Stirling Griff (SA, Centre Alliance) Share this | Hansard source

A little over two weeks ago, on the morning of 16 July, my beautiful wife, Kristin Griff, passed away. Kristin was a special soul who lit up everywhere she went. Her vibrant and caring soul brought clarity, comfort and joy to all that she touched. She was the most beautiful, loving wife and best friend. My family and friends are all richer for having known her and absolutely devastated for having lost her.

Cancer slowly took away her life over a four-year period after she found a small lump in her right breast. She had thought that she would easily make it into her 90s, just like her grandmother did. That hope was soon dashed after a biopsy showed her cancer's Ki-67 rate, the rate it progresses, was through the roof. Its aggressiveness resulted in her cancer almost tripling in size in just three weeks. In October 2017, surgeon Davendra Segara operated on her at St Vincent's private hospital in Sydney. Chemotherapy drugs were administered in Adelaide the following month. But the chemo had to stop after just three sessions. It was impacting her lungs and causing significant scarring. Kristin was in a difficult place. Chemo only kills cancer cells that are dividing at the time—dormant cells are not killed—but continuing chemo would further impair her general ability to survive. In early 2018, we met in Sydney with Davendra and oncologist Elgene Lim, who recommended specific oral drugs, and Kristin continued to have six-monthly scans.

We were feeling positive that her cancer had been beaten, until a scan in late 2019 raised concerns. Further scans and blood tests in early 2020 showed progression that required an urgent mastectomy and removal of more lymph nodes and surrounding tissue. Her Ki-67 rate was now over six times the normal rate. COVID restrictions meant I could not travel to Sydney to be with her for the operation. It was a horribly stressful time for both of us. We then decided to return to Adelaide for the operation, but surgery limitations meant we could only remove the lymph nodes and upper-armpit segments, and COVID restrictions meant I couldn't even go to the hospital to be with her. All I could do was find a spot where I could park and look up at her window as we spoke via our mobiles. It was horrible, just horrible. Surgeon Jim Kollias operated on her at St Andrew's Hospital, and Kristin subsequently undertook radiation therapy and oral drugs proposed by her Adelaide oncologist, Ken Pittman.

2020 was a blur of scans, blood tests and drug changes. There was also a close call with a sepsis infection, where we didn't think that she was going to pull through. By November last year, the cancer had spread throughout her spine and pelvis, her lumbar and her thoracic system, and there was suspected incursion in other places. Oral drugs letrozole and palbociclib and pain medication continued, including a period where CBD oil was an absolute lifesaver for her. Like many with aggressive cancers, we went on the look-out for drug trials and found one that was particularly promising. The trial doctor, Meena Okera, arranged for new scans and told Kristin to go off her current drugs, which she did, and she immediately felt the best that she had actually felt for years. She looked great, had vitality again, was smiling and was even singing. It was truly beautiful to see.

But it didn't last long. Scans showed disease progression. This meant she was no longer eligible for the trial. You must be stable or in remission to qualify for trials, something that I was not aware of until that point. How wrong and how gut-wrenching was that? This left us with a choice: stay off everything, with Kristin feeling great for the first time in years, or go back on drugs that were clearly having no effect. Adelaide oncologist Ken Pittman suggested trying anastrozole instead of letrozole. Immediately after taking anastrozole, Kristin had incredible pain and hot sweats. It was the worst she had ever been in her life, all after taking one tiny pill. Did the cancer rebel against this anticancer drug and massively fight back? I think it did. From then on, everything went downhill. Her pain medication had to go up and up. Further scans in April this year showed her bone system and liver lit up like a Christmas tree. Her liver biopsy took place at Calvary North Adelaide Hospital, but incredibly that was screwed up. They missed getting a sample of what turned out to be a very cancerous liver.

This was not the only frustrating part of that experience. Kristin experienced excruciating pain during and after the biopsy, but the nursing staff, those of the St Helen ward of Calvary North Adelaide Hospital on the day, showed a total lack of interest. Kristin was screaming in pain, but the nurse just walked away. Buzzers were continually pressed. No-one came. I raced out to the nurses station and called for help. Not one of the nurses stationed there responded. They were busy chatting amongst themselves while my wife was in agony. The head nurse said our nurse was busy and we'd just have to wait until she came back—totally gobsmacking. Someone could have been dying, but nobody would lift a finger because it wasn't part of their patch. What a disgusting culture, if that is the culture. We went back to that hospital on two other occasions, once for a blood transfusion, when Kristin was forgotten about for the first hour, and the other for an overnight stay, and we vowed never again to visit that place. Our experience of the emergency department in the new Calvary Adelaide Hospital was, however, very different and excellent, but doctors tell me it just wants the easy, profitable business. Cancer doctors do not have admitting rights.

Since the botched biopsy, Kristin experienced frequent vomiting and major pain, both continuing for many weeks. She had further scans at Dr Jones & Partners at Kurralta Park. One required radioactive dye to be injected. The technician missed and injected the dye into her arm, which caused massive swelling, more significant pain over many weeks and poor imaging—another distressing experience.

We met with oncologist Ken Pittman to discuss these scans, and from that point on he effectively took us off his books and referred us to a palliative-care provider. We were obviously at the end of this journey. The palliative-care team told us Kristin had, as they say, short weeks to live. That knocked us terribly. Up until then Kristin was still hoping for a miracle, but it was not to be. When Kristin arrived at Laurel palliative care hospice our stress levels dropped 90 per cent. Warm, welcoming nursing staff, beautiful facilities, doctors and support staff who genuinely cared—we were finally at a place that responded to what the patient needed.

Over the next two weeks Kristin's health improved. She came home for almost three weeks with RDNS support, which meant that she could be with me and our youngest daughter, who had just returned from Victoria. On 10 July everything went downhill. An ambulance took Kristin back to Laurel Hospice. She was very well cared for for her remaining days, and she died, holding my hand, around 8 am on 16 July. Her last 30 minutes of life was a very emotional experience, which I will talk about another time.

Kristin was a beautiful soul who went through much unnecessary pain and distress during her four years of living with cancer. Her medical experiences, which I will outline another time, in the main weren't great, but her palliative-care experience at Laurel hospice was truly beautiful. She asked me to read her final words at her funeral, and they sum up the type of person she is: 'Each of you has gifted my life with love and learning, and I am deeply grateful to you all for including me in your life. It was the greatest privilege to love and be loved and to be given the gift of raising kids who are wonderful humans doing good things within their own lives. When you leave today, step out and lift your head. Inhale deeply. Love and a good life await you. Nourish yourself daily with nature's presence through all the seasons of renewal.'

Beautiful Kristin: Thank you for being a part of my life and that of others who were fortunate to have known you. You will remain in our hearts forever.