks lacked any purpose at all. I'm
determined to raise awareness and funds to find a cure for the
silent killer which stole my twin flame soul mate from me.

"That's a pretty brooch," commented a female bank teller, noticing
the silver bell on my jacket, as I closed Kim's accounts. I handed
her an information leaflet, telling her our story and hoping the
knowledge that might have saved Kim, could one day save her if she
ever contracted the disease.

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