The Day My Dad Had a Stroke
30 June 2019.
It's strange how a normal day can become a dividing line in your life. There is life before that day and life after it.
My dad was only 58 years old when he had his stroke.
If you had met him beforehand, he wasn't someone you would have considered at risk. He was fit, healthy, ate well, ran half marathons and was out running multiple times a week. Earlier that day, he'd spent hours helping my brother weed our driveway in Stanmore Bay so we could get fibre internet installed. Something that THEN felt important but now feels insignificant.
That evening, he was relaxing on the couch, watching the NZ Warriors play Parramatta Eels.
Then everything changed.
The Moment Something Went Wrong
My mum was the hero that day.
She noticed almost immediately that something wasn't right. Dad looked like he had fallen asleep on the couch, but when he "woke up", he couldn't move. Within minutes, Mum had called an ambulance. He was at Auckland Hospital as quickly as humanly possible.
But strokes don't wait. The damage had already been done.
Those first few days afterwards were filled with hope, uncertainty, and questions nobody could answer.
Would he recover?
How much damage was permanent?
What would life look like from here?
Dad couldn't move the right side of his body at all, what we knew was he was alive.
Every day felt like a waiting game. Every small movement felt like a victory.
When Survival Isn't the End of the Story
People often talk about the relief when someone survives a major health event.
And there was relief. Dad was alive. But survival is only the beginning. What follows is a journey into uncertainty.
I was 26 years old at the time. My brother was 30.
Suddenly, our family's focus became simple:
Support Dad.
Support Mum.
Get through today.
Then do it all again tomorrow.
Watching the People You Love Hurt
One of the hardest parts wasn't just watching Dad struggle. It was watching the people I love hurt.
My parents have been together since their teens. Seeing my mum watch her soulmate go through this was heartbreaking. Yet somehow, she became stronger than ever.
Ever since that day, she has been by Dad's side.
She has helped him brush his teeth.
She has flossed his teeth.
She learned everything she could about his recovery.
She pushed him, encouraged him, advocated for him and never stopped believing in him.
To this day, she remains one of the strongest people I know. She was our rock.
My brother supported Dad in quiet but significant ways. When Dad was transferred to North Shore Hospital, my brother slept in an uncomfortable lazy boy chair in his room so dad wouldn't be alone. He researched and found tools for dad to use to help him communicate better and ease his frustrations. He was a listening ear.
No grand gestures. Just being there.
And me?
I did what many people do during a crisis:
I focused on what needed to be done.
I worked.
I visited the hospital.
I managed logistics.
I helped with insurance.
I helped with finances.
I was an ear to mum when she needed to vent.
I was a space that dad could let out his emotions when he needed.
And then I went home and cried with my partner so my family wouldn't have to carry my grief as well as their own.
Learning a New Language
One of the things people don't always understand about stroke recovery is that every stroke is different.
Dad’s memory was never lost. His personality never changed. He was still Dad.
But he developed aphasia and apraxia.
His mind was there. His body simply couldn't communicate the way it used to.
We learned new ways to communicate:
Counting on our fingers.
Pointing to colours.
Using visual prompts.
Asking yes and no questions.
Reading body language.
Learning patience.
Most importantly, we learned not to treat him differently.
To adapt around him rather than exclude him.
Mourning Someone Who Is Still Alive
This was the hardest lesson for me. It's possible to grieve for someone who is still here.
I mourned the conversations we'd never have.
The stories I might never hear.
The advice he might never be able to give.
The simple things I'd always taken for granted.
I didn't lose my dad. But I lost part of the relationship we'd always had. And that grief is real.
For anyone experiencing something similar, I want you to know:
It's okay to feel that way.
It's okay to mourn.
It's okay to be angry.
It's okay to hate the situation.
You don't always have to find the positive lesson immediately.
Sometimes you just need to scream into a pillow, cry by the ocean or sit with your emotions before moving forward.
What I Have Learnt and Gained After
Yes I have mourned for myself, my brother and for my parents but I have also learnt more than I have lost.
I have learnt from my mum and dad’s strength.
I have learnt what true love is. It is a love that is being there for each other for more than just good or tough times. It is a love that means you are there for each other even when life changes beyond recognition. When life flips over more times than you can count but all that matters is that you are there together. It is a love where you know each other so well, that when one can’t talk, the other understands exactly what they are thinking.
I have learnt true resilience. My dad faced every task and set back with determination. Giving up wasn’t an option, the only option was to keep going.
Overall I have learnt what is most important in life. That minor work troubles or arguments can feel big in the moment but in the perspective of life, they are minor.
I have lost things, but I have gained more and become a better version of myself on the otherside. I can help people in ways I couldn’t before. For that I am grateful.
The Role Insurance Played
The stroke changed everything financially too. Dad's income effectively disappeared overnight. Thankfully, there were insurance policies in place.
A Severe Trauma claim was paid. Mortgage Repayment Cover helped for five years. Premium cover kept insurance in place.
Did insurance solve everything? No.
But it gave us something incredibly valuable:
Time.
Time to make decisions.
Time to adapt.
Time to focus on recovery rather than panic.
The trauma payment helped Mum purchase a vehicle that Dad could access more easily. Give them something shiny and new that was theirs.
The mortgage repayment cover eased some of the pressure while they worked out what their future looked like.
Eventually, as a family, we made the decision for Mum and Dad to sell the family home, downsize and become mortgage-free.
It wasn't a decision made in panic.
It was a decision made thoughtfully and together because we had time to think.
That's one of the greatest gifts financial planning can provide.
Not money.
Time.
What Life Looks Like Today
Seven years later, life is different:
Dad can still only speak a handful of words naturally.
He still struggles with movement in his right hand.
But he walks more than almost anyone I know.
He laughs at himself, humour gets you through more than you realise.
He smiles and appreciates the life he has now, rather than dwells on the past so much.
He works on projects with my brother.
He reads using verbal prompts.
He writes using his phone and a whiteboard.
And most importantly, he's still Dad.
We've simply adapted to a different version of normal.
My family is closer than we have ever been. My mum is my hero everyday. My dad is incredible and someone I admire. My brother is the quiet hero who does things in the background I didn’t appreciate or see before, but I see now.
I know that a major medical event can drive families apart and I completely understand why that can happen. I am grateful everyday that this didn’t happen to our family.
Final Thoughts
If there's one thing this experience taught me, it's that life can change in an instant.
Not because you did something wrong.
Not because you weren't healthy enough.
Not because you weren't prepared enough.
Sometimes terrible things simply happen.
The only thing you can control is how prepared you are when they do, like:
Talk to your family.
Have the difficult conversations.
Understand your finances.
Have a Will.
Put EPOAs in place.
Review your insurance.
Create a plan.
Not because you expect the worst. But because if the worst happens, you'll give the people you love the most valuable gift of all:
Time to make decisions in the right frame of mind.
Not from panic.
Not from fear.
But from a place of love, clarity, and support.
And perhaps the biggest lesson of all?
You don't get through these moments alone.
You lean on family.
You lean on friends.
You lean on the people who show up when the world falls apart.
Those are the people who matter.
And those are the people who you'll never forget.
Amy Callon
Financial Adviser
New Vision Financial Services
Plan your future and let us help you have peace of mind along the way.