What happened to my Dad

Content note: This post discusses the circumstances surrounding my father’s death in a Brisbane private hospital. It’s not graphic, but it is real. I’ve chosen to share this because people deserve to know how easily things can go wrong — even in places we’re told to trust.

My dad was 81. He had motor neuron disease (MND), but you wouldn’t have known it just by speaking with him.

He could still talk, still think sharply, still type — using two fingers, a little slower than he used to, but still writing. His hands weren’t great, but he managed. He still walked 10,000 steps a day. He was a publisher. He was proud. He was stubborn. We'd hoped he still had time.

The issue wasn’t his mind — it was his balance. He had become wobbly on his feet and had experienced a few falls. Falls are a significant risk for individuals with MND due to muscle weakness and balance issues. One particularly bad fall, just weeks before his death, led to a skull fracture. So when doctors suggested keeping him in hospital for observation, we all agreed — even though he wasn’t thrilled about it.

He was admitted to a Brisbane private hospital. Despite having private health insurance his whole life, he was placed in a shared room near the nurses’ station. The room had a large glass observation window — supposedly for closer monitoring of patients at risk, like him.

A system failure no one saw — until it was too late.

Because he was a known falls risk, the hospital had assigned a “nurse special” — someone whose sole job is to sit in the room and monitor high-risk patients overnight. A few nights in, Dad did have a fall. He got out of bed — probably confused and trying to go to the bathroom — and fell. He was bruised down his side and had a big lump on his head.

But it was witnessed.

The nurse special was present.

Help arrived.

That’s what the system is meant to do.

After that, we all visited. He was recovering. He was sitting in a chair, doing physio, eating and chatting happily. I even remember sitting on his bed once and the bed alarm went off when I stood up — staff came running in. I saw firsthand that the bed monitor was working. At the time.

But then, the night before his death, the hospital decided to remove the nurse special.

Even though he was still trying to get up by himself. Even though everyone knew he was stubborn — and likely to do what he’d done for 81 years – get up and go to the bathroom without thinking.

That night, he was checked, tucked in, and left to sleep. Sometime during the night, he got out of bed.

The bed alarm didn’t go off.

No one responded.

There were no nurses at the nurses’ station — directly outside the large observation window.

No one saw him fall.

No one saw him lying there.

For hours.

We don’t know if he pressed the call button.

We don’t know if the other patients tried to get help.

We only know what the records tell us: there were HOURS between his last recorded observations and the code blue when they finally found him.

And by then, it was too late.

He had suffered a severe brain injury. It was unsurvivable. In medical terms, not “brain dead” — but in reality, there was no coming back.

When we were called in to the ICU in the early hours, it wasn’t a “come see how he’s doing” call. It was a “come say goodbye” call. The moment I walked in, I could feel the shift in the air. Something was wrong. Everyone knew it.

Here’s what I still don’t have answers to:

• Why was the nurse special removed the day before?

• Why didn’t the bed alarm trigger?

• Why wasn’t anyone at the nurses’ station for hours?

• Did Dad — or one of the other patients — buzz for help?

• How are nurse numbers decided for each shift, ward, and night?

• How can an unwitnessed fall in a monitored room happen… and go unnoticed for so long?

Yes, my dad had MND.

Yes, he was going to fall again.

But this fall didn’t have to be like this.

It did not have to go unnoticed.

And if this had happened to someone else — someone younger, someone without a terminal illness — my questions would be exactly the same.

This isn’t about blaming the nurses. The nurses were doing the very best they could in an impossible situation.

This is about a system that isn’t protecting the people inside it — not the patients, and not the nurses.

My dad didn’t actually die because of his condition. He died because the system, processes, and technologies that were meant to keep him safe… didn’t.

And that’s what I want people to understand.

Because this story — while deeply personal — is not rare.

This is what happens when systems are stretched, when staffing is thin, when accountability is diluted.

And if nothing changes, it will keep happening.

B x

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.