to feel calmed by imagining something tightening around your neck, is it?
All I can think of is the peace of losing consciousness. The quiet, and the end of all the frustration and anxiety.
I don’t want to die but I just don’t want to exist like this anymore. I’m not cut out for this but I can’t walk away. I have no control over anything. I’m so tired and every muscle hurts from leaping up every five minutes to fix her laptop, or to stop her knocking over her drink, or to point at something on the TV as she tries to ask what’s wrong with that guy’s hair (he’s wearing a hat). She’s sat here groaning as her guts hurt and all I can think of is the darkness.
She’s just started flailing around “I’ve got to, it’s my, I’ve got to…” I don’t know! I run over and lower her seat for her – does she need the toilet? Has she got an itch? It’s obviously important. No, her arse has gone dead. My heart is racing and I slink back to the sofa, back to writing this.
And fade to black.
I’m not coping.
I’m just not coping. I think I’m doing okay but my jaw is constantly clenched, I’ve had a headache for six months and I’m so angry at the world I just want to go to sleep.
I try and be positive and think “While I’m stuck here I might as well…” lose weight/learn a new skill/fix my hair/skin/clothes but it usually lasts the 8 hours a Prozac lasts.
I feel so numb and trapped. I want to look after my Mum but I can’t do it anymore. She’s nearly getting to the point where she needs feeding. She can hardly coherently speak anymore. She can’t get to the bathroom unattended. I can’t do it all on my own and nobody is telling me what to do. I keep getting people saying “Call us for advice or to sort out carers etc” I don’t want that. I want somebody to say “This is what you need, we’ll put it in place for you.”
I can’t walk away. Although part of me desperately wants to. Part of me wants to text my brother and say “Yeah, if you’d helped out equally, this wouldn’t have happened. Now it’s all over to you.” and just disappear.
It’s just not fair. My poor Mum.
She had such a quiet simple life and it’s being taken away from her. She liked cups of tea and doing a crossword in front of Strictly Come Dancing. She loves animals, and cute things, and nice food.
Sure, she made my teen years miserable with her drinking and her attitude problem, but I know she loved me. And I love her.
Maybe it’s because I’m hungover. Maybe it’s because Mum has diarrhoea and is emitting so many whimpers and groans and it’s putting me on edge… She’s also in a bad mood. I know she’s allowed to be but it doesn’t make things any easier for us.
I just want to go home.
The Hospice spoke to her the other day to try and find out what kind of ongoing care she’d like. Unsurprisingly, she wants to die at home. That means I’m full time care until that happens. Great. I don’t mind, I know it needs doing, but a tiny tiny part of me hoped that for some reason she’d want to go into a home and I could do the caring side and visit and spend time together but cooking meals and cleaning up and bathing and stuff would be taken out of my hands.
I’m just so tired.
I thought there was a light. Mum was referred to a live-in Hospice for care and I thought that maybe in a few months she would go and live there full time and I would continue living here and tidy up and organise things, and visit her every day and they would care for her. We visited it and had a tour. But it’s not live-in. It’s short stay. She goes there for a week so I can go home. And if she needs to be admitted to hospital, she goes to this Hospice instead of on a ward. But it’s not live-in. I quote “We’re not a care home.” In that case, I don’t understand what a hospice is. I don’t understand anything and I’m tired and stressed and hot. I’ve crashed down to earth from thinking there was help in sight. And I miss Matt and my house and my bed. And I fucking hate my brother and the fact that he’s not even texted to see how we are in a week and his Facebook is just full of photos of him and his girlfriend drinking, eating, sitting on their fucking sofa. Whereas I have to wait for one of Mum’s friends to visit before I can have a bath.
I donated to the Red Cross Syrian fund today. It’s awful how we forget that people are people. But I can see how it happens. Life is just so fucking stupid and meaningless. Yes, people are dying. But people die. My Grandfather died a few weeks ago. My Mother is dying. My friend’s daughter has to have her second intensive bout of chemotherapy and she’s 17. “But those people dying are somebody’s child or somebody’s mother, or somebody’s brother…” Yup. And somebody’s child, mother or brother dies every fucking day.
I’ve just lost all respect for life. I’d think I was having an existential crisis but I don’t actually care.
All I care about is Matt and the joy he somehow manages to bring me.
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?
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.