From Cancer to Community: Helen’s 30-Year Reflection

I often talk about the fact that we never know when life might suddenly and completely change, and that’s probably because, in October 1995, when I was 12 years old, my life did just that. One day, I was a typical 12-year-old girl going to school and spending time with friends and family. The next, I was a 12-year-old girl with a cancer diagnosis. The pain in my knee had been coming and going for a few weeks, but I don’t think any of us suspected that a form of bone cancer called osteosarcoma was the cause.  

“Don’t people lose their hair when they have cancer?” was one of the first questions I asked as we sat in the McDonald’s at Royal Children’s Hospital. As a young girl with long blonde hair, it felt like this would be the most significant impact of my diagnosis. But over the coming years, I discovered that cancer turns every aspect of a family’s life upside down.  

Like all the children on Ward 6 East in the old RCH, my life became a repetitive cycle of chemo rounds, finger pricks, scans, surgeries, infections, and plenty of nasty side effects. There was no more school, and a week on the ward for chemo was almost always followed by a week in isolation due to an infection. Like many of my ward buddies, I became an expert at trying to convince my parents and doctors that I didn’t need to go to the hospital, that I would start eating and didn’t need a nasogastric tube, or that I was well enough to go home.  

In the hospital, unless you were in isolation, you shared a room with three other kids, so the other children and their families became our friends on the ward and in some cases, off the ward too. There are many children whom I still remember so clearly: the little baby in the cot whose mum, a single parent, used to cry whenever she had to leave for work; the older teenagers who I thought were super cool; the gentle and kind boy who posed with me for the Crop-a-Cop poster; and the cute five-year-old girls, who I loved being a bit like a big sister to. There was a sense of safety and security within these walls, where being bald and vomiting frequently was normal.  

Regardless of the type of cancer you had, the impact on both our lives and our families’ lives was enormous. Missing school, work, friends and social connections, siblings shuttled between relatives and back and forth to the hospital, the constant uncertainty and fear of complications, and, of course, the ultimate fear: that the treatment would be unsuccessful. During my treatment, I used to say that I felt it was harder for my family than for me, and I still believe this, especially now that I am a parent myself. While I may bear the physical scars, my diagnosis changed the trajectory of each member of my family’s life in multiple complex ways, particularly for my parents and my sister, Claire.  

For me personally, although there were many lows and incredibly tough moments, I was deeply impacted by the countless acts of care and kindness bestowed on me and the other families. Alongside memories of finger pricks, lumbar punctures, and blood transfusions, I remember many of the names and faces of my nurses. Nurses who sat by my bed and talked to me, who acted as protectors turning away visitors when I felt too unwell to see anyone, and who knew the names of all my family members and remembered minor details about them. I remember the compassion and dignity they showed delivering empty kidney dishes and bedpans to the bedside of an embarrassed teenager and discreetly taking them away again. And I remember the warm towels, cordial, and ondansetron (a drug that prevented nausea and vomiting) brought to ease some of the awful side effects of treatment.  

Beyond the doctors and nurses who treated me, 6 East was full of incredible caregivers from so many different fields: PSAs, therapists, ward clerks, pathology staff, physiotherapists, dietitians, social workers, and the list goes on. Whether it was remembering what each child liked for breakfast, their favourite TV show, or how to distract them during a procedure, there was a sense of family and community, a commitment to looking after every child as an individual.  

As amazing as that enormous medical team was, the majority of their interactions were medical in nature. When life seemed to revolve around cancer and medical treatment, any distraction or fun activity was rare and very special. That’s how I first came to love Challenge. I met David and became a Challenge member not long after my diagnosis in 1995. David’s visits to the hospital, often with athletes or celebrities, became the highlights of my many weeks there. My photo albums from that time are full of Polaroids of me with Andrew Gaze, Tina Arena, the Gladiators, TV actors, and more. I have great memories of going backstage at a Tina Arena concert and taking my friend to see Janet Jackson.  

In 1997, after going into remission and with my hair starting to grow back, we discovered I had another tumour, this time in my shoulder. The whole process started again, except this time, it was more complicated, and the treatment was far more intense. I participated in a clinical trial, and my body was pushed to its absolute limit. One small comfort throughout this period was being back among familiar faces in the hospital and still having the support of Challenge.  

October 2025 will mark 30 years since my initial diagnosis. Despite all the challenges, the sickness, the five terms of school I missed, and the long-term effects of my treatment, I wouldn’t change anything. My parents probably feel very differently! But spending three of my teenage years as a cancer patient and experiencing the loss of too many of my ward buddies taught me a lot about the impact of caring for others and about never taking life for granted. I make no assumptions about how long any of us will be around, especially me, and I’m incredibly grateful for all the amazing things I’ve packed into my life since finishing treatment. I have been lucky enough to travel and live overseas, attend university, have a wonderful career, enjoy beautiful friendships, volunteer for incredible organisations, marry my high school boyfriend, become a foster carer, and, against all odds, have three beautiful children. I was also lucky enough to attend the wedding of one of those incredibly cute five-year-old girls I met all those years ago.  

When I turned 40 a couple of years ago, I decided to do something I’d wanted to do for a long time: volunteer with Challenge. Attending camps, activity days, parent dinners, and fundraising events with Challenge members and getting to know other Challenge volunteers and staff has been incredibly special. It has reminded me of the magic of Challenge, of the most generous, kind, and caring people coming together to create moments of joy during an otherwise frightening and dark time.  

As I write this, I feel grateful for the opportunity to now work for Challenge, and I hope that my personal experience can assist families in need, just as my family and I were supported 30 years ago.