How Far We've Come
Aug. 22nd, 2012 05:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
netgirl_y2kAbout three and a half years ago, when I was made redundant from the loathsome admin job I had at the time, I took the opportunity to start spending more time my grandmother who was suffering from breast cancer but otherwise in not bad nick for someone just entering her nineties. For a while I temped as well, but as my grandmother's health worsened she started taking up more of my time and attention and I worried about leaving her and job hunting took a back seat, and my relatives started trying to offer me money without ever doing anything so crass as actually offering me money.
And so with more of a whimper than a bang, and without ever really being entirely sure how it happened, I became my grandmother's full time carer. And for three years it was occasionally wonderful, occasionally hilarious, frequently undignified, and mostly really, really sad.
I did this through myriad hospital visits, infections, mini-strokes, and a diagnosis of dementia. Last Christmas she took the first real turn for the worse beyond what I felt I could cope with; she was found wandering the streets at 4am not knowing who she was, and I put my foot down and said, no, enough is enough, she needs 24 hour care. Then, of course, for I once angered the Gods of Irony, her health looked up, and I let it slide, because I wanted to have been wrong, to have been overreacting. We had another four, what I'll remember as good months together, but then she started declining rapidly, terrifyingly rapidly.
Um, you may have noticed that I was sort of, er, unspooling for a while there?
Last month she got taken into respite care to give me a break, which has now officially turned into her moving permanently into the care home. It was mostly done by her doctor and social services, which was probably best as it spared me from having to make a decision that I desperately did not want to have to make. And it's a really nice home. I don't know why that surprises me so much, I mean I wasn't expecting it to be a Dickensian poorhouse, but on some level I really was expecting it to be a Dickensian poorhouse. It's also where she needs to be; she thinks my name is Irene whenever I visit, and for those of you who don't know, my name is Gillian, so God knows where Irene came from.
And I've still got lots of related stuff to do, like I need power of attorney, and her house needs serious work before I have any hope of selling or letting it. And after that there's all that stuff that I noticeably wasn't doing while I was taking care of Gran: get a job, keep it, make some money of my own, meet a girl, girls' even. And that's all huge and scary, but right now I'm just trying to remember how to breathe.
Note: Your regularly scheduled books, tv, fic, and discussion of how Sophie Turner's face will someday launch a thousand ships will return shortly.
And so with more of a whimper than a bang, and without ever really being entirely sure how it happened, I became my grandmother's full time carer. And for three years it was occasionally wonderful, occasionally hilarious, frequently undignified, and mostly really, really sad.
I did this through myriad hospital visits, infections, mini-strokes, and a diagnosis of dementia. Last Christmas she took the first real turn for the worse beyond what I felt I could cope with; she was found wandering the streets at 4am not knowing who she was, and I put my foot down and said, no, enough is enough, she needs 24 hour care. Then, of course, for I once angered the Gods of Irony, her health looked up, and I let it slide, because I wanted to have been wrong, to have been overreacting. We had another four, what I'll remember as good months together, but then she started declining rapidly, terrifyingly rapidly.
Um, you may have noticed that I was sort of, er, unspooling for a while there?
Last month she got taken into respite care to give me a break, which has now officially turned into her moving permanently into the care home. It was mostly done by her doctor and social services, which was probably best as it spared me from having to make a decision that I desperately did not want to have to make. And it's a really nice home. I don't know why that surprises me so much, I mean I wasn't expecting it to be a Dickensian poorhouse, but on some level I really was expecting it to be a Dickensian poorhouse. It's also where she needs to be; she thinks my name is Irene whenever I visit, and for those of you who don't know, my name is Gillian, so God knows where Irene came from.
And I've still got lots of related stuff to do, like I need power of attorney, and her house needs serious work before I have any hope of selling or letting it. And after that there's all that stuff that I noticeably wasn't doing while I was taking care of Gran: get a job, keep it, make some money of my own, meet a girl, girls' even. And that's all huge and scary, but right now I'm just trying to remember how to breathe.
Note: Your regularly scheduled books, tv, fic, and discussion of how Sophie Turner's face will someday launch a thousand ships will return shortly.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-22 07:25 pm (UTC)I hope you meet GIRLS! Remember to breathe before, during, and after though. ;-)
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Date: 2012-08-22 09:14 pm (UTC)Good advice, I'll try to remember that.
I've been bad about replying to comments recently, but thank you for your kind words throughout all of this.
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Date: 2012-08-22 09:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-22 10:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-22 11:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-23 02:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-23 05:51 am (UTC)PS: As Tumblr likes to say, go forth and meet ALLLLL the girls! Conquer!
no subject
Date: 2012-08-23 12:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-25 04:47 am (UTC)