The Broken & the Brave
Who or what is damaged? The NHS? The Social Care System? Society? Carers? Me?
Theme: The Broken
Quick Take:
This is about holding my nerve in a failing system. Loving care means making painful, values-driven decisions while navigating services that feel broken, pressured, and often inhumane.
Bravery isn’t certainty - and it’s facing the questions that don’t have easy answers. Especially when safety, dignity, love, and fear collide, and there are no clean or comfortable answers.
Care should be about connection, not control. This is a commitment to resist becoming a pawn in the system, to speak honestly, and to keep care grounded in humanity - even when everything around it is cracking.
Not Broken Yet
Broken adjective (DAMAGED)
damaged, no longer able to work; interrupted or not continuous; suffering emotional pain that is so strong that it changes the way you live, usually as a result of an unpleasant event; destroyed or ended; not kept or obeyed (of a law, rule or promise).
When Care Tests Belief
I’m not broken - yet! And I hope not to break. But I know it will be hard, because almost every day I hear something that makes me question how strong I’ll be when it comes to standing by my beliefs and decisions for my mother - ninety-year-old Milly, who lives with us and faces the challenges of mixed dementia.
Planning isn’t Protection
It’s not easy even if you have a plan; my father was ready to die - until he wasn’t (see my blog page, entitled ‘Ready to die - until not’). Talking about the end didn’t guarantee us a smooth journey - although I’m certain it helped me cope with his dying with a bit more love and connection.
But it’s definitely made all the harder trying to work with broken or breaking systems.
Only today there was a news story about corridor care. You can imagine how difficult that must be for anyone - let alone for someone living with dementia, who already struggles to make sense of the world. If Milly were to fall and suffer a brain haemorrhage, what will I do? Do I put her through the indignity, fear, and confusion of a long wait in A&E, followed by a lonely, frightening hospital stay? Or do I keep her safe and loved at home, and let nature take its course?
I’ve seen what happens when I’m not there to reassure her - the confusion and the way she starts to lose herself completely.
I know anything like this will be a painful decision for me and my family - even without the added pressure or judgment that can come from the local authority or NHS professionals. And yet, that pressure is almost certain to come.
Caring in a Broken System
I feel determined not to be a pawn in a broken system. I don’t want to suffer for staying silent, or for failing to put my family first. With my experience as a nurse, I want caring for my mother to be a positive and loving experience - one grounded in care and humanity, rather than frustration and loss.
But do we talk enough about what we really want from care - for ourselves or for the people we love? Somewhere along the way, the meaning of care feels as if it has been lost. Even for me, it can be more about something to manage, rather than something that connects us. If I get too tired, too overwhelmed or pressured, will I be strong enough to think about care and not about managing a situation?
Safety at what Cost
So I’ll be asking myself these questions:
What parts of the system can I rely on and what needs to change? I will bang on about the things that could be better!
When professionals talk about ‘keeping her safe’, safe from what?
How do I make a reasonable choice, even when the system feels broken?
Where can I get help to find honesty, resilience and courage?
How do I talk about difficult things - including the fact that that I hope Milly will die before she is completely helpless? Or how do I discuss assisted dying for someone like Milly when I am not certain, and simply want to share my thoughts without letting fear silence me?
What can I do now to prepare for my own future so my children or loved ones don’t carry unnecessary burden?
I feel sadness that the systems meant to support us are struggling, but I am committed to learning, talking, and offering suggestions that I believe -both as a nurse and as a carer for my mother - can make a difference. My hope is that Last and Found becomes a place of understanding, reassurance, and optimism.”