This Blog Was Born on a Hospital Camp Bed

I didn’t expect to set up a blog while lying beside my dying father, but… here we are.

It’s the week before Easter. I’m in a hospital side room on a camp bed — the kind that’s not really meant for sleeping, but for “being there.” My Dad’s on palliative care. The machines are quieter now. The lights are low. And for reasons only the universe understands, I’ve got my Christmas blanket with me — red, covered in snowflakes, deeply out of season, and oddly comforting.

I lay here last night, in that surreal, middle-of-the-night space between holding vigil and just trying not to drop my phone on my face — and the name came to me:

Healing with a Side of Chaos.

And I thought, yes. That’s it.

Because honestly? This is where the idea had to be born.
Not in a neat meditation space or a perfectly curated vision board session, but here — at the threshold.
Next to the man who gave me life, as he slowly makes his way through the last chapter of his.

It’s weird and sacred and painful and beautiful. It’s holy. It’s gritty. It’s everything healing really is when it’s stripped bare of filters and lighting and expectations.

And somewhere, between the grief, the gratitude, and the sound of the nurses gently checking obs at 3am… I shook my head.

Not in complete disbelief, because somehow there’s a deep knowing that you’ve been placed right here, right now, for some higher purpose — just one of those tiny internal queries that says, is this really my life?

Because let’s be honest: there’s something unintentionally iconic about lying beside your dying parent, on a borrowed bed, with a Christmas blanket at Easter, wondering if you’ve subconsciously summoned Jesus without any breath of a prayer. Like some sort of spiritual auto-pilot. “Yes, I’m here. I’ve got this”.

That’s the moment this blog was born.

It’s not about making sense of everything. It’s about sitting in it — in the weird, in the wonder, in the heartbreak and the holy mess.
It’s about healing that doesn’t happen in the perfect moments, but in the real ones.

There’s a funny thing going on right now. I guess I was always the black sheep of the family…..the ‘weird’ one, the ‘rebel’, the slightly feral creature that everyone felt needing taming. And all of a sudden I’m sat in a hard plastic hospital chair discussing Shamanic healing, Reiki and personal faith with my parents…..and they’re discussing it back. Not in a ‘humour her’ type of way, but in a closely connected conversation where all of us have a sense that we’re actually not that different after all.

My brother and I fought like cat and dog growing up and, as adults, occasionally crossed paths at family events, with little to no contact beyond the social necessities. Yet here we are, blasting this hellish situation as a team….coordinating shopping, home care, commode deliveries, flasks of soup and the transport arrangements for the 15 bags of food Mum has brought to the ward, not knowing how long we’d be here.

“And while we wait 6 long hours for the ambulance to bring Dad home to where he wants to be, sharing a tub of Pringles because we screwed up the food transport situation and none of it ended up in the same room as us, there’s a sense that my Dad, lying quietly in his hospital bed, is the silent curator of all of this healing.”

I’ve never been one to shy away from difficult conversations, which can be both a blessing and a curse, but difficult conversations create intense connections, and life shifts on a whole new level.

So this is where it starts.
Not with a grand launch, but with the quiet, sacred chaos of love, loss, and one slightly out of season blanket.

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Author’s Note

I’m so glad you’re here. Whether you’re healing, holding space for others, or just trying to find meaning in the madness — this space is for you. I don’t have all the answers (and I’m highly suspicious of anyone who says they do), but I believe in the power of faith, presence, humour, and a well-timed swear word.

Comments, shares, random “OMG YES” messages — all welcome. Lurking silently? Also fine. I see you.

Big love,
Tracy 💫