I sat down, and the tears took their chance of freedom and ran in rivers down my cheeks, leaving a trail like a snail. For once, I was grateful for the call of nature, as it gave me a moment to collect my emotions and reset ready to continue. I knew by now that if I didn't get some support soon, I would break.
Things changed when Dad died. I think somehow, Mum started to feel more vulnerable, and her reliance on me slowly increased. It felt more like a tidal wave to me because I wasn't ready for it, didn't know how to cope with it, and didn't feel adult enough emotionally.
I helped her with all the things a bereavement and funeral entailed. People often told me it must be challenging without the man of the house, but that wasn't the tricky bit. It was the easy bit as he'd only ever been the man of the house in the wrong way, in a controlling way, so harsh as it may seem, I was relieved rather than grief-stricken. The tricky bit was seeing Mum's grief.
Life hasn't been easy for me, and Dad was a big part of the reason for that. Whenever I tried to go to him about anything, he would tell me to find courage in how I hated that phrase. What does it even mean? To him, it meant hitting people, controlling people, and being what he called a man's man rather than like me. He never approved of me because I show my feelings, I care deeply, and I refuse to use violence and control to get my way. No way did I want to follow in the footsteps of a lazy, arrogant narcissist like him.
It feels like I weigh the world on my shoulders, my past experiences, my difficulties with Dad, and now the crushing weight of responsibility. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't want to care for Mum. I would do anything for her. She is my world. However, some things could make things much easier for us. Why do unpaid carers have to fight for every bit of support and understanding? I know Mum is safe now having a snooze, so I pull out my phone and try to book an appointment online; surprise, there's nothing available. Now I will have to phone at 8am and hope I can get there.
The following day I am up and dressed early. I make sure Mum is settled and tell her I'm off to do the shopping, no point worrying her. There's a wait, which is frustrating. I don't want to be gone too long. Finally, my name is called. I do not recognise the doctor. They must be new. I go in, and he asks how he can help. My throat closes up, and I don't know how to begin. I take a deep breath, and suddenly the words are tumbling out in a torrent. I cannot stop now I have started, and tears once more run unbidden down my cheeks. I finally ran out of words. I sit there emotionally spent. He offers me antidepressants, but I decline. I'm not interested in taking drugs to mask things, I need someone to talk to who can provide support.
He then leaves me utterly gobsmacked when he says, in that case, all I can suggest is that you find courage or get someone else to look after her.
I leave the surgery stunned into silence. How dare he say that? I am so angry, why don't they understand? I sit in my car, letting the feelings of rage, fear, hurt, and total abandonment flood through me. I feel so let down. If the GP won't help me, who can I turn to? No one; I'm on my own once more. I am at breaking point, and no one sees it, or if they do, they don't care. Eventually, I breathe, mop my tears as best I can, and head to the supermarket.
When I get home, I know immediately something is wrong. It's too quiet, I call out to Mum, but there's no answer. I check each downstairs room until I notice the back door open. I rush out and see her lying face down on the path. I grab my mobile, call 999, and check on her. She is breathing, thank goodness, but she is not conscious. It's worrying. I don't know how long ago it happened, I feel guilty for leaving her for so long. I run to put the door on the latch for the ambulance, cover her with a blanket, and throw some essentials in a bag. She wakes up just as the ambulance arrives, and I know she must be okay as she is angry at me for making a fuss. I follow the ambulance in my car to bring us home again.
After a few tests and some observation, she is allowed home, with lots of bruises, a concussion, a broken wrist and dented pride. I am relieved she is OK. As I thank the nurse, she gives me a postcard and tells me to call them. I pop it into my pocket and thank her. I don't have time to look at it until I put my jeans in the wash the next day. It's for a charity called Carers First. I feel worried about calling them, as I don't know what to expect, but by this time, I'm so desperate for help that I decide it can't hurt to talk to them. I'm glad I did. I spoke to this lovely lady who said she could help sort out many of the issues I was struggling with and would meet me to talk more about things so she knows more about what I need. She also told me they run support groups and activity days too. I feel like I can breathe again. For the first time in months, some weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
I didn't realise it then, but their support kept me going over the coming weeks and months and helped me smile and laugh through the tough times. They also help me spend quality mother-and-son time away with Mum, which gives us both precious memories to hold onto.
As I said at the beginning, it was a slow process, taking on more and more responsibility. Still, I ended up parenting Mum some of the time, nursing her at other times and being cleaner, chef, chauffeur and son all rolled into one, it's hard, and I hadn't realised quite how exhausting it was. It wasn't just the physical responsibility of caring for and managing the household. It was the emotional toll.
Watching her slowly fade away daily, becoming a little smaller and a little more translucent, then occasionally strengthening before fading again. Each change is like a piece of my heart being ripped apart. I know I am losing her, and I am not ready. I will never be ready to lose her; she's my mum. Every day I am scared that she will get hurt or become ill. I have to watch for the rise and fall of her chest and listen for the sounds she makes when asleep. I live with constant fear.
Today those fears were finally realised. She didn't get out of bed today. I stayed with her, read her from her favourite book, listened to her reminiscences and laughed at some of the old photos in the photo album. She said she felt tired, so I tucked her in, gave her a kiss and a hug, then sat and held her hand, just as she always did for me when I was a child. She told me that she loved me, and I told her I love her as we do daily. Then she fell asleep and slipped quietly out of this world into the world of spirit. There was this strange calm feeling, then an eerie silence. I think I forgot to breathe at first, it felt like the world stopped, then it was like it suddenly re-started, but without Mum in it, my heart broke.
I held her hand to my face and cried until there were no more tears to cry. Once the tears subsided for now, I called Carers First, and they supported me through all that came next. I had no idea what to do. I'm so glad they understood that manning up is not the answer, that listening and being there for someone is far more helpful. I am also glad they understood that men are okay to cry. I needed their support, I felt guilty. Could I have done more? What if I let her down? Fear, I'm an orphan and all alone in the world now, I have no one left to rely on. Relief that the weight of responsibility has now lifted. Confusion my relationship with Mum went through so many changes I wasn't even sure what I should feel any more, but most of all, I felt this huge crushing raw, animalistic pain and grief, and an anger that I lost her too soon.
My heart has been torn from my chest and ripped to shreds and I know that I will never be able to fill the gaping mum-shaped hole left inside of me. The tears keep flowing, tears of a carer, tears of a son. I feel empty, lost and alone, and everything makes me cry. I feel privileged that I got to spend this time with Mum and to look after her like she looked after me.