In Two Places At Once

Long ago we made the decision that I would stay at home with the children, two of who have not insignificant additional needs. It came at a cost, but the lessening of stress on the whole family meant it was worthwhile. On the rare occasions when I needed someone to take over so that I could attend an appointment that couldn’t be made within school hours, the grandparents would step in. It worked well for us.

But time moves on. My dad had a stroke and passed away, my mum developed Alzheimer’s, and, at seventeen, Freddie still needs constant supervision and lots of help. I have no brothers or sisters to help share mum’s care, so I thought it would be easier if she moved in with us. But both she and Freddie needed lots of assistance with everyday tasks and have lots of appointments, and neither can be left unattended for any length of time.

The woman who conducted my carer’s assessment joked that I needed to clone myself. But at no point did she make any serious suggestion of how I might master the art of being in two places at once, nor did she signpost me to any person or organisation that could. It’s true she referred me to the Alzheimer’s society, but all they did was phone me up periodically to give me a verbal pat on the head for how well I was managing.

You might as well have sent the coastguard out with a loudhailer to congratulate the flailing man in the water on how well he was doing at not drowning.

But even now that my mum has moved into a Care Home, I increasingly find myself needing to be in two places at once.

Mum’s Care Home is fantastic. The staff are expert at elder care and dementia care. But they are not medical nurses, so when mum recently became acutely physically unwell, she had to go to hospital, and I had to go with her to a busy A&E department.

Fortunately, it was a Sunday, so Freddie’s dad and brother were home to look after him.

After several hours the doctor came and said mum would have to be admitted for at least a night or two. Mum can no longer communicate her needs effectively, especially to people who don’t know her, and she struggles to follow instructions and to interpret the world around her. She was very disorientated and confused, suddenly thrust into a strange place with strange people and she kept trying to climb off the trolley - I needed to stay with her for as long as she was there.

Unfortunately, it was a Sunday evening, the rest of the family were all due at work in the morning well before the time that Freddie’s taxi usually picks him up.

As luck would have it, they all had something in the diary for Monday morning that couldn’t really be rescheduled as it involved coordinating with lots of other people or departments. But Freddie absolutely cannot be left alone at home for any amount of time: and even if one of the others had agreed to pull a sickie, the disruption to Freddie’s routine, which is so important for his sense of security and his understanding of the world, would have been huge and would have serious negative knock-on effects for him and everyone around him. I needed to be back home before the morning.

What was I supposed to do?

It looked like I would have to call my husband and tell him he’d just have to take time off and hang the consequences. But then a place was found for mum on a ward. They transferred her from the trolley to a proper hospital bed that was much safer for her, added a note to the name board above to say she has Alzheimer’s, and realising she was utterly confused by the bedpan, two nurses lifted her into a wheelchair and took her to a proper bathroom. I explained as much as I could about mum to the ward staff, and reassured that she was in a place of relative safety, went home for a while.

I helped Freddie get ready for college the next day, as usual, so that all was well in his world, and as soon as he had gone, I went back to the hospital to sit with mum until it was time to come back to meet Freddie’s taxi. That is how I spent the time until she was discharged - back and forth, always present with one of them, always worried about getting back to the other one.

I’m sure it’s a situation familiar to many of us - being torn between all the people who need something from us or being torn between those who need us and our need to care for ourselves.

Don’t get me started on what happens when I need healthcare for myself. My GP practice is very accommodating as they know I’m a carer but hospital clinics, by their very nature, cannot be. If an appointment cannot happen at a time that allows me to be there and back between 9 am and 3pm, term-time, then it doesn’t happen at all, and if it’s one of those days when Freddie, for reasons known only to himself, refuses to cooperate and misses his taxi, then it’s a last minute cancellation that can potentially get me discharged before I’ve even seen anyone.

That’s why, whenever anyone utters the platitude ‘take care of yourself, you can’t pour from an empty cup’ I feel like grabbing the cup, tipping the contents all over them and smacking them on the head with it.

So, if anyone CAN signpost me to a clinic that offers a cloning service I’d greatly appreciate it, providing it can all be done and dusted within college hours.