Mum enjoyed her birthday, although she kept forgetting how old she was. She knows she was born in 1920 but she can’t remember what year we’re in now – which throws out her mental arithmetic.
Brother and grandchildren came at the weekend. We went out and had a meal, except she didn’t enjoy herself, probably because it was too noisy and she couldn’t keep up with the conversation. (I, of course, really liked going out to a restaurant and chatting to the family!) On her actual birthday, I invited the neighbours round and we had coffee and nice cakes from M&S. This was much more low key and she had a nice time.
94 is a good age, as they say. But it started me thinking about my own age. I always said I would never end up as a single daughter, caring for an aged parent but that’s exactly what has happened. I don’t regret my decision to move in with mum. The longer I stay, the clearer it is that she needs someone here.
However, I’m no spring chicken either. The number of good years I have left to travel, dance, meet men, think straight etc may not be so many. I hate the thought that my last chance to lead a full life is trickling through my fingers like sand and I’ll never be able to get that chance back.
Mum, of course, treats me like I’m about 15. She gets upset when I can’t bend down or lean forward at an angle convenient to her. If I have to kneel rather than reach over or crouch, she gets irritated. I say: I’m not a young girl, mum.
I wonder, will I get worn out by being a carer to a demanding old woman when I’m not so young myself – or will I stay “young” because I live with someone who treats me like a teenager? Time will tell.