To: Prime Minister Anthony Albanese, South Australian Premier Peter Malinauskas, and Health Ministers Mark Butler (Federal) and Chris Picton (SA),

I am writing to you not as an advocate or campaigner, but as a parent whose child had cancer.

Before you read what follows, I ask you to imagine this is your child.

Imagine holding them in a hospital room in the early hours of the morning, listening to machines instead of sleeping, memorising their face because the fear of loss is ever present. Imagine the physical exhaustion, the mental overload, the unanswered questions, and the weight of responsibility that never lifts.

Now imagine carrying all of this while being forced to leave Australia, separated from your home, your support networks, your other children, and your sense of safety, because the treatment your child needs does not exist here.

This is not a hypothetical scenario. This is the lived reality for Australian families who require access to proton therapy.

What follows is something I wrote during one of the lowest moments of my daughter Evelyn’s frontline cancer treatment. I share it not to seek sympathy, but to provide context for the decisions before you. Behind every delay, every jurisdictional barrier, and every decision not to act, there are families living this reality in real time.

Leadership carries responsibility not only for systems and budgets, but for the human consequences of inaction.

Please read the words below as a parent first, and as a leader second.

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I cry - By Billie Tuckerman

I cry as I sit in the dark holding you in my arms, wanting to remember this feeling forever. I study your face, mapping every curve and dimple, running my hand over your smooth head where soft fuzz tries to grow between rounds of chemo. I listen to your breathing, feel the little twitches, and the weight of you as you finally fall into a deep sleep.

I cry as I wonder how many more times I will get to hold you like this. Will you have a first day of school, a first kiss? Will your Dad walk you down the aisle? Will I one day hold your child the way I hold you now? How far will this disease let us go together?

I cry as we sit in an isolation room because of Covid. Just you and me. In some ways it’s perfect, two best friends together. Yet I have never felt so alone, scared, angry, and sad. I cry harder when a nurse enters in plastic and gloves, trying not to wake you, but your little body senses them and stirs, and we begin the long process of sleep all over again.

I cry because I am so tired. For months I have fought day and night, tracking medications, appointments, scans, bloods, food, symptoms, development, and pain. I am your advocate. To protect you, I need to know everything about you, to notice the smallest change and speak when you can’t. I will never stop fighting for you, but I cry because the exhaustion is relentless and the list of emails, calls, research, and planning never ends.

I cry because I don’t know who I am anymore outside of being your Mum and a wife. Am I still a good friend when days pass without speaking to anyone? Am I still a good daughter, sister, neighbour? Sometimes I’m too busy, sometimes too tired of saying “I’m okay” when I’m not.

I cry because my uniform hangs untouched in my wardrobe. I miss my work, the people, the sense of purpose, the feeling of helping others. Management called once. Once. I wonder if they care if I come back, and if I don’t, who I am meant to be after this, after getting you better.

I cry because my husband gets to go to work. It makes sense, someone must keep life moving. But I cry because I envy that brief escape from the constant reality of cancer. Then I cry again because I see how exhausted and worried he is when he comes home, carrying it all with him anyway. I cry because I love him, because you hold his heart, and because the thought of losing you would destroy him.

I cry because I can’t protect your seven-year-old brother from this. He feels too deeply for someone so young. I see the pain behind his smiles, hear it when his teacher calls to say he’s had a hard day. Other children talk about cancer and death, and I don’t know how to promise him you’ll be okay when I’m terrified myself. So I smile, I hug, I laugh, and I cry when he can’t see.

I cry because you wake again, arching in pain, and nothing seems to help. I am your Mum and I’m meant to fix this, but tonight I don’t know how. Is it treatment, the cancer, growth, teething, something worse? I don’t know, and that not knowing breaks me.

I cry because you fall back asleep and I should too, but I know the next check or nappy change is coming. Do I sleep for minutes or stay awake to avoid being groggy and short with you? I hate being cranky at you. None of this is your fault. Even when I close my eyes, the fear doesn’t rest.

I cry because tomorrow won’t be a fresh start, just another day carrying all of this again. I will never give up on you, but some days I need to let the tears fall so I can make space to keep fighting.

I cry because no baby should ever have cancer. I cry because you deserve the world and I hope with everything in me that you get it. I cry because I love you more than words allow. I cry because I want answers, certainty, a cure. But for now, all I can do is hold you close and cry.

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This is why this petition exists.

No family should endure this level of fear, exhaustion, and isolation simply because essential cancer treatment is unavailable in Australia. The evidence exists. The capability exists. What is missing is timely action.

We are asking for leadership that ensures proton therapy is available on Australian soil, so families can focus on their child’s survival, not on surviving separation, distance, and additional trauma.

To our supporters - thankyou. Please keep sharing. The more signatures the harder it is to ignore us! We will continue this campaign until Parliament returns in the new year. We are currently at 19,000! Which is truly amazing. Lets push for a Christmas Miracle - lets set our sights on 25k and truly tell the leaders of Australia our wish for 2026 is for Proton Therapy on Australian soil.