That conversation had come just a week and a half after she and her husband wed – a time that was supposed to be blissful and full of hope.
I was hoping for 10 [years], I was hoping for five. I was not thinking six, seven months
Goldman, who owns an online plant shop called Keren’s Garden in Hong Kong, was diagnosed with liposarcoma in August 2018 after a CT scan revealed that a hard lump in her stomach was a tumour.
She had an operation a month later to remove it, and returned to her daily life.
She underwent six months of chemotherapy, during and after which she was bedridden for 10 months.
Goldman remained hopeful that she would recover, despite knowing that those with liposarcoma usually live only five to 10 years.
‘No-brainer’: why Hong Kong families opt for loved ones to die at home
It took about six months to regain her energy and start to make wedding plans – she had been unable to marry her partner in 2020 because of Covid-19 restrictions on people gathering.“[The cancer] wasn’t a cloud over us. We were like, we can do it. No matter what, we would adjust our routines and our everyday life activities to my abilities,” Goldman says. “He challenged me to get stronger, but also didn’t make me feel like I’m missing anything.”
In October 2022, though, just four days before their wedding, she received news that her cancer had returned. About two weeks later, her doctors confirmed that it was inoperable and terminal, as she had both fast- and slow-growing types of liposarcoma.
“People don’t understand the financial insecurities that you put yourself in and the risks [you have], just from being sick,” Goldman says, while noting that there is a government cap for all bills.
“Everyone thinks in Hong Kong, healthcare is free, but it’s not true … not to mention, obviously, loss of job. You’re not working. There are other elements that are costing you.”
She adds: “It’s scary that I might have to be hospitalised for months until I die, and that will be my legacy to my husband.”
Goldman has since begun another treatment at Queen Mary Hospital on Hong Kong Island.
“Nobody thinks it’s going to shrink. Nobody thinks it’s going to stop. They’re hoping to slow it down. I’m a bit in two minds about it, because I want to have some quality of life, [but] even without chemo, I already am not capable of walking.”
Having had months to face the reality that she is likely to die sooner rather than later, Goldman has had ample time to think about her death. She is worried about how her health will affect her loved ones emotionally and financially, and laments the lack of choice for those at the end of their lives in Hong Kong.
“It’s not easy to talk about your wishes about what happens after death. What’s going to happen? Do you want a funeral? Do you want to be buried? It’s all these elements you don’t think about,” she says. “How do you choose to die? What way?”
“The problem in Hong Kong is that there is not really a plan in government hospitals for end of life. Euthanasia is illegal, but in other countries at least there comes a point that they will give you some relief.“It’s not while you’re still fit, but if you’re in hospital and it’s towards the end, they will help.
“This doesn’t exist in Hong Kong, and it’s one of the things that scares me the most, because from now on, [I’ll only be] hooked to more and more tubes and machines.”
Goldman is already struggling to eat – she has a tube in her body for fluids – and can just manage the walk from her bedroom to the living room. She vomits often, deals with daily cramps, and has also lost a significant amount of hair and weight.
Her doctors say she probably has only six months left to live.
“I knew [I wasn’t going to live] for 10, 20 years. But I was hoping for 10, I was hoping for five. I was not thinking six, seven months,” she says.
“It’s scary because Hong Kong is my home. I don’t want to go and die in a different country. I have no resources to go and do that. But I also don’t want to be here on machines for days on end when I have no control of my life.”
Goldman notes that all Hong Kong hospitals can do is try to make patients feel as comfortable as possible. She knows the pain and difficulty of bearing the knowledge that she is at the end of her life, and hopes that Hong Kong will eventually offer more options.
“If you choose and when you choose to do something, it’s not [necessarily] a negative act. It’s a liberation, and empowers me to think that I have a choice. Whereas cancer didn’t give me any choice.
“I don’t want to be sick. It’s so unfair. I’m only 49 years old – I’m not even 50. [But] there comes a point where you have to speak to your loved ones and say, enough is enough,” she says.“It’s ironic that less than a year after I married, I’m going to die. I didn’t even think about it a year ago. Nobody saw it.”
In preparation for her death, Goldman has written a will and in May visited Israel to say goodbye to family members. She views her impending death like a bittersweet film ending.
“I’m crying but I’m happy,” she says. “You feel hopeful. Even today, you look out, you see the sun, you cannot [help] but feel hopeful. And moments that I don’t have pain, I forget. Now the pain is almost constant and it is hard, but I still feel hopeful.
“It sounds like such a cliché, but every day I have magical moments, beautiful moments. But I also have to be realistic, because I have to be prepared,” she says.
“I just hope that society will be a bit more understanding of people’s choices.”
She adds: “I’m so appreciative and so grateful for what I have, for what Hong Kong gave me, for what my parents gave me, for my partner, [what] my friends and society gave me, for what I created,” Goldman says.
“So, of course, I don’t want to die. But I want it to be my choice. Nobody else’s. My choice.”
