Turning 21 is usually loud, messy, and full of plans. For Kahla Gardoll, it came quietly, in a hospital bed at the Royal Adelaide Hospital, hundreds of kilometres from the South Australian town she calls home.
She spent her 20th birthday there too.
Now 22 and in remission after two years of treatment for leukaemia, Kahla’s story is both deeply personal and uncomfortably familiar for many people living outside major cities, where specialist care often comes with a price tag measured in distance, time, and isolation.
“It was isolating,” Kahla says. “I hated every moment of it.”
Kahla’s connection to Peterborough runs deep. Her family’s roots in the town stretch back generations. She was raised by her grandmother on Biripi Country on the NSW Mid North Coast, but when she arrived in Peterborough three years ago, it felt like home in a way she hadn’t experienced before.
“I fell in love with it straight away,” she says. “I stepped out of the car in front of the pub and I just knew. I’d never felt that at home anywhere else.”
Not long after moving, Kahla became unwell. She started needing long naps, sometimes for hours at a time. Blood tests followed. While visiting family in NSW for a cousin’s 18th birthday, her doctor called with urgent concerns.
“It could be sepsis, or blood cancer,” she was told.
Kahla needed to get to hospital immediately.
Within days, after the first of many bone marrow biopsies, Kahla was diagnosed with leukaemia on September 9, 2023. Two days later, she was forced to uproot her life to begin treatment in Adelaide, starting what would become a long, punishing stretch of chemotherapy and hospital stays.
It was a world away from the life she loved. Kahla had never lived in a city and didn’t want to. She missed her volunteer job icing buns at the local bakery. She missed her French bulldog. She missed the familiar faces and the steady rhythm of a small town where people know each other, and life feels grounded.
On the days she felt well enough, she leaned on small comforts. Video games. Fantasy novels. Anything that could make a sterile hospital room feel even slightly less foreign.
Between September 2023 and September 2025, Kahla spent more time in Adelaide, either in hospital or in accommodation nearby, than she did at home in Peterborough. As much as she wanted to return between treatment rounds, it wasn’t safe.
Chemotherapy left her neutropenic, with her immune system dangerously low. If something went wrong, doctors needed to administer medication within two hours. From Peterborough, that kind of response time simply isn’t realistic.
“If I needed to see a doctor,” Kahla says, “it’s impossible without going all the way to Jamestown.”
Instead, she stayed at the Cancer Council Lodge on Greenhill Road, supported through the Patient Assistance Transport Scheme (PATS). Her aunty Katrina relocated with her, taking on the role of carer while also trying to support another family member back home.
The pressure on carers, Kahla says, is often invisible.
“If she was with one of us, she was worrying about the other,” she says. “It was really tough on her.”
Even with the Lodge and subsidies helping, Kahla says she wasn’t aware of PATS for a long time. She only found out through other patients staying at the Lodge. And it was only recently she discovered it could have helped cover costs like bus fares and petrol as well.
“It should be advertised better,” she says. “Not everyone is lucky enough to meet someone who tells them about it.”
As her treatment continued, another challenge emerged: finding a stem cell donor.
Kahla’s brother, still living in NSW, dropped everything to come to South Australia for testing. He was a perfect match and willing to donate, but was later told he couldn’t because of a heart condition.
It was another blow in a stretch of months filled with uncertainty and waiting.
Finally, in February 2025, Kahla was matched with a compatible donor, a man from the United States. She underwent a stem cell transplant and spent another eight weeks in hospital in Adelaide.
Today, she is in remission, but she still isn’t free from the routine of treatment. Ongoing maintenance requires her to travel to Adelaide every six weeks, spending six days away from home each time.
And while the medical side of her story is intense, the financial reality has also been crushing. Kahla is unable to work and says she is ineligible for Centrelink support, leaving her illness to create long-term pressure that doesn’t end when hospital stays do.
Kahla’s experience also points to a broader issue that many rural patients quietly carry: the sense of being forgotten, or treated as an afterthought in a system built around city access.
What she wants people to understand about rural health is straightforward.
“Country people exist,” she says. “We’re out here, and we’re struggling.”
Kahla’s boyfriend, who lives in Queensland, plans to move to South Australia soon. They talk about the future, about children, and about building a life in the rural place that feels right for them.
But those conversations come with questions that many families in regional towns are forced to ask. What happens if someone gets sick? What happens if a child needs specialist care? What happens if the nearest help is hours away?
When asked what would make the biggest difference for people living outside the city, Kahla doesn’t hesitate.
“More doctors. More accessibility. Information people can actually find,” she says. “Because you still deserve medical care, no matter where you live.”
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