When I moved in with mum, it was agreed I could go away every now and then, while she would enter into respite care – but we had not yet found a place where she felt happy to go and stay. Last week, I went to visit a friend for a few days and mum went into a care home. It was recommended by someone we know and trust, so I was confident it would be a good, safe place. When we visited, it seemed comfortable and cosy – that’s what mum looks for, not luxury, or elegant furnishings. The other residents seemed friendly; greeting us not sitting drugged in front of the tele. I was really hopeful. The whole time I was away I kept all my fingers crossed and all my toes. Mum was indeed very comfortable there. She liked the place and the people – and the people liked her. When I phoned her, she sounded cheerful and happy, in no particular rush to go home. But on her last night there, just walking back to her room, she had a heavy fall. It was such a shame. All the benefit of her ‘holiday’ was lost. She’s shaken up; her face is a picture of black and yellow. She has bruises down her side and ribs, and on her feet. She obviously went down with an almighty thump. The miracle was, she didn’t break anything – although the side arm of her glasses had to be repaired. The home took her to A&E, sat with her there for hours. The doctor dressed the wound where she had scraped her face and the District Nurse has been to check on the dressing. They gave me a pamphlet about head injuries, warned against confusion and sleepiness – but that’s normal for mum! The nurse asked was there any nausea or diarrhoea? No. She’s tired, feels achy and under the weather, but the wound should heal in a few days and the effects pass away. The worst thing is, she’s lost her confidence. Apparently, the danger after a fall is, even if there’s no injury, the ‘faller’ will become afraid to move around and their health suffers. I hope, as she begins to feel better, mum will go back to doing things for herself. I hope she won’t associate this cosy, friendly care home with the fall, and will be happy to return there for another stay. I’m also relieved that the fall happened when she was with other people. It looks like she’s been beaten up. I wouldn’t want anyone to think it had been me! 
Category Archives: caring for old parent
I am a sulky teen
Last week I went away for a couple of nights (I know, I’m lucky to be able to get away, many carers can’t) but when I came back, absolutely replete with good conversation and good food – I really didn’t want to be here.
I felt I’d expanded back into my old persona. I didn’t feel like fitting myself into that diminished outline of myself I have to inhabit as a carer – that’s to say, a person who has to put someone else’s needs first. I sulked, I disappeared into my room and started texting, I put on my headphones and plugged myself into some music. I didn’t want to drop everything and answer when I was called. I didn’t want to serve up a meal when I wasn’t hungry, or abandon my emails to answer the same question for the tenth time.
I’d had some hassles on the return trip: bad transport connections, having to lug my bag around in the cold. I got back here rather tired and frazzled. I wanted some acknowledgement that I’d had a rather demanding day and a long chilly journey. I didn’t want to be nice to someone who ignored how I was feeling; who just sat there and expected me to wait on them hand on foot. I didn’t want to help them, even though I knew they were old and achy and finding it hard to walk, pick up things or undo buttons. I didn’t care!! No, I didn’t!!
Of course, you can’t be cruel to the one you look after, so, I gritted my teeth and mended my ways. But for a couple of days, I was sulky and begrudging and surly, just going through the motions. Because there’s history, isn’t there, between parents and children, between mothers and daughters? Sometimes it takes a supreme effort for me to overcome that powerful urge to shift back into the old game-playing, power battle that defined our relationship for many years.
I’m not asking for sympathy, it was my choice to move in with mum but – I’m not a selfless saint. Sometimes I’m just a sulky teen, resenting the fact I’ve been ordered to do the washing up.
Talking to strangers
I don’t usually talk to strangers. I think of myself as shy, although I’ve been told I look superior and intimidating.
Anyway, on Saturday, I went to buy a paper and started chatting to the woman in the shop. ‘What are they building over the road? A new supermarket! Goodness! And how will that affect you? Oh dear, that’s terrible.’ On my way home I passed a guy with a cute little dog and I started chatting to him. ‘Oh she’s so pretty! What type of dog is she? What’s her name?’
Is this loneliness? I’m happy in my own company, as they say, and I’m used to living on my own but then I had a social life. Now, I spend most of my time with someone who can’t really have a conversation. Mum and I do have chats, although I know she’ll forget them soon enough. Sometimes, when I’ve been out and seen something interesting, I just can’t stop myself telling her about it, even though I know it will probably make things worse because she won’t understand what I’ve said, and I’ll have to repeat myself and explain it over and over again.
In the same way, I always regret making a casual comment – about a news item, for example: thinking aloud, you might call it. Because mum’s a bit deaf, she doesn’t catch what I’ve said, so she wants to know what it was, but she won’t understand why I’ve said it. And in the meantime, the news item has changed so I have to explain it was the item before last but she’s forgotten what that was; or it’s a drama and I lose the thread of the plot while I tell her why I made some minor, off-the-cuff remark. In the end, it’s simpler to try and say nothing at all.
I’ve been reading that isolation is a big problem among carers. I have the phone and emails to keep in touch with friends, but it is bizarre to be with someone and feel unable to communicate. Perhaps this is how au pairs must feel? They’re not by themselves, but they’re cut off from their companions by lack of language. I’m not by myself, but it feels like it’s more trouble than it’s worth to express my thoughts. And that does make me feel solitary in a way that living alone never did.
Not the best xmas ever
I wanted to write a blog post for xmas but things have been so intense and I felt so drained, I couldn’t do it till now. Xmas day started with a call to the emergency plumbers – the loo was blocked. This does happens sometimes and it often sorts itself out – but I didn’t dare risk it this time, what with it being xmas and the family coming on 26th. Anyway a chirpy chappy turned up, got out his eel and cleared the blockage.
By then it was time to cook lunch. I don’t eat meat, but I bravely attempted to cook mum a chicken breast. I was worried the oven would blow up while I was roasting chicken, vegetables etc but all went ok, and the two of us sat there in our paper hats and enjoyed our Christmas dinner! But we were running late. After clearing up, I had precisely 25 minutes of peace until it was time to watch the Strictly Xmas special. This ushered in 6 hours of tv. Half way through, I spent 15mins in the kitchen getting tea and got repeatedly shouted at: ‘Where are you? It’s Midwives.’
Boxing day was ok. The family visit was fine, and I managed to feed 7 people with a little help from the others. But when they left, I was again required to watch hours of tv. If I left the room it was ‘Where are you? It’s Victoria Wood.’ But I did get a quiet read at bedtime.
Saturday. Oh my god. Mum has a problem with constipation. She takes medication and then, instead of waiting for it to act, she gets in a panic and takes more. She does this, even though she knows what will happen – and happen it did. The only consolation was that she had managed to get into the bathroom. Otherwise there was shit everywhere. The worst thing wasn’t the horrible revolting nature of cleaning it all up but the risk of contamination. After this unpleasant experience, I had to have a stiff drink. Lunch was a little late; afterwards I put on a load of yucky washing and watched Kungfu Panda 2. Then, just as we were going to bed, there was a major bleeding incident. By the time that was sorted out and cleaned up it was after midnight. I didn’t even try to sleep till after 1. Another stiff drink and – on Sunday – another load of yucky washing!!! But I did get an hour of peace that afternoon.
I don’t mind all the hard work, but I do need some kind of space to recover from it. It’s not just that helping mum is physically exhausting, it’s also psychologically draining. I lose my equilibrium and have to ‘reboot’ my energy (viz: Kung Fu panda 2!). And this takes up so much of the precious time I have to do things for myself.
And, by the way, as I was drafting this last night, mum had another bleed, not quite so bad, tho I still didn’t get to bed till 1am. I really hope we can get through the new year without any more incidents!!!
Mum’s 94 – How old does that make me?
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.
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