I live foot by foot now. I still say I'm the luckiest bloke in the world.
Along the shores of Moreton Bay and across Queensland's vast interior, a preventable crisis has been unfolding in silence for four decades: liver cancer deaths have tripled since the 1980s, driven largely by undiagnosed hepatitis B and C. The virus asks nothing of its host but time — and time, given freely, becomes scar tissue, then cancer, then death. A new report from Hepatitis Queensland and the Cancer Council Queensland now places this quiet epidemic in plain sight, urging a health system to find the people it has not yet reached before the disease finds them first.
- Liver cancer deaths in Queensland have tripled since the 1980s, making it one of the fastest-growing cancer killers in the state — yet the cause, in half of all cases, is a preventable bloodborne virus.
- Up to 14,400 Queenslanders may be carrying chronic hepatitis without knowing it, the virus working silently for years before announcing itself as cancer or organ failure.
- The burden falls hardest on those already at the margins — Indigenous Queenslanders face liver cancer at two and a half times the general rate, with far worse survival odds, while prisoners, regional residents, and migrants remain chronically underserved.
- A new joint report is pressing health authorities to act with urgency: expand telemedicine, establish culturally safe screening pathways, and bring testing directly into prisons, mental health services, and remote communities.
- Queensland Health has pledged to close these gaps, but the tools — a blood test, a cure — have existed for years; what remains is the harder work of reaching people the system has long struggled to see.
Dave Clune cannot say exactly when hepatitis entered his life. It may have been a shared needle, a backyard tattoo, or something tied to the abuse and instability of his early years in New Zealand. What he knows is that the virus spent roughly fifty years quietly destroying his liver before triggering cancer, and that in 2009 he received both a new liver and a new kidney — organs from a single donor — at Brisbane's Princess Alexandra Hospital. He woke from surgery feeling, as he puts it, born again.
Dave's story has become part of a public health campaign because it is no longer unusual. Queensland is in the grip of a liver cancer crisis that has gone largely unnoticed: deaths from the disease rose from 1.6 per 100,000 people in the 1980s to 5.1 per 100,000 between 2018 and 2022, claiming more than 1,600 lives in that period alone. A new report from Hepatitis Queensland and the Cancer Council Queensland identifies liver cancer as one of the fastest-growing causes of cancer mortality in the state.
Hepatitis B and C account for roughly half of all Queensland liver cancer cases. Around 48,000 Queenslanders live with chronic hepatitis, and an estimated 20 to 30 percent of them don't know it. The virus is silent — its symptoms, when they appear at all, resemble the flu — and it can spend decades scarring liver tissue before the damage becomes irreversible. Indigenous Queenslanders bear a disproportionate share of this burden, experiencing liver cancer at two and a half times the rate of the general population and facing substantially poorer survival outcomes.
The path to Dave's transplant was marked by loss — two brothers dead of liver failure in their forties, years of discrimination in Australia after his diagnosis became known, neighbours who kept their children away and employers who turned him down. He and his partner Grace built their own livelihood from the margins: mowing lawns, collecting scrap metal, fixing machinery. The relationship, he says, survived things he still cannot fully explain.
The report's recommendations are clear: culturally safe screening and treatment for Indigenous communities, telemedicine and outreach clinics for regional and remote areas, and community-based testing in prisons and mental health services. Queensland Health has pledged to act. Anna Hawkes, CEO of Hepatitis Queensland, puts it simply: the tools to test, treat, and cure already exist. The only remaining question is whether the system can reach the people who need them before the silence of the virus becomes permanent.
Dave Clune cannot pinpoint the moment he contracted viral hepatitis. It could have been in his teenage years in New Zealand—shared needles, a backyard tattoo, or something darker still. The childhood sexual abuse he endured, the domestic violence that surrounded him, the years drifting through youth detention centres—any of it might have been the vector. At 67, sitting on the deck of his home on Russell Island in Moreton Bay, he has made peace with not knowing. What he does know is that the virus spent half a century quietly scarring his liver, that it triggered cancer, and that 17 years ago he needed both a new liver and a new kidney to stay alive.
Dave's story has become part of a public health campaign, not because it is unique, but because it is increasingly common. Queensland is experiencing a public health crisis that few have noticed: liver cancer deaths have more than tripled since the 1980s. In that decade, the state recorded 1.6 deaths per 100,000 people. By 2018–2022, that figure had climbed to 5.1 per 100,000. A new report released jointly by Hepatitis Queensland and the Cancer Council Queensland calls liver cancer one of the fastest-growing causes of cancer mortality in the state, mirroring trends seen across the country and the world. Between 2018 and 2022 alone, more than 1,600 Queenslanders died of the disease.
The culprit is largely preventable. Hepatitis B and C—both bloodborne viruses—account for roughly half of all liver cancer cases in Queensland. Yet an estimated 48,000 Queenslanders are living with chronic hepatitis, and modelling suggests that 20 to 30 percent of those cases remain undiagnosed. The tools exist to test, treat, and cure. What is missing is reach. The people most in need of care are often the hardest to find: those in regional and remote areas, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities, migrants, people living in poverty, and prisoners. Indigenous Queenslanders experience liver cancer at 2.5 times the rate of the general population and face substantially poorer survival outcomes. Five-year survival has improved from 8.6 percent in the 1980s to 24.1 percent in recent years, but it remains poor compared with most other cancers.
Dave's path to transplant was paved with loss. He lost two brothers in their 40s to liver failure. He and Grace—the woman he met at a nightclub in New Zealand when he was 16, the woman who has been his anchor through five decades—moved to Australia in their 30s after facing discrimination because of his diagnosis. Children stopped playing with their children. Employers would not hire him. He and Grace built their own economy: mowing lawns, cleaning houses, picking up scrap metal. Grace became the one who fixed chainsaws and took apart gearboxes and baked cakes for charity. "The relationship toll," Dave says quietly, "I still don't understand why we're still here together."
In 2009, a donor liver became available. During surgery at Brisbane's Princess Alexandra Hospital, doctors discovered his kidney also needed replacing. He woke with both organs from the same donor. "After I had my transplant and got over the recovery part of it, and started walking around, it was like I was born again," he recalls. "I realised how delicious life is." He is not the same person spiritually or physically. He has vision loss now from a genetic eye disorder. He moves carefully, aware that a fall could have catastrophic consequences. Yet he calls himself the luckiest man in the world.
The report's recommendations are straightforward: culturally safe screening and treatment pathways for Indigenous communities; expanded telemedicine and outreach clinics in regional and remote areas; community-based testing in high-prevalence settings like prisons and mental health services. Queensland Health has committed to addressing these gaps, pledging to boost access to screening, early detection, and treatment, particularly for First Nations people and those from culturally and linguistically diverse backgrounds. Anna Hawkes, CEO of Hepatitis Queensland, frames the challenge as one of equity and access. "We have the tools to test, treat, and care," she says. "We just need to reach those that need the care."
The symptoms of hepatitis C can be silent or mimic the flu—fatigue, fever—easy to dismiss or ignore for years. A simple blood test can reveal it. Those who have had cosmetic surgery or dental work overseas, who got tattoos in someone's backyard, who used drugs recreationally even decades ago, should not ignore persistent flu-like symptoms. The virus does not announce itself. It works in silence, scarring tissue, multiplying cells, waiting. But it can be stopped. The question now is whether Queensland's health system can reach the people who need stopping it before it is too late.
Notable Quotes
We have the tools to test, treat, and care for people with hepatitis B and C. We just need to reach those that need the care. It's about equity and access.— Anna Hawkes, CEO of Hepatitis Queensland
There's a simple test you can do to check for hepatitis and that can help prevent liver cancer into the future. It's a simple blood test.— Mena Waller, Cancer Council Queensland chief operating officer
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does this story matter now, in 2026? The virus has been around for decades.
Because we're only now seeing the full toll. The people infected in the 1980s and 1990s are aging into the disease stage. We're watching a wave of preventable deaths that we have the tools to stop.
But if the tools exist, why are 20 to 30 percent of cases still undiagnosed?
Because the people who need testing most—people in remote areas, Indigenous communities, people in poverty—are the hardest to reach. It's not a medical problem anymore. It's a logistics and equity problem.
Dave's story spans five decades. What does that tell us?
That hepatitis is a disease of circumstance and bad luck. He didn't know he had it for years. By the time he found out, the damage was done. He survived because he got a transplant. Most people don't get that second chance.
What would change things?
Getting to people before the cancer develops. A blood test. Early treatment. But that requires meeting people where they are—in prisons, in remote clinics, in communities that have learned not to trust the health system.