I never imagined that cholesterol — something so invisible, so quiet — would shape so much of our family’s life. When I met my husband, he already knew high cholesterol ran in his family. His aunties had it, and his father died suddenly of a heart attack when my husband was just a boy. Back then, there wasn’t much to do except try to live as healthily as possible and hope for the best. No medication, no real guidance, just vigilance and fear tucked into the background of everyday life.

For decades he did everything “right.” But when he was around 50, he asked for a calcium score test — not because anyone suggested it, but because he had learned to be proactive. The result was sky‑high. They rushed him into an angiogram and found a 100% blockage. A triple bypass followed. It still chills me to think how close we came to losing him, and how the only reason we didn’t was because he knew to ask for that test before anything catastrophic happened.

After that, we didn’t hesitate. We tested all three of our children.

All three came back high.

I remember the sinking feeling — the confirmation of something I had hoped we’d somehow escaped. One child was referred to a paediatrician, but they admitted it wasn’t their area of expertise and offered no real guidance. So we were left in limbo, knowing something was wrong but not knowing what to do about it.

It wasn’t until the kids were in their late teens and early twenties that we finally managed to get them referred to the lipid clinic in Sydney. That’s where we got the diagnosis we had suspected all along: familial hypercholesterolemia. FH. A genetic inheritance none of them asked for.

They’re all on statins now, but it’s not simple. We struggle to increase the doses. One of my children struggles with adherence — not out of carelessness, but because taking medication every single day for a condition you can’t see or feel is a heavy psychological load. And as their mother, I carry the fear they don’t yet fully understand: the fear of what could happen if we don’t get this right.

My wish — my constant, aching wish — is for them to be eligible for Leqvio (Inclisiran). A twice‑yearly injection would make adherence easier. It would reduce their future risk. It would simplify overseas travel, no more extra bags of medication or worrying about running out. It would give me peace of mind that they’re protected in a way my husband never was.

But they don’t qualify.

So instead, every month, I’m chasing scripts. Three children, three medications, constant follow‑ups, constant reminders. It feels like a battle just to keep them on the preventative treatment they need. And I can’t help thinking that it shouldn’t be this hard. Not when we know the risks. Not when we’ve lived the consequences.

I’m their mother. I just want them to have the best chance at a long, healthy life — a chance their grandfather never got, and their father almost lost. And I’ll keep pushing, even when the system makes it exhausting, because that’s what mothers do.