Being a carer is hard. There’s a platitude for you. People often say that to me. They also say that I am a ‘hero’ and that they ‘have a lot of respect’ for what I do. They mean well, of course, and I feel embarrassed by the over-the-top praise. But I always feel there is something just under the surface that they’re not saying. 

Until one day, after the usual over the top compliments, someone said: ‘I couldn’t do it!’

That reflection really struck me, not just because of its honesty but because I feel that is what the nice people lavishing these exaggerated compliments on me omit. 

I am a ‘hero’ being a carer, because they wouldn’t be able to do it. 

And I don’t blame them. Being an unpaid carer necessitates sacrifice. In my case, because of my (relatively) young age and the (relatively) remote location I find myself in, looking after my grandma requires me to give up every aspect of my prior life apart from my job. I can’t see friends, go out, I had to give up my weekend volunteering job that I loved, dating, and just generally having a life of my own in London. 

This is what a typical day looks like for me (when grandma is not ill): wake up early around 6.30 and make sure grandma is OK, have a quick shower,  put all her pills out and start making her breakfast. She is capable of making herself some coffee (just about) so I supervise and prepare her breakfast of toast and fruit. When she is settled, I go for a quick 30 minute walk round the fields. Once I get back, I help her take a shower, depending on the days she can more or less manage on her own, so I quickly make myself something to eat and help her get dressed. We then go into the living room and I put cream on her legs and face as well as her flight socks to keep her legs from swelling too much. After that, I start my work day (although I have already answered several emails on my phone) and check on her mid morning to see if she needs anything. I cook her lunch , (usually while on a conference call – thank goodness for the mute button) after which grandma takes a nap which means I can work for the rest of the afternoon with just a few checkups and to get her anything she needs or turn the TV on. I work until about 7pm, then make her a light dinner and sit with her in the living room. We do her little exercise routine together and watch TV. I take this time to do more work on my phone and to eat something although I’m usually too tired to cook something for myself. We go to bed at around 10pm and I help her with her nighttime routine.

I do that on repeat day after day, month after month, year after year. No nights out, no fun, no catching up with friends, no nothing – tough for the 35 year old that I am.

On weekends, my only respite is solo hiking on the moors in the mornings after I do the grocery shopping for the week, and before I clean the house and do laundry in the afternoons. On my hikes, I often listen to podcasts and, more often than not, don’t hear a thing coming through my headphones as I’m sobbing. I feel the tears bubbling up in me as soon as I put my hiking boots on, as if my body knows it will soon be able to release the accumulated stress, anxiety, and loneliness of the week. I walk and walk and walk to exhaust my body as if to match or somehow ease my exhausted soul. I’m also grateful for the frequent Lancashire rain that hides my tears and I even like the feeling of being freezing and wet for a few hours to take me out of my own head and dark thoughts as I focus on putting on foot in front of the other.

I get myself together before coming back in the house, pretend I’m fine and proceed to cook whatever lunch grandma has requested I make. I try my best to never let my feelings show in front of my grandmother, as she wouldn’t understand. She comes from a different era where feelings weren’t discussed and she grumbles disapprovingly if the words ‘mental health’ are ever mentioned on TV. It also isn’t her fault that I am struggling in this situation. It isn’t her fault that a perfect storm of circumstances has led me to live with and care for her. I know she would take my pain personally and I don’t want her to worry about me.

The isolation and the constant work are the toughest parts of it. The trouble with being a carer, is that unless you live the reality of it, it is difficult to understand. I keep in touch with friends and work is a distraction, it is stressful too at times, but it focuses my mind on something else for a few hours a day. My friends are all very supportive and I am grateful for them.

The other part I find very hard to deal with is the depersonalisation you experience. On a daily basis you deny yourself and only focus on what others need. That’s hard enough. This is compounded by the fact that nobody ever asks me anything about myself anymore. If a neighbour sees me in the street, they never ask how I am, but how my grandma is. Every time. Like I don’t matter. I understand why they do it, and it is a natural question to ask but, after a while, it feels like you don’t exist and that nobody cares. Mental isolation is invisible to the outside world but it feels desperately dark inside.

A small piece of advice, if I may, next time you see someone you know has a caring responsibility of any kind, ask them how they are. Even if you only get the customary ‘I’m fine’ as an answer, you will have made a positive difference to that person’s day.

All this is very depressing, isn’t it? Let me leave you with a different perspective: caring is the ultimate act of love. Us unpaid carers show up everyday, without fail, and show love through what we do – however tough it may be. In this case, actions really do speak louder than words.