For the past three months, my brother and I have been having quite the legal skirmish over our dear mum. Ever since her stroke, life hasnt exactly been a stroll along the Thames. She cannot remember what shes done from one minute to the next and needs someone with her constantly. Im talking round-the-clock care, which, frankly, has landed squarely on my shoulders. At this rate, its like looking after a toddlerexcept with more opinions, and less chance of her growing out of it.
Now, I’ve got a job, a mortgage, a familyhow exactly am I supposed to split myself in two? I suggested putting mum in a care home, but my brotheroh, nohe nearly blew a gasket and accused me of treating her like a stray pet. And yet, hes not exactly volunteering to have her move in with him. Probably worried his wife would have him sleeping in the shed.
We used to be your typical British foursome: mum, dad, my brother George and meone year apart in age, the parents had us late in life, probably once their careers survived the Thatcher years. Now, Im 36, George is 35, and mums turned 72. Things started unraveling after dad diedbefore that, we were practically the Waltons.
George ran off to uni in Manchester and stuck around, got married, and settled into the city life. I moved back to Birmingham, rented a flat with my husband (Im Sarah Bennett now), with dreams of buying someday and expanding the family. You know, sensible plans, like having a pension and remembering bin day.
But since dad passed away two years ago, mums been swallowed by grief. She shrank almost overnight. Six months back she had a stroke, and we thought that might be it. At first, she couldnt speak much and was half-paralysed, but later, even as her body improved, her mind never bounced back quite the same. Doctors say its all irreversible. So, here I am as her full-time carer.
My husband and I moved into mums house, I switched to working freelance so I could always be nearby. Couldnt leave her alone for a second. Even after she regained her mobility, she still wandered off and stuttered, convinced my long-gone dad was waiting for her somewhere. It was, you might say, exhilaratingif by exhilarating, you mean sleepless and bone-crushingly exhausting.
Meanwhile, my work became a joke, focus evaporated faster than sunny weather in England. My endlessly practical husband, Mark, nudged me toward the care home option.
They dont come cheap, mind you. Unless youve got a secret stash of £100 notes, paying for a decent place is a proper challenge. Mark reminded me, Youve got a brotherlet him put his hand in his pocket too. Quite right.
For ages, the guilt gnawed at me, but reality bites: this might be the only way. Shed get proper care, nurses, attention, everything a daughter cant physically offer. I toured the placeits expensive, yes, but what choice is there?
So I phoned George, laid it all out. Hoped hed understand the seriousness and join me in grown-up decision-making. Instead, he went absolutely ballistic.
Are you off your trolley? Youre putting mum in a home with strangers? How do you know shell be happy there? Thats heartless! he hollered down the line, as if Id proposed leaving her on a park bench.
I tried explaining, but he was having none of it. So I carried on, juggling mums care like a woman on a BBC reality show. After a while, the cracks started showing; I called George againno change.
Honestly, Id never want to do this to mum. She raised us, didnt abandon us to foster care, never moaned about having us underfoot. We owe her everything. But why is only one of us wearing the Superhero Daughter cape? If he didnt like my plan, he could take mum living with him and showcase his big heart for the extended family. George, predictably, hesitated. Sarah, I live in Emmas flat. How could I ask her to look after my mother-in-law? So Mark can deal with my mum but Emma cant? You see my point.
I told George, if he doesnt act soon, Im tempted to pack mums bags myself. Let him and Emma move in and take over. George muttered about work, deadlines, responsibilitiesand accused me of trying to dump all the hard bits.
My life these days is like a particularly bad dream: torn between doing the sensible thing and feeling like a bad daughter. Mark is squarely in my corner; he thinks the care home is the answer, and says we still have our own lives to live. Hes right.
So Ive decided to give George one week. If he doesnt turn up and pitch in, then Ill do what needs to be done. Everyones got opinions, but only I know how hard it is. Let George think up his excuses for the dinner partiesbecause Ive truly had enough of the lot of them.
