‘Do you know where you’re going? I can guide you. ‘I’m number eighteeeeeen, right at the top, in the corner.’

She always said it in exactly the same way, as if she found comfort in it. I rolled my eyes and smiled behind my mask at the back of the taxi. All the drivers knew who she was and where she lived, she had used their services for more than 20 years, but they let her give them directions because she was a sweet old lady.

I live with that sweet old lady, she is my grandmother. I, like many people, got stuck in places they didn’t usually live in during the COVID-19 pandemic. I ended up in a small town in the North of England with my then 96 year old grandmother. It was quite a shock to the system coming from my busy London life to the altogether more quiet small town at the foot of the Lancashire moors. I swapped commuting for zoom calls, and seeing my friends, to long solitary hikes on the moors with only the odd pony, sheep, or alpaca for company.

Accidents will happen

‘What do you mean you’ve fallen? Where were you?’ I asked, squeezing my mobile phone in between my ear and shoulder as I was simultaneously trying to type a work email.

I had been working from my small flat for about a week as my company had decided it was safer to close our central London office due to a rather worryingly serious flu-like disease that was spreading quickly around the world. I had picked up the phone as the call was from my father who very rarely called unless he needed something.

It transpired he had fallen on the Lancashire moors and really hurt his ankle, this was a problem because he had come over from France, where he lived, to visit my grandmother  who was quite poorly at the time and was supposed to be looking after her.

‘Can you put weight on it?’ I asked, concerned.

‘No, it is very swollen and hurts like hell.’ Was the answer.

‘Go to A&E! It could be broken, and you’ve had to walk all the way back so you might have made it worse.’

‘If you go to hospital, you’ll never come out! ‘ Was my grandmother’s helpful contribution in the background. This was her typically dramatic, if not entirely unfounded, reaction to any interaction with the NHS.

‘Grandma, I can hear you. He’s not going to die from a broken ankle and we have no choice. You have a mask? Get in a taxi and go.’

‘Ok…guess I’ll have to.’ said my father reluctantly.

‘Yes, see what they say and if it is bad I’ll come up and help.’

I hung up and let out a frustrated sigh… He’d never fallen while out on a hike before and was a little worried about the outcome.

A few hours later, my phone buzzed again, my father was calling.

‘So you survived A&E then?’ I asked, as I picked up the phone.

‘Yes, they were great actually. My ankle is broken, I can’t put weight on it for 6 weeks and they’ve given me a boot to wear. Can you come up and help?’

‘Yes, I’ll check with my boss and I’ll come up for a bit.’

The next day, I rolled my small suitcase out of my flat, confidently telling my flatmate I’d be back soon.

As soon as I walked through the door in Rochdale, I knew I’d made the right decision. My grandmother looked skeletal and very unsteady on her feet and my dad could only hobble a short distance. There was only an onion and some milk in the fridge. I quickly took charge cleaning, doing laundry, getting some groceries in, and generally looking after them.

That was more than 3 years ago. And I’m still looking after my grandma, my dad recovered and left as soon as the borders reopened in the summer after the first national lockdown in the UK , eager to get back to his life and conveniently forgetting about mine. I swapped nights out, for nights in watching repeat episodes of Midsomer Murders, or Vera; commuting into the office to working from the spare bedroom; seeing friends to solitary hikes on the moors at weekends.

I gradually fell into a routine of working endless hours remotely and being the sole carer for my grandmother. My efforts had paid off, she looked better, had put on weight and was generally perkier.

I have learnt a lot about being carer, over the last 3 years living with my grandma and compiled some of the stories below.

Being a carer is hard, lonely and can be very depressing, thankfully my ‘patient’ as I called her, is often (unintentionally) funny, infuriating, sweet, and stubborn, and she does teach me a thing or two about life and reminds me of all the funny stories of a life well lived. I hope this blogs provides an accurate, and entertaining, account of the realities of life in the UK as an unpaid carer, thank you for reading.