What a time.
Covid finally got me, after two and a bit years. It waited until I was so run into the ground that I couldn’t wrestle it off, and it took me down. Ten days of exhaustion and foggy-headedness that many of you will recognise. Thank goodness it was just Omicron and I was lucky.
But I don’t get to be ill, not in the recognised ‘get ill - rest - recover - be well’ sense, because I’m responsible for another human being who can’t look after himself, and the person who lives with him and takes care of a lot of his needs, is also exhausted and got the virus from me.
The relief carer who was booked to come and take over, changed her mind and even though I could barely lift my arms, suddenly I needed to organise immediate care for an 87 year old with a broken hip and dementia. You’d think there would be an obvious place to go for help. That perhaps GPs could advise, or the community teams, but no. What there is, is a national shortage of carers. All care homes in this area quite rightly require a clear covid test 72hrs before admittance (even if you can find one who has respite space) and when a person with dementia refuses to take a test anyway, there’s not a whole lot you can do about it.
There are people who live with this level of stress every day, for years, with no help and no end in sight. I nearly folded after 48 hours. I’m not proud of myself. And also, my dad has been my main focus for a long time now and this, along with having my batteries removed, was just a step too far for me.
TLDR: my dad’s care situation got messed up but in the end it was okayish and he’s safe, and I got to go home to bed and do the daily ‘firefighting’ by phone, from under a duvet.
As always, I look for lessons to be learned.
The luck I have in being able to help him; in being able to come home to my house in the green and leafy, where my little family look after me; in being able to navigate and untangle most of the nightmare that is elderly care in a country being run into the ground by a bunch of corrupt, uncaring, dishonest, self-serving politicians; in usually having the help of the amazing human who helps support someone who is not their responsibility; a hundred other things that put me (and him) in a position of privilege.
And yet…
It still feels as if I’m doing what I’ve always done: learning the hard way because I won't listen when it’s easy. What I’m finally admitting is that I need space, air, freedom. Tie me to something and I buck like a rodeo steer. I attach no judgement to this; I am who I am, I do my best and I’m not hurting anyone. I just need space and freedom.
I’m trying to break free from many things at the moment. It feels like a survival issue. The survival issue for a woman of my age/stage. My cells are screaming and I can feel my energy fighting, fighting, fighting in the field around me. I make a break for it and somehow I end up back where I started because I get sucked back in. Family matters, money situations, friendships, my own self care…I keep backsliding. My whole being wants to transform and I lock it into an old way of being.
This can’t happen anymore. I’m out of tolerance for discomfort of this level because I can feel it making me sick. I’m going to have to be ruthless and I’m going to have to live with how bad that makes me feel short term. How bad it may make others feel.
I’m a fixer by nature. If I can make things right for you I will go above and beyond to make it happen but I’ve never done it for myself and I have to start. About a year ago I began to write, every day, the little phrase “I choose me”. It didn’t last and now it’s going to be harder to do but do it, I must.
There is no win here. No clever little hack that means we’re all happy and we all get what we want and need. To choose me feels in some ways a cruel and cold thing to do, although it need not mean that I abandon others.
But I’m going to need to be a lot less tired. Send pillows. I’ll be in my garden, plugging my hands into the earth.