Today is Friday 15th May 2015. I have thought "fuck you" to today, but that's a bit unfair because it's a pretty day. The lilac is blossoming in my garden, the sun is shining, and at least one friend of mine is having a lovely time planning her wedding and enjoying seeing her ex husband's relationship with her ex best friend (the one he left her for, after their illicit affair) falling apart. I'm not so mean as to not give her that pleasure. So today is not all so bad.
Today, Friday 15th May 2015 has not been especially kind to me, though. My 72 year old Dad has been (finally) diagnosed with Vascular Dementia and Alzheimers. He also has an ASD, as he has for the entire of his life.
I have known about my Dad's dementia for some time, but it has been hard to get others to acknowledge it. Everyone has been so polite. My mother has been in denial - understandably - because she nursed her own Mum through dementia so she knows what is coming. She also knows that the man she has been married to for 50 years is dripping permanently away. Also - if she's really honest, and she hasn't been this honest with me - she knows she is a rubbish nurse. She was not cut out for caring. She also does not like spending money, so is left between a rock and a hard place; care herself, or pay for someone else to do it. This is the woman who bought one of my children a hot dog from a dodgy street van and neatly deducted its cost from his pocket money. This is a pretty shitty position for her to be in.
If I take a long hard look at myself, I like to think I am good at caring but my default setting is 'me.' I like quiet afternoons with a book, sewing, knitting, spending time with my husband, running. I become impatient with clinginess. I can smile and be sympathetic for a time. But I am not naturally a carer. I am vomit phobic. I am easily irritable. I am menopausal. I get quickly bored. I am not always a nice person.
My mother, as well as being afraid, has been in denial about my Dad's dementia for months. Right up to her wrinkly, respectable polo neck. "It's just ageing - we're all the same" she'd purr, or "he has a urine infection, it makes older people confused." She overlooked the fact that he repeated the same things, unaware he'd said them before. She excused the fact that he left the handbrake off his car - twice - and dented both their cars moving them around on the drive. She pretended it was normal that they have a big diary on their kitchen table that my Dad checks incessantly every hour, ticking off his medication as the day wears on, giving each coloured pill a nickname.
Just ageing.
I don't know how I feel about my Dad's Vascular Dementia, Alzheimers and ASD. He's still my Dad. He's happier in a lot of ways. He squeezes my hand affectionately (he's never told me he loves me in my entire life.) The scales of bitterness have fallen from his eyes. Yes, he needs me to drive him to several medical appointments a week, where I deliberately link arms with him (much to my mother's annoyance - she thinks it's soppy) as people seem to accept the non-verbal cue that I am his carer, and are more generous to him. He shouts aloud "look at that woman's tattoos!" and worse. I cringe, put on my best apologetic smile, and say "come on Dad" rather too loudly, and too slowly, so they pick up on my hints - understand - that he's not just a rude old bugger, but a sick old man. His ASD has meant he's never been great in social situations; his Dementia means that he has forgotten the social graces that 70 years of life taught him to emulate.
So, why is this blog called 'the butty blog.' It's not about sandwiches, I'm afraid (although I am rather partial to a good one.) It's about being 'the sandwich generation' (although someone had nabbed that URL). You see, as well as my poor dear Demented Father, and my Mother In Denial (whose faculties seem to be running away like someone has pulled the plug. Is it real or imagined? Or learned helplessness? Am I doing too much or too little?) I have the following caring responsibilities. Yes me, the person, who I would like to remind you, has the default setting of "me":
- my husband, who is precariously close to breakdown having been made redundant
- my son, who is sitting his A levels, right now.
- my 9 year old son, who I found out yesterday, to my utter shame, has been lying to me about brushing his teeth and needs FOUR FILLINGS. Four. I feel sick with grief. That's not even hyperbole. The dentist looked at me like I should have my parenting license revoked - and, to be honest, maybe I should. They *are* milk teeth, which is a small saving grace, but even so. FOUR. Ugh.
- my 2 year old daughter. Gorgeous, bright as a button and bossy as hell.
- my brother, who left his abusive wife six weeks ago and came to live with us. He has gone to live in a bachelor pad for a while, but still needs regular support (and, to be honest, I rely on his emotional support too)
and me. Unemployed and unlikely to go back to my profession due to that bunch of spunk trumpets in government. Diagnosed with anxiety and depression. Getting shitter at running even though I am trying harder (well, it feels like I am trying harder, but I am not running as often as I did, which is probably the reason I am getting shitter, but I don't like to admit that to myself). Getting fatter, despite having lost 8 stones (I've put 2 stones back on since I lost my job. I feel like I'm trying hard to be thin, but see reason above). Sufferer of adenomyosis, endometriosis, chronic migraines; going through an enforced chemical menopause and awaiting a decision on whether I will have my ovaries surgically removed, or all my women's bits (what fills up the gap that's left? Do all my insides rearrange?) I am also waiting for my eldest son to leave to go to university and, in all honesty, one seems like a metaphor for the other.
I also keep trying to read books about 40 something women, and they are ALL MISERABLE.
Welcome to the sandwich generation. I don't know if this blog is going to be happy or sad, but I do know it's going to be honest. I set up a blog before - I Instagrammed my life (is that a verb yet?) I took photos of my dinner, and casual shots of my kitchen I had previously spent after afternoon scrubbing and baking in. Why this? Gosh, yes, it's always like this.
Well, balls to that.
Love
Doris
x
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