I'm Not a Carer.
Someone else pops in twice a day. Helps with washing, personal care, gets a meal on the table, does the meds. So I'm not a carer. That's what I tell myself, anyway.
Except I'm the one who sorted the power of attorney. I'm the one who signed the deprivation of liberty paperwork with a lump in my throat, because what kind of daughter signs a form that says "we can lock your mum in for her own safety"? I'm the one chasing the continuing healthcare assessment, on hold to the council, sorting the bank, paying the bills, booking the appointments, ringing the GP, remembering the things she can't remember anymore. I'm running two homes. Mine, and hers. But because someone else does the caring bit, I'm not a carer. WTF is that about?
The Bit Nobody Warns You About
Here's what nobody tells you before all this lands on you: you've probably still got your own kids at home. You've probably still got a job. And now, out of nowhere, you've got a second full-time unpaid job managing your parent's entire life, on top of everything else, and somehow you're meant to just absorb it.
Your head's in a mush half the time. Your patience is wearing so thin you can hear it fraying. And you feel constantly torn, torn between your mum, your teenagers, your job, your own life. You are Sandwiched right in the middle, with everyone needing a bit of you.
And Then There's the Siblings
Fortunately my own siblings were fantastic. However I do know I was lucky. There's often one who lives far enough away to lament from a safe distance "he's not that bad, honestly" because she doesn't have to actually live with it day to day. And there's the one who hears "dementia" and immediately says "just put them in a home," like it's a simple admin task and not the thing your parent begged you never to do.
You carry that promise around like a stone in your pocket. Don't put me in a home. .
Losing Someone Who's Still Here
Then there's the stuff that actually breaks your heart, quietly.
It was your birthday last week. No card. Not because she doesn't love you because she doesn't remember it was your birthday. Or that you have birthdays. Or, some days, that you're her daughter at all.
You called in last Wednesday. There was a flicker in her eyes of recognition, sort of or did you imagine it? But you weren't sure if she knew you were her daughter, or just knew you were someone kind who visits. The cardigan's buttoned up wrong. There's that glazed look. She wanders into the kitchen, comes back thirty seconds later, and greets you all over again like you've just walked in because for those thirty seconds, you'd already left her memory.
The person you knew isn't there anymore. And the maddening bit is you can't pinpoint when she left. There was no single day or a moment that you could recognise. You've lost your mum, and somehow nobody sent flowers for that. Nobody says "sorry for your loss," because technically she's still alive. A friend even told me once, "well, at least she's still here." She's here. She's just not there. That's the bit that's so hard to explain to anyone who hasn't lived it.
And Then, Somehow, She Comes Back
But here's the thing that gets me every time. I'll put a song on. And for three and a half minutes, she comes back.
For me, it was Neil Diamond Forever in Blue Jeans. She knew every single word. Sings along, note for note, like no time has passed at all. She doesn't know my name in that moment. But she's properly there, singing her heart out.
I couldn't meet her as my mum who used to ask about my day, so I learned to meet her in her favourite songs.
You're Allowed to Struggle With This
If any of this is your life right now, you really are doing an enormous, unrecognised job, its not easy at all.
Talking to someone who actually understands this the ambiguous loss, the sibling stuff, the guilt, the fatigue, really can make an enormous difference.
Need to talk to someone who gets it, book a free first session, I get it.
In memory of my mum Dianne