House of Assembly Fifty-Second Parliament, Second Session (52-2) 52 2 Parliament of South Australia House of Assembly published Adjournment Debate Childhood Cancer Awareness Month CHILDHOOD CANCER AWARENESS MONTH Ms THOMPSON House of Assembly Reynell Ms THOMPSON (Reynell) (17:28): I want to recognise the fact that today many members of the house are wearing gold ribbons, but we did not have time earlier to canvass why we are wearing them, and it is because this month is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. My federal colleague, Amanda Rishworth (member for Kingston), was approached by a constituent and asked if she could organise for gold ribbons to be worn in the parliamentary chamber. Obviously that was a bit difficult in Canberra at the moment, so she asked me if I could take on the task and ensure that the tragedy of childhood cancer and our determination to overcome it is recognised by the wearing of gold ribbons in this chamber. In South Australia each year, on average 60 children are diagnosed with cancer, 12 children relapse and 10 children sadly lose their battle. It is the biggest killer of children in Australia. Learning that your child has cancer is among any parent's worst nightmares. Dealing with the diagnosis, treatment and prognosis can be a physical and emotional roller-coaster for the young patient and their whole family. Childhood Cancer Australia is among a number of organisations that support families in this situation. I take this opportunity to highlight the work of the many people in our community—doctors, nurses, staff and volunteers, including those at the Women's and Children's Hospital—who, together with other support organisations, do a wonderful job to support families and children fighting cancer. Traditionally gold is the colour we most frequently associate with success and happiness. Gold medals are awarded to our Olympic heroes and it is the precious metal most wedding rings are made from. The ribbons we proudly wear today pay tribute to a group who deserve our best wishes for a healthy and happy future—children and families battling cancer, all heroes in their own right. When I was researching this topic, I came across the following in the Huffington Post, an online publication some of you might be aware of. It is 'Childhood cancer awareness month: 22 signs you're a cancer parent pro.' These comments provide a real insight into the life of a family dealing with cancer. This is how you can tell the parent of a child with cancer: You realise there is no such thing as too many vomit buckets in your home. Words like neutropenia, pentamidine and cyclophosphamide just trip off your tongue (and you can spell them, too!) You can tell that fortunately I have not been touched by childhood cancer. You're irritated that someone has taken your usual spot in the hospital parking lot. You pack coordinating outfits and your hairdryer (and possibly even your anti-ageing cream?) to use during your child's hospital stay...it's become your second home, why look like a hot mess? You breeze past hospital security. They should know who you are by now, for God's sake. You're mistaken for a social worker as you walk to the hospital elevator. We might change that to 'goodness sake'— You realise you are getting too attached to your nurse practitioner. The hospital cafeteria cashier asks you for your staff discount card. Your first thought of the day as you wake up beside your inpatient child is not getting your caffeine fix, but asking your RN for the latest ANC. A rising ANC makes you blink back tears of joy. You marvel at discovering the only true waterproof mascara that doesn't leave rivulets of black running down both cheeks when you cry. A doctor's request to talk in private triggers a reflex of primal terror. You question the phlebotomist when the lab requisition isn't marked STAT. I do not know what that means either and I think I am fortunate that I do not. You get used to the resident saying they'll have to get the attending to answer your questions. You wish the residents would stop wasting your time and only the attending would attend. The attending's face falls when she sees you at your child's bedside—she knows she's stuck with you for a while. You wonder when you will get your pay check—wait a minute, you don't work at the hospital, or anywhere anymore (who'd want to hire you, anyway?). You are constantly on the lookout for attractive hats for your child. You've perfected the stink eye for anyone who dares to stare at your child's bald head or steroid-swollen face. You restrain yourself from saying 'WTF' when you hear your daughter's friend complain about her new haircut. You snoop through your child's email inbox and intercept those messages that you decide are insensitive. You are never without tissues and Tylenol. You know that you'll probably have a thumping headache and/or shed a torrent of tears at least once a day. I think that that gives some insight into the family's terrible journey when a child is diagnosed with cancer. There are heroic stories too. I read of a four year old who knew that she was likely to die and set up a lemonade stall in order to raise money for research. She said that it was because the doctors and the nurses looked so horrible when they were treating her and they were so distressed. She did not want them to be distressed as they treated other children. She ended up raising—and this is another US story—over $1 million before she died at eight. So there are heroic stories, but generally it is a tragic time for families. We wish them well, and we recognise that the community contributing to research into childhood cancer is probably the way it is going to be solved.