Ill never forget that dreary November; it seemed as though it rained every day, tapping endlessly against the windows, the kind of rain that soaks into every memory. I want to share a story about our old neighbours or more precisely, about Carol. Carol was in her early fifties, working nights at the local corner shop. Shed head out as the rest of the town was settling in for the evening. Her husband, Peter, was an engineer at the plant, not a bad man, just rather fixed in his ways, the sort to stick to the same path and routine. Everything chugged along as usual until trouble landed on their doorstep in the form of his mother, Margaret.
Margaret, who was about eighty-five, had lived alone in a small village out in the countryside. Shed suffered a mild stroke not too severe, they hoped, but it was obvious she could no longer cope by herself. Peter, without much hesitating, decided shed better move in with them. His sister, Susan, who also lived nearby, was quick to breathe a sigh of relief: Thanks, Pete, for taking this on. I really cant tiny flat, you know, and my husband wouldnt have it.
So Margaret arrived, and from that moment, Carols old life essentially vanished.
Pretty much everything fell on Carols shoulders. Instead of getting some sleep after her night shift, shed spend her days looking after her mother-in-law feeding her, washing her, helping change adult nappies, bundling her up for a chilly autumn stroll in the wheelchair. Peter would come home from work, glance into the hallway, and ask, Mum alright? Then hed disappear off to the lounge, parked in front of the telly.
I remember how worn out she looked, trudging home at dawn with heavy bags eyes sunken, skin pale as milk. Once, I helped her drag a load of shopping and incontinence pads up the stairs.
Thanks, Andrew, she mumbled, her voice flat and empty.
Carol, you need help yourself. You cant keep going like this, I told her.
She gave a sad, soundless sort of laugh. Whos going to help? Peters got work, and Susan well, she only pops in on Christmas or Easter, quick to dish out advice but never her hands.
Carol tried to talk to Peter sensibly, like grown-ups.
Pete, I cant do this anymore. Im running on fumes. Lets hire a carer, even for a few hours a day. Or lets look at a proper care home, one that knows how to do this.
His reaction was immediate and fierce, as if shed suggested tossing his mum out with the rubbish.
Are you mad? Put my own mother in a care home? I wont even hear of it! Shes my mum, for crying out loud!
He sounded less loving than terrified mostly of what people would say, and especially his sister Susan.
Susan got wind of their discussion and turned up that same evening not so much to help, more to lay down the law.
Carol, arent you ashamed of yourself? Even thinking about putting Mum in a home? The whole family would never forgive you! Youre just selfish. You care more about your own comfort!
Carol didnt argue what could you say to someone who breezes in once a fortnight for a token kiss on the cheek and a few words of pity?
She soldiered on. Nights at work, days spent wrung dry by the relentless, backbreaking routine. Peter didnt even seem to notice how done-in she was, so long as his mum was fed and clean. To him, that was the natural way of things the wifes lot.
Everything came to a head in a truly awful way. While trying to move Margaret from the bed to her chair on her own, Carol felt a sharp, crushing pain shoot through her back. She didnt collapse, just slowly slid down to the carpet, helpless next to her mother-in-law, who simply stared at her with foggy eyes.
When Peter came home, he panicked, running about uselessly. He hadnt the faintest idea how to manage how to change a pad, whip up some porridge, or give medication. His neat, ordered world crumbled.
The GP who came to visit delivered a blunt verdict: her back was wrecked. Bed rest, complete relaxation at least two weeks, no lifting, no stress.
But my mother-in-law she needs me, Carol whispered.
If you dont rest now, next stop is hospital. Possibly even surgery, the doctor replied briskly. Youll risk permanent damage.
At home, chaos reigned. Peter, looking ashen from worry, tried his best with his mum but couldnt keep up. The mess, the helplessness it became obvious. He phoned his sister.
Sue, its all gone wrong! Carols out of action, I need you to take Mum for a bit!
Awkward mumbling filled the line.
Pete, you know I cant. Its impossible here my husband, the flat I wouldnt know where to start. Youll manage, Im sure.
Peter hung up and sat in the hallway, head in his hands. For the first time, he saw the situation as it truly was not some vague problem, but a real, live disaster with his unwell wife and needy mother at the centre.
Carol was stuck in bed, wincing in pain, but for the first time in ages things seemed clear. She could hear the shuffling outside, Peters flustered footsteps, Margarets soft mutterings. When Peter finally entered her room, looking drawn and exhausted, holding out a mug of soup, she looked at him with a steady calm not angry, not bitter, just absolutely sure.
Peter, she said quietly but firmly. Im not looking after your mum anymore. Not tomorrow, not in two weeks, not ever again.
He started to protest, but she held up a hand, cutting him off.
No. Listen to me. We have two options. First together, we find and pay for a proper solution. Whether that means a live-in carer, or yes, a care home, we look around, check things out together, and decide.
And the other option? Peter croaked.
I file for divorce, and I move out. You and your mum, and your oh-so-sympathetic sister, can figure it out yourselves. You choose.
She lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Shed said her piece.
Peter left the room. He sat in the dark kitchen for hours, running over the whole sorry saga the months of exhaustion, Carols silent desperation, his own fear and Susans feeble excuses. He paced the little flat, finally forced to truly see what everything had become, and what choice there really was not picking between his mother and wife, but between keeping up appearances and actually saving their lives.
Next morning he went to Carol.
Well start looking at care homes, he told her, quietly. A good place. And a carer for now, while Im home on leave. Ive sorted it with work. Ill make all the calls, go round in person.
She nodded. There was nothing more to say.
Now, Margaret lives in a private care home just outside town. Clean, comfortable, always someone there to help. Peter and Carol visit every Sunday, bringing homemade biscuits, chatting to her, making sure shes alright. And for the first time in a long while, they see each other not as prisoners and wardens, but as partners again.
One day, meeting Carol out front, I asked, Hows things now, Carol? Are you alright?
She smiled, light and easy, the first real smile Id seen on her in years.
Theyre getting there, Andrew. Ive realised something being kind doesnt mean sacrificing yourself completely. Sometimes the right answer is finding what works for everyone, and having the guts to stick to it.
And thats the heart of it. Taking care of yourself isnt selfish its how you stay strong enough to care about others. Without that, everyone just falls apart.
