The latest season of The Crown was released on Netflix this week, it was apparently savaged by critics. I found it very good viewing in the early hours of Saturday morning in between attending to my very ill grandmother. The episodes are a perfect length of 45 minutes, just enough time to watch one before grandma called me.

The week was progressing the exact same way it always does, being a carer is living the same day on repeat until something derails it and all bets are off. Out of nowhere, on Friday morning, grandma could barely breathe from coughing. Knowing it would quickly progress to her lungs and into a big chest infection or pneumonia, I rushed to the GPs’ office before it opened to get medical attention before the weekend. If you’re reading this outside of the UK, it is very inconvenient for Brits to die or get sick at the weekend as all the doctor’s offices are shut and the ambulance services are overrun. Deciding to fall sick on a Friday was a very risky thing for grandma to have the nerve to do (this is British sarcasm, before you think I’m a bitch).

As I got to the surgery at 7.45 on a rainy Friday morning, I was surprised to see a queue of at least 20 elderly people hunched up against the rain waiting for the surgery doors to open. I joined the queue, worrying that the number of people waiting would mean there would not be any appointments left. I was also scandalised that this is what we have to resort to in the UK to get any sort of medical professional to speak to us on the phone for 10 minutes. My work emails had already started piling up,I had a full day of conference calls, and several press releases to write before the day was up. Today is going to be shit. Again. I thought.

The doors finally opened at 8 and we slowly shuffled inside, I was so sad to hear all the people ahead of me in the queue, all over 70, pleading for the same thing. They wanted to see a doctor, any doctor. Our healthcare system is so broken that they all got turned away with a 10 minute phone call ‘sometime between 9 and 1 today’ instead. This did not bode well for me as I wanted a real life doctor to come check my grandmother’s lung- a huge ask, I know, for a doctor to actually see their patients. My turn came and I made my request for a home visit, the receptionist said it was impossible as all the appointments were booked. I knew that would happen so I played my trump card, I cried. Crying on cue is a skill a lot of carers develop, a side effect of being beyond burnout. I tearfully asked again and said I needed someone to check her lungs. The receptionist visibly softened and said I would still only get a phone call and the doctor would decide if a home visit was necessary. I took that offer as I knew that was the best she could do, plus I had a conference call in 15 minutes.

The doctor called as I was helping grandma shower, she helpfully had a massive coughing fit while I was speaking to him, and he agreed she did need to have her lungs checked. The doctor appeared later that afternoon. I hurriedly got off a conference call to greet him and show him the patient who was too ill to pretend to be OK. He diagnosed a big chest infection and prescribed her antibiotics. He told her to ‘listen to your granddaughter‘ as she was fighting me on drinking water. I could have hugged him.

After rushing to the pharmacy to collect my precious medical cargo, I gave grandma her first dose of pills to take.

‘Right grandma, for the next few days this is not a democracy. What I say goes. You heard the doctor.’ I said gently.

She coughed at me in response which I took as a yes.

I have been reigning over the house like a benevolent dictator ever since, grandma not fighting me and doing as she is told. The medication seems to be working and she is generally a bit perkier, she tried to refuse to take her cough syrup which is a good sign she’s getting better, but dictator Laura was having none of it and she reluctantly took it. I may be an authoritarian leader at the moment, but I cook her favourite things to coax her to eat, I have provided her with an unlimited supply of jelly babies, and I’m on call 24/7 to attend to her every need. Not quite Laura Jong Un. In keeping with the dictatorial theme, Grandma sounds like Darth Vader – her chest loudly rattling with every breath. I can hear it from another room as I type this late on Sunday night.

Democracy will slowly start to return as grandma gets better and starts rebelling against my strict regime. I will happily hand my power back and hopefully have a nap!