Life Update: Pain, Parents, and Panadol: A Midlife Love Story (Sort of)

The realisation that we are now the grown-ups. The carers.

Two weeks ago, my mum had brain surgery.

The aneurysm was discovered late last year, and after two postponements, a Christmas Day injury, a few bonus hospital visits, and what felt like a never-ending game of “Is it happening this week?” — the surgery finally went ahead.

The night before, my siblings and I all came together, sharing a beautiful dinner with Mum before she had to start fasting. It was one of those rare moments of calm — the kind you want to bottle and hold onto.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I struggled to get out of the car. My sciatica, which normally flares mildly for a day or two very rarely, decided this was its time to shine.

Perfect timing. Excellent.

Still, we laughed, ate, and made the best of it. But by the time we got home, I was hobbling around like someone who’d lost a fight with a garden rake. My parents’ bedroom was the only one with on-demand TV, so we all piled in to watch trashy reality shows together. I lay flat on the floor surrounded by foam rollers while my dad (a personal trainer, conveniently) coached me through glute stretches like it was a golden oldies PT session.

It was both ridiculous and oddly comforting. Nothing says midlife quite like watching Married At First Sight with your siblings while your almost 70-year-old father helps you stretch your piriformis.

Sleep was… not a thing. Around midnight, the pain was unbearable. I found myself fumbling through Mum and Dad’s apartment in the dark, quietly trying to locate something — anything — stronger than Panadol.

I woke my mum in the process, and while I tried to coax her back to bed (you know, so that she could rest before her lifesaving brain surgery), she refused to leave my side. Eventually, she said, “I’ll just sleep on the couch next to you.”

And that’s when it hit me. The unshakeable, unstoppable love of a mother. Here she was, the night before life-altering — potentially life-threatening — surgery, and she was still trying to take care of me because I had a dodgy nerve. Honestly — the selflessness of women.

Eventually, I convinced her to go back to bed, though she wasn’t thrilled about it.

In the lead-up to this vital operation, she likened the wait for surgery to being pregnant — knowing something is going to happen, but not exactly when, and trying to find peace in the unknown.

The following morning, everyone was up at dawn, scrambling to get ready for the 45-minute drive to the hospital, except me. I couldn’t move.

I was calling out from the bedroom like a stranded turtle. My mum — whose head was about to be operated on — and my dad immediately went into problem-solving mode, fussing over me when the most important person of the day was my mother. They suggested I stay home and rest while Dad would come back and take me to get a massage later.

Um, no. That was not the plan. I hadn’t driven 90 minutes down the highway to be a burden. I was here to help take the pressure off them.

I was determined to do what I said I was going to do. With some awkward sideways manoeuvres and a few low-key screams into my pillow, I managed to sit up. I couldn’t get dressed, so I climbed into the car in my wrinkled clothes from the night before. Because that’s what you do, right?

We show up. Even when our bodies are yelling “Too much!”

After some back-and-forth family debate about who would drive which car, I finally convinced them I was okay to drive — “Once I sit down, I’m fine!” I announced. I hoped I was right.

Dad, in full dad fashion, rushed off to get his walking stick. I have no idea why he owns one. This is a man who also owns a unicycle, an elliptical bike, and a banjo. He collects quirky objects like other people collect Tupperware.

When we got to the hospital, I think the staff were genuinely unsure who the patient was — the woman with the aneurysm or the one limping behind her with a borrowed walking stick.

Right before the anti - anti-inflammatories kicked in

Once Mum was admitted, my siblings and I headed to the cafeteria for breakfast— via the chemist. After an hour of hobbling around the hospital corridors and getting more sympathetic looks than I care to admit, as well as an accelerated view into my older self (I hope not!), I finally got my hands on some anti-inflammatories.

And just like that — relief.

I could’ve kissed the pharmacist. Within the hour, I felt like I could throw the walking stick in the air and run a half marathon (well… walk briskly through the hospital, at least).

Following my trainer dad’s advice to keep moving and get the blood flowing, we took advantage of the temporary reprieve and walked the 2.6km to Breakfast Creek Hotel for lunch. We had at least four hours to wait — and keep ourselves distracted.

Later that afternoon, back at the hospital, my brother, dad, and I passed the time doing what Dad does best — facilitating silly games in the waiting room — while my sister logged into work downstairs and filmed us from below. An hour later, the surgeon walked in.

Mum was out. The surgery had gone well — complex and delicate but successful. The relief washed over us. We’d been previously warned of the risks involved, and to know Mum had come out of surgery — we collectively exhaled and teared up. When Dad asked the surgeon if he could have a hug, she said yes. That hug carried all our hope, relief, and unspoken fear. And it’s one of the few times I’ve seen my ex-SAS army Dad in such a vulnerable light.

Mum spent a few days in the ICU and was told after she came to by many of the staff that she has an entertaining family. That put a smile on her tired face. We didn’t realise they’d been watching our antics in anticipation of Mum’s results.

She is now home recovering. It’s a long road — this wasn’t a straightforward procedure or condition. But she’s here, and we’re grateful.

Interestingly, a few days after her surgery, my sciatica left. Just… disappeared. A good reminder, yet again, that the body often carries what the mind is too busy to process.

Out of curiosity, I looked up the emotional meaning of sciatica, and sure enough, it’s often linked to taking on too much responsibility or pushing too hard without adequate rest or self-care. It can also mean feeling unsupported, stuck, or afraid to move forward — emotionally or physically.

Basically, it screams: “Hey, maybe sit down and unpack your feelings instead of literally packing them into your lower back.”

Helpful, sciatica. Thanks for the PSA.

Lately, this stage of life is feeling a bit relentless. On the weekend, I went to a party and bonded with two women over the theme of ailing, aging parents. It wasn’t exactly uplifting — but it was grounding.

I’m not alone in this juggle. We’re all out here trying to keep the wheels turning, attending countless medical appointments (theirs and ours), managing households, careers, kids, pets, sanity… all while trying to understand our own changing bodies and moods.

From bonding with women at a party over our ailing parents to this past week hearing the news of an old flying colleague who passed suddenly, to learning my writing coach’s husband also died, to a friend whose teen daughter lost her long battle with illness — it’s been heavy.

Just another nudge from the universe — this life is short and impermanent. Unfairly so, sometimes.

There’s a quiet grief in midlife, isn’t there? Not just in the losses but in the load.

The realisation that we are now the grown-ups. The carers. The ones who must keep functioning even when our resilience feels like it’s being held together by a couple of Panadol and a borrowed walking stick.

My own resilience is on high alert, but now, armed with more support, education, and understanding than ever before, I know I’ve got this.

I’m doing all the “right” things (MHT/HRT, therapy, lifestyle tweaks, slowly educating those around me that I’m not just moody, I’m peri); it’s not a bulletproof plan.

My body always lets me know when I’ve crossed the invisible line.

From getting shingles days after my daughter was hospitalised with life-threatening appendicitis (and yes, I was running a global webinar from the hospital because, of course, I was) to this latest episode where I could barely walk while Mum was facing brain surgery — the signs are there.

This season of life doesn’t mess around.

It’s brutal and beautiful and often bewildering. And while I don’t have the answers, I do know this: we’re not meant to do it alone.

Whether relating with women at a party, stretching with family on the bedroom floor, or connecting here — in this little pocket of internet community — I’m so grateful for the reminder.

You’re not alone, either.

But within all this, I’m finding little glimmers — in connection, in humour, in ridiculous family moments, in good doctors, in long walks and strong gym sessions and messages from friends that say “same.”

We’re not alone in this messy middle. And we don’t have to pretend we’ve got it together all the time.

Sciatica, it turns out, has a lot to say.