Life as a carer is tougher than I expected
Taking her father out of his care home has proved an even bigger challenge than Jacqui Deevoy could have imagined
The decision to take my dad out of the care home wasn’t a popular one. “You haven’t thought this through,” said my stepsister. “Who’s going to look after him?” asked another relative. “I suppose I am,” I answered.
“It won’t be easy,” said a voice-ofdoom Facebook friend. “I looked after my mum for a week before she went into a care home and it nearly killed me.”
I was in such a hurry to remove him from the situation that was causing him distress – being in a care home with a no-visitor policy – that I hadn’t thought for a second about what was going to happen next.
I’d recently moved out of London. At 58, and with four flown-the-nest children, I was free to be where I wanted to be. A penthouse flat in Shoreham-by-sea, with views of the River Adur, the Channel and the South Downs had been my new home since July. My father’s council house in Essex was not where I wanted to be but, as the incredulous relative had also pointed out, I’d made my bed…
My dad was happy to be home again, and thrilled that friends and family could visit. The first few days were a blur of activity. Reality soon kicked in though: caring for a 77-year-old man with vascular dementia is a round-the-clock job.
One night, I heard him clambering out of bed and pushing his walking frame across the carpeted floor for the third time. “Are y you OK, , Dad?” I called.
“I’m just going g to the loo,” he replied. “I might need some help.”
The next night, I woke to find him in my room.
“What’s up,
Dad?” I asked sleepily.
“I just fancied a chat,” he said.
“It’s 4.10am,” I told him. “I don’t t feel very chatty.”
Even in the semimidarkness, I could d see from his hunched form silhouetted in the e doorway, that he was disappointed. I felt elt mean.
“OK then,” he said quietly. “So what t shall I do?”
“Go back to bed?” ed?” I suggested.
He shuffled away. My heart hurt. I got up and helped him back into bed and gave him a kiss goodnight.
An hour later, he was back in my room. “Get up,” he ordered. “It’s 3pm.”
I jumped up, heart thumping. I hate being woken up. I’m like the proverbial bear – the one with the sore head, not the one who defecates in the woods.
Talking of which: “I’ve had an acci a accident,” Dad added quietly. I was engulfed in a strange wa wave of pity, mixed with anger an and gut-wrenching di d disappointment.
That was my wise and w witty dad standing there, lost and embarrassed; a whisper o of the man he used to be. In t that moment I realised I didn’t want to be there, dealing with this.
I showere showered and changed him and tucked him back up into bed. “Don’t you dare get up again tonight,” I warned, trying to sound playful. But I was deadly serious.
That night, I dreamt of Dad. Even in my sleep, I couldn’t get away. “We’re going to have to find you a live-in carer,” I told him the next day. “But I like you looking after me,” he said.
“I know you do,” I smiled, sitting on the arm of his favourite armchair (“the throne”, we call it) and giving him a hug. “But I have work to do and a new flat I’d quite like to live in!”
My relatives were right. I hadn’t thought it through. I hadn’t pictured myself having to escort my dad to the bathroom, having to shower him, wash the bits he can’t reach.
I hadn’t imagined how long it would take to walk him across the living room, from the door to his throne, one hand on his walking stick, the other gripping my shoulder as I sing Lean On Me to him.
That’s what we were doing when he had his seizure. He was tottering behind me, holding on to my shoulder, a two-person conga, when I felt his fingers tighten.
I twisted round to find him frozen, his eyes flickering rhythmically and darting upwards repeatedly. As he fell, I managed to push him onto the leather sofa. He was frothing at the mouth. I rolled him onto his side and held him with my left hand, grabbing my phone with my right. I told the 999 operator I thought he’d stopped breathing because, by the time I’d got through, he was blue. She told me to lie him on his back on the floor. I said I didn’t think that was a good idea and, in a panic, I hung up.
I called a neighbour to come and help, then called again for an ambulance. He started breathing again and was coming out of the episode by the time the paramedics arrived. I was shaking.
After he had been stretchered out of the house and driven off in the ambulance (“new normal” rules prevented me from accompanying him), I felt worried, yet guilty for thinking that, with him in hospital, at least I’d get a good night’s sleep.
As it happened, I didn’t. I had disturbing dreams, in which he’d wandered out the back door into the darkness. I could hear him calling “Help me, help me,” from somewhere far away. I woke up crying, praying he’d be OK.
The next day, he was returned home and was fine. The consultant said that fits were common following a stroke, which he had over a year ago.
Another answer to my prayers came in the form of Tracie, a lovely pink-haired carer recommended by a friend, who said she could start that Friday. The timing couldn’t have been better. After almost two weeks being the sole carer for my dad, I was fit to drop.
Tracie took over and I drove home to my seaside flat. It took me two days to feel normal again. But, six days later, Tracie had to leave due to a family emergency of her own, so I returned to Essex.
Between family and friends, we’ve managed to keep the 24/7 care going. It’s been like a strange kind of relay race, except there’s no finishing line in sight.
I’ve now returned home again, while a friend is doing a two-week stint. I’m hoping Tracie will be back soon. If not, I’ll find a new carer.
Tracie, who’s worked as a carer for 18 years, told me that caring as a job is one thing but caring for a parent is very different. I’ll never know.
What I do know is, regardless of how hard it may be and regardless of what anyone says, I’ve done the right thing. And, for now, that – and my dad’s happy face – is all that matters.
It’s like a strange kind of relay race, except there’s no finishing line in sight
Carers UK is one of four charities supported by this year’s Telegraph Christmas Charity Appeal. The others are Refuge, Cruse Bereavement Care and Macmillan Cancer Support. To make a donation, please visit telegraph. co.uk/appeal or call 0151 284 1927