And now, the end is near.

Matt left today after a week’s visit, hence my radio silence. And now I lie here listening to Mum howl and whimper her way through a bath and I wonder how much longer either of us can put up with this. She’s got no strength or control over her body any more but she won’t accept help. She’ll sit and cry on the toilet because she can’t get her pyjamas back on instead of just calling and asking for a hand and it makes me so angry. And then I feel like an absolute fucking psychopath because I’m angry!

I think it’s getting to the point where I won’t be qualified to look after her soon. I can’t bathe her and I can’t clean her after the toilet. It’s not something I’m trained to do and it’s not something I particularly want to do. The doctor tells me Mum needs a daughter. She may need a nurse too, but you can’t blur that line. Plenty of people can look after her, but only I can be her daughter. That’s something I have to keep reminding myself of when I feel like I’m letting her down by not being sure how much longer I can look after her.

I began looking at the Hospice properly today. I need to call them tomorrow and organise a visit. I just want somebody with a degree in nursing to tell me that it’s too much work for me now. Please?

And now, the end is near.

Depression Squared.

I’m not sure I can take it much longer. I know I can’t begin to imagine what she’s going through but unless she tells me what she needs, I can’t provide it. I’m tired of the long meaningful looks into the middle distance and me asking what’s wrong and getting a shrug and a sad smile in return. Yes, I know you’re dying. Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me your fears and tell me how I can make it slightly less scary.

Putting somebody with depression in charge of somebody with depression is probably a recipe for disaster.

Depression Squared.

Unsuccessful.

The radiotherapy was unsuccessful. The tumour is continuing to grow, and there’s no point in trying chemotherapy. I think people expect me to be bereft, or shocked or something. But they’ve not lived with Mum 24 hours a day. Did they think I would¬†watch her lose feeling in her right hand side, or walk into things because she can’t see properly, or be unable to spell words anymore, and think that the radiotherapy had worked and she was miraculously getting better??

I am feeling equally stressed, miserable and selfish today. It’s a glorious day and all I want to do is sit in a beer garden with my friends and my boyfriend. I told him this and he said that we really need to re-assess the situation – what am I supposed to do? Tell my Mum she’s got to go into a home because I want to go to the pub more? It’s not as simple as that. I can’t just walk away.

But I’m not convinced I can live like this much longer.

Unsuccessful.

“What’s happening?”

“What’s happening?” “Where are we going?” “What time are we going?” “Then what’s happening?”

Five minutes later.

“What’s happening?” “Where are we going?” “What time are we going?” “Then what’s happening?”

Just believe me when I say I’ve sorted it. Do you not trust me? I’ve been looking after you for over six months now. Aside from that one day when I forgot your speech therapy session clashed with your MRI appointment, have I ever cocked up? If you can’t remember what’s happening, and you accept you can’t remember what’s happening, just trust that I’ve organised everything that needs doing. We don’t need to go through this every time you have an appointment for something – especially when it takes ten minutes to ask me one question.

And now I feel like that terrible person again. Like all the empathy has left my body. Like I can’t put myself in somebody else’s shoes for once and think about how confusing and scary this must be for her. Am I angry because I just want her to relax and stop worrying?

Mum has a hospital appointment tomorrow to discuss her latest MRI with the oncologist. I don’t know what I’m expecting. I know she doesn’t have long but she seems to be going downhill quite slowly. If they said she had weeks, I would be surprised as that would include a swift decline. So I’m expecting months. They said 12 months in March, so that gives her seven months. That sounds about right. I may not know what I’m expecting but as awful as it sounds, I don’t even know what I’m hoping. I don’t want her to hang on, ending up bed bound and unresponsive. And I know for a fact that if they say “She has years left yet” that I am in no position to care for her for that long. But then that sounds like I’m wishing a speedy end upon her – and who does that to their own mother?

I’m just so tired, and bored, and lonely. Maybe everybody’s childhood was like mine? Maybe everybody had such a fractured, weird relationship with their mother. I wonder if my childhood had been different, if I would feel differently now. Maybe it’s right I should spend 2015 feeling exactly how I did in 1995. Tired, bored, and lonely.

“What’s happening?”

How many blogs does one girl need?

So I’ve been here for over six months now. This is my life. I sometimes feel like I’m going mad and want to write and write and just vomit all the misery and loneliness onto a page in a cathartic example of brain diarrhoea. There’s a mental image for you.

I have a million blogs (well, like, four) and each one of them has slipped by the wayside. But maybe this is one I need to write. Maybe this is the diary under the bed. I can’t see me giving this url to anyone, at least not to anyone who knows me. Maybe I will do when all of this is over so people can understand what I went through. Maybe I will read it back and realise I didn’t go through anything and that my brother was right and I am a martyr. This isn’t about me, but it’s completely about me all at the same time. Maybe this will be my suicide note? Who knows.

My life does smell funny. It smells of sweat and sleep and decomposition. It smells of coffee and blankets that haven’t been washed, and a room that hasn’t been left for weeks. It’s either too hot or too cold, it’s unclean and it’s tired. Life has gone off the boil and is stagnating.

I just need somewhere to verbalise¬†all of those “Just fuck it.” thoughts. I need to rant and complain and not feel like I’m letting anybody down or worrying anybody irrationally. I can’t put it on Facebook as my Mum will see it and I don’t need her to feel like she’s a burden. She isn’t a burden, I am not burdened by her, but it’s not a lie that I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.

I can’t put it on Twitter as my boyfriend will see and I don’t want him to feel any worse than he already does that he can’t be here with me. I don’t want him to feel that I love him any less because sometimes I can’t handle things and I wish I didn’t exist anymore. Basically, how amazing Matt is is the only thing that keeps me going – a light at the end of the tunnel if you will.

I’ll stop rambling now. This was only my introduction. Hopefully, the rest isn’t silence.

How many blogs does one girl need?