Part 3: The week everything snapped into focus

The last few weeks have been eye-opening, jaw-dropping, and honestly, eye-rolling.

I’m writing this as a 50-something daughter because I know the people reading this are probably my age too — you might already be going through this, just starting to, or watching your ageing parents and quietly realising that shit’s going to start happening.

I feel selfish making this about me because my mum’s got it a thousand times worse. It’s her body under stress, her reality, her fear. And she knows it. She’s smart, she’s aware, and that makes it even more terrifying — knowing what’s happening and that there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

We don’t really say that out loud.

Well, until now.

This morning — two weeks and two days after being sent home from the private hospital — Mum had a mini stroke.

She called me right away, and the ambulance somehow got there almost as quickly as I did.(And by the way, the buzzer around her neck still doesn’t talk — she somehow made it to the front door to speak to the box, which only half worked because the Wi-Fi’s still crap. They ended up calling her mobile, I think. Anyway, I digress.)

The moment she called, I knew something was wrong. She said her face felt weird — and I instantly knew what that meant.I told her to press the buzzer, grabbed my keys, and prayed for green lights the whole way there.

I just kept thinking: please don’t let her be on the floor, please don’t let me be too late.

Phew — both prayers answered.

When the ambulance arrived, I met them and gave a quick rundown as we walked fast back to her unit. They ran tests and quietly confirmed what I already suspected — a mini stroke (TIA). Apparently they’re “not generally serious,” but tell that to someone who’s just had one, or to her daughter watching it happen. Frightening doesn’t even cover it.

Mum absolutely refused to go back to the private hospital, so we went public instead — and, to be honest, it was quick and seamless. (No idea if that’s normal, but at this point I’ll take a win wherever I can find one.)

Later that day, after scans and conversations, the nurses and doctor explained that some of the pain medication prescribed by the private hospital can, in rare cases, trigger mini strokes.

Wait — what?

Are we meant to Google every script before giving it to our parents?

Am I a bad daughter because I didn’t?

Why didn’t anyone warn us, or tell her to take less?

Why didn’t the hospital pharmacist flag it?

So many questions.

So few answers.

And this — this is why I’m writing.

Because it’s not just about my mum; it’s about my generation.

We’re the default carers now — trying to keep our own lives going while navigating parents, hospitals, medications, falls, recovery plans, and bureaucracy that feels endless.

You think you’re prepared. You’re not.

You start sleeping on their couch “for a few nights.” Then it’s making meals, sorting scripts, tracking pain meds, remembering appointments.Then you’re suddenly a carer, a cook, a driver, a nurse — and, apparently, a pharmacist too.

I keep replaying it all:

My dad died unwitnessed in a private hospital — hours on the floor before anyone noticed.

Now, his 83-year-old widow falls at home, spends twelve hours on the floor, goes to hospital with compressed discs, gets minimal rehab, is sent home early, terrified, with a bag full of pills…and two weeks later, she has a mini stroke from those same pills.

I have to ask:

Is this care?

Is this normal?

Is my family just unlucky — or is this happening everywhere and no one’s talking about it collectively?

Because from where I’m standing, it looks like a system running on autopilot — where “care” is measured in forms, policies, and discharge times, not outcomes.

I actually have no words.

But don’t worry — I will soon.

I’m building something to fix these holes in our broken system.

Not on my own, but with amazing people who care as deeply as I do — people from tech, healthcare, housing, and design.

People who believe, like I do, that care can be rebuilt around what it means to be human.

B x

PART 1

PART 2

P.S.I’m sharing this as it happens — not from hindsight but from the middle of it — because this is what transitioning home actually looks like in Australia’s aged-care system.

It’s the invisible gap between hospital discharge and real life, where family shoulders the load and bureaucracy shrugs.

Just a note: Everything I’ve shared here is based on my personal experience and views. I’m not naming names or pointing fingers — just being honest about what I saw and felt. It’s not about blame. It’s about trying to do better. This is shared in the hope of encouraging conversation, not conflict.