"My parent in hospital"

It was a sunny morning in 2025 when my world shattered. My elderly beloved parent—my rock, my everything who had raised me with endless love and sacrifice—collapsed in agony from a bowel obstruction. We rushed them to Canterbury Hospital in Sydney, trusting that in this modern city, in a place meant for healing, they'd be safe. I feel what followed wasn’t care; it was a nightmare that tore our family apart and left me sobbing alone at night, questioning if humanity still existed in those sterile walls.

My parent had always been fierce, a fighter who emigrated from overseas with nothing but dreams for their children. My parent worked their fingers to the bone, cooking meals that warmed our souls, hugging away our fears. But there they were, bedbound in Acacia Ward, nasogastric tube snaking down their throat, barely able to sip water. The doctors said they needed IV fluids to survive the wait for surgery. Yet, for over ten excruciating hours—from 8 AM to past 7 PM— I believe they forgot my parent. Forgot. Like they were invisible. Dehydration clawed at my parent's frail body.

When I arrived that evening, my heart pounding with worry, I gently pointed it out to the nurses. Instead of urgency, a senior staff member stormed in with security guards, demanding I hand over my phone, accusing me of threats I never made. The staff member told me to stop recording, as if documenting was the real crime. I feel I wasn’t aggressive; I was a relative begging for their parent's life. But they ejected me, leaving my parent alone, terrified, their eyes pleading as I was dragged away. That night, my parent whispered to me on the phone, their voice breaking: “they don’t care about me.” I wept in the parking lot, feeling like I’d failed them.

This escalated. A doctor seemingly rolled their eyes at my parent's timid questions about their pain. I believe the doctor told my parent to shut their mouth, they are the doctor, they know what they're doing. Shut your mouth—to a vulnerable elder, post-surgery, clinging to dignity? When I suggested a nicotine patch—backed by science, as my parent had been a smoker —I feel they exploded at me and told me that I don’t know anything! Shut my mouth! The doctor tried to throw me out. I recorded it, my hands shaking. My parent's spirit crumbled; they stopped speaking, their eyes hollow with fear. The stress triggered a “sudden and severe deterioration,” as my parent later told me—their wounds healing slower, their mind fracturing. I believe there are Peer-reviewed studies from The Lancet and WHO scream that emotional trauma in elderly patients delays recovery.

Then the General Manager burst into their room, flanked by armed security, hurling what I believe to be baseless accusations that my other elderly parent had grabbed a nurse. No evidence, no CCTV, as they admitted themselves. But in front of my bedbound parent, they spewed this, reducing them to panic attacks. “I thought they were going to arrest them,” my parent cried to me later, their voice a whisper of the strong person I knew. My other parent, who had held their hand through every on one of their past battles, was now barred from their side. The next day, NSW Police pounded on our door, serving a barring notice under some act. My parent, deprived of their soulmate during recovery, spiralled further. “Why are they punishing us?” they sobbed. I held their photo that night, tears streaming.

We begged for transfers. They told us that we have to arrange it ourselves which I don't believe as another hospital confirmed this is not correct. Delays, more trauma. A senior staff member sent what I felt was templated nonsense, seemingly ignoring our pleas. And another senior staff member's “response” letter was a knife twist—I felt was gaslighting us as “disruptive”. No apologies, no accountability.

My parent survived, transferred to another hospital after weeks. But the scars? Eternal. My parent’s haunted, withdrawn; my other parent’s humiliated; I’m broken, advocating through HCCC, AHPRA, Ombudsman, Minister, media—because no one else should endure this. In my experience, Canterbury Hospital wasn't healing. I believe my parent deserved better.