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The Love
That Wasn’t
Enough to Keep
Them Safe
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Our Story
Before I tell you this story, I want to ask something small.
Take a breath.
A deep one.
Inhale… and exhale.
Because this story isn’t easy to tell — or to hear.
It’s not a news headline.
It’s not a policy paper.
It’s not theory.
It’s my story.
It’s the story of my parents — Harold and Delia Burns — two of the most kind-hearted, loving people I’ve ever known.
It’s a story about family, ageing, and the systems we trust.
It’s a story about heartbreak, loss… and a love that, sadly, wasn’t enough to keep them safe.
Chosen Love
I was six weeks old when my parents adopted me.
They didn’t have to. They chose to.
My mum used to tell me, with this proud smile on her face:
“You’re extra special — because we got to choose you.”
My brother and I grew up in a house that didn’t have much money…
but it had everything that mattered.
Love.
Laughter.
Warmth.
Stability.
Safety.
My parents were high school sweethearts. Married young. Grew old together.
They were partners in every sense of the word.
They were there when I had children of my own — showing up to every birthday, every school concert, every little milestone, no matter the distance.
Even when we moved nearly ten hours away…
they still showed up.
The Beginning of the End
One day, my dad accidentally drove off the edge of a shopping centre car park.
He’d just been to the doctor. He was confused. Disoriented.
He hit the accelerator instead of the brake.
That accident became a red flag — and not long after, he was diagnosed with vascular dementia.
We moved them closer.
Mum, ever the warrior, insisted on caring for him at home. And she did — for four years.
She found day programs that brought him joy.
He’d come home smiling, saying things like:
“I don’t know where we went, but it was good.”
Even when the memories faded, the feeling stayed.
That’s what good care can do. It gives people dignity even in decline.
But dementia doesn’t wait.
And neither does physical frailty.
The falls became more frequent.
Mum became exhausted.
We Didn’t Know What We Didn’t Know
When we finally reached the point where residential care seemed necessary, we were completely unprepared.
We had no experience.
We didn’t know what to look for. What questions to ask. What signs to notice.
The system didn’t help much.
Information was vague.
Difficult to find.
Even harder to understand.
We didn’t know about care ratios.
We didn’t understand how accreditation worked.
Audit results were buried in PDFs or tucked away behind bureaucratic language.
And like so many families — we thought we couldn’t choose anything better.
My parents had limited funds.
They assumed their financial situation meant they had no real options.
Just take what’s available. What’s close. What’s convenient.
So when a facility opened up just a few minutes from Mum’s house, we thought — maybe this is it.
It would make visiting easier for her.
She could be there every day.
She assumed — hoped — they would involve her in his care.
They didn’t.
Not even close.
The Slow Fade of Dignity
What we imagined would be a place of professional care… quickly became a place of quiet neglect.
The engaging day programs they’d promised? Never happened.
Instead, Dad was left sitting alone in a dark room.
TV off. Curtains closed. No one talking to him.
Medicated until he could barely stay awake.
He stopped walking — not just because of dementia, but because he also had peripheral neuropathy.
His feet burned and tingled. He couldn’t feel the ground.
He needed physical therapy. Compassion. Attentive care.
Instead, he was left soiled.
His bed was made — still wet from the last accident.
Showers were skipped.
His meals? The same toasted cheese sandwich and coffee every day.
Apparently, it was his “preference.”
Strange, because no one ever asked my mum — who’d been helping him make choices for years.
And Then He Started Saying “Sorry”
That’s what still keeps me up at night.
Every time a carer walked into the room, my dad would say:
“Sorry… I’m sorry.”
That wasn’t confusion.
That wasn’t dementia.
That was trauma.
That was a man who’d been made to feel like a burden.
We were there every day.
My mum — for hours.
She spoke up. She advocated.
She asked for better. Always respectfully.
And for that?
They labelled her “difficult.”
“We Don’t Want to Deal With Your Mum”
When I travelled overseas with my kids, I told the staff:
“If anything happens, call Mum. She’s five minutes away.”
But when Dad fell again?
They called me.
From across the world.
Why?
“We don’t want to deal with your mum,” they said.
“She’s hard to manage.”
You know what’s actually hard?
Watching your mother be dismissed for trying to protect the love of her life.
Watching your father — who gave you everything — be treated like a problem.
My mum wasn’t “hard.”
She was desperate.
She was hurting.
She was fighting for the man she’d loved for over 50 years.
The System Broke My Family
After my father passed, I tried to channel the grief into purpose.
I became a Facility Manager in aged care.
I launched a program called Partners in Care — designed to give families a voice and a seat at the table.
It was working.
Until new management came in.
They shut the program down.
Separated dementia patients from the general population.
Why?
“It might upset others. It reminds them of what’s to come.”
Let that sink in.
They hid people… because they were seen as too confronting.
I tried to fight.
I lost.
And I walked away.
I Tried Again… Then I Left Again
I joined another facility. New provider. New hope.
At first — better.
But slowly… the same patterns emerged.
Understaffed. Overworked. Underfunded.
The feedback I got from families was beautiful.
But inside, I knew:
This wasn’t transformation.
It was survival.
And that’s when I created H.U.G.E. Today.
From Heartbreak to H.U.G.E.
I named it after the nickname I gave my dad years ago — HUGE.
It stood for Helping Unleash Good Emotions.
He had that gift. Just by being near him, people felt lighter.
At first, H.U.G.E. was a consulting service — helping families navigate aged care, make informed decisions, ask the questions no one else knew to ask.
It was making a difference.
Then COVID hit.
I couldn’t visit homes. Couldn’t do inspections.
And suddenly… I was forced to stop.
In that stillness, I realised something profound:
I had never fully grieved.
Not for my dad.
Not for my mum.
Not for the parts of me that were left behind in those halls.
Grief is the Other Side of Love
When we lose someone to a system — not just to illness, but to neglect — the grief is different.
It’s tangled.
It’s heavy.
It’s full of “what ifs” and “if onlys.”
And if we don’t heal it…
we carry it with us.
That’s why H.U.G.E. Today evolved into more than consulting.
It became a space for healing. For advocacy. For truth-telling.
Because here’s the truth:
It’s not just the resident who suffers.
It’s the whole circle around them.
The family.
The carers.
The ones who stay silent because they don’t want to seem “difficult.”
The ones who speak up and get ignored.
The ones who walk away from care facilities carrying invisible scars.
This Is Emotional Justice Work
This story — my story — isn’t about pointing fingers.
I know so many care workers who are doing their absolute best in impossible conditions.
This isn’t about blame.
It’s about truth.
Because when systems dehumanise the people we love, it’s not just a care issue.
It’s an emotional justice crisis.
We Need to Tell These Stories
That’s why H.U.G.E. Today exists—
To create a safe space for truth-telling, grief, advocacy, and change.
A place where rage, sadness, guilt, and love are not treated like problems —
But as signs that something needs to change.
We can do better.
We have to do better.
For our parents.
For our future selves.
For the people we love.
Thank you for reading.
If this story resonates — with your own experience, or someone you know — I want you to know:
You’re not alone.
And your voice matters.
💛 Need help navigating aged care?
Visit H.U.G.E. Today — where we help families and carers find clarity, courage, and connection.
One story. One truth. One act of change at a time.
