Susanna Freymark
Kyogle mayor Danielle Mulholland has been keeping everyone updated with her cancer journey through her social media page.
In late August, a biopsy revealed Ms Mulholland had a tonsil cancer that had metastasised into her lymph nodes, salivary glands, and surrounding tissue.
She was promptly transferred to John Flynn Hospital in Queensland, where she is having eight weeks of combined chemo and radiation therapy. Read more here.
IndyNR.com spoke to Ms Mulholland today, Wednesday, September 17.
She is in good spirits and is touched by the well wishes and gifts she has received – especially the Harry Potter Lego kit to keep her occupied.
She has been keeping a weekly diary. Here’s what she has written about her journey so far – written with a large dose of hospital humour.
Week 1. You have cancer.
You’re told you have cancer. Sometimes this news comes gently, wrapped in soft tones and sympathetic nods. Other times, it’s delivered by a surgeon who communicates with all the warmth and charm of an old Sergeant Major at boot camp, minus the medals and the option to wash out. Either way, you walk out with a diagnosis and about a million questions bouncing around your head.
What stage is it? Will it kill me? What’s the treatment? Do I have good odds, or should I start pricing beachfront plots in the afterlife? How did I get it? Why me? And why now, when I was just getting good at Wordle?
Overnight, you don’t just have a doctor—you have staff. Depending on the type, you may collect specialists like Pokemon cards: an oncologist, a gastroenterologist, a nurse coordinator, a social worker, a radiation oncologist, a chemo oncologist, and, if you’re really lucky, a random person who just likes hanging out in white coats. It’s a whirlwind of information — like trying to drink from a fire hydrant while someone’s reading the dictionary to you.
Pro tip: take notes or ask for the details in writing. Otherwise, your brain may only retain, “blah blah blah… cancer.” Above all, make sure you’re comfortable with your treatment plan and fully informed—because the only thing scarier than the C-word is blindly nodding through medical jargon like you’re on a bad first date.
Week 2. Treatment starts.
Congratulations, you’ve officially become a human pincushion. You’ll be poked, prodded, jabbed, and scanned so often you’ll start to wonder if your body parts should start charging rent.
You may get a PICC line—that’s a fancy long tube they slide into your arm and snake up near your heart. Sounds terrifying, like something out of Alien, but trust me, it’s way better than being stabbed with a fresh needle every time you so much as sneeze. Think of it as a VIP express lane for medicine — no waiting, no fuss, all-access pass straight to your bloodstream.
Then there’s the possibility of a PEG (feeding tube). Not glamorous, but if swallowing becomes harder than pronouncing ‘Worcestershire sauce,’ it keeps you alive. Mouth ulcers might also crash the party—little fiery reminders that smoothies can be dangerous. One sip of citrus and suddenly you’re reenacting a cartoon dragon, smoke coming out your ears while you sprint for the tap.
At this stage, bicarb soda becomes your new BFF, and if someone dares to wave a chilli, curry, or lemon in your general direction, you’ll feel like they’ve unleashed chemical warfare. At this point, spices become public enemy number one. Even a passing whiff of curry feels like napalm. Meals are now like Russian roulette: every bite could be your last act of bravery.
You’ve noticed your family is looking a little frayed around the edges—like extras in a zombie film who’ve just realised they’re not in the sequel. As hard as it was to tell them about the cancer, it’s harder watching them plan your funeral playlists before you’ve even finished your morning coffee.
So, you recruit a new staff member: a social worker. Not the clipboard-wielding ‘I’ll be taking your children now’ type, but the kind who sits the family down and says, “Relax—this is chemo, not the final curtain call. Cancel the casket order, put the eulogy drafts back in the drawer, and maybe stop practicing the solemn head-nod for the wake.” Because, honestly, you’re not dead yet—and someone still needs to yell at them for stealing your butterscotch.
You’ve started to lose a bit of weight. Not enough to get a standing ovation, but just enough to set off alarm bells for your nurse coordinator. Suddenly, she’s hovering over your food chart like Nurse Ratched at a “choose your weapon” convention, interrogating your meal choices like you’ve been caught smuggling contraband jelly beans.
And here’s the kicker: your head loses weight. Yep, that’s a thing. Nobody tells you this. Nobody writes “Warning: may result in shrinking skull” on the side effects sheet. Which means that the specially made radiation mask — you know, the one they bolt to the table like you’re Hannibal Lecter — no longer fits. Time for a new one.
Now, if you’re claustrophobic, well… tough luck. They clamp that mask down so tight you couldn’t sneeze if you wanted to. Pro tip: tell them to crank the music up and pretend you’re just at the world’s worst spa, where relaxation means lying perfectly still while your face is vacuum-sealed. The good news? It only lasts about two songs.
When they finally remove it, the relief is so overwhelming you could cry — except you don’t. You’re too busy grabbing your dressing gown and sprinting from the room like you’ve just been released from prison.
But despite all this, you stay optimistic. Because while the side effects might make you curse pineapples and glare at innocent spices, the alternative is… well, let’s just say you’ll put up with a bit of dragon-breath pain if it means you’re still here to tell the tale.
You go for your mandatory walks, joke with the nurses and promise not to pull the white sheet over your head again if you want a nap. (I cannot emphasise enough how badly they react to that last bit). You’re starting to feel a bit cocky – the side effects are nowhere near as bad as you thought they would be and you might just make it through this after all.