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It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to … #dementia #ranting

I’ve sort of been debating whether or not I should post this. I wrote it just too late to publish last weekend and things have been so much better this week that, in some ways, it’s no longer relevant.

Except that, from the point of view of the people who read this, I’m now thinking that actually, it might be helpful. Everyone has bad days, everyone feels swamped sometimes and if that’s you then at least when you read this, you’ll know you’re not alone, that it happens to everyone, that there are people out there who can sympathise with how you feel. No-one’s life is roses the entire time and I think being honest about that is allowed!

Basically, I’m feeling a bit ‘meh’ today. Like this.

Some days I feel a bit like this.

Ten years ago, heavily pregnant, I went to a lot of fortieth birthday parties. I thought, blithely, that I’d organise one of my own but then I spent the actual day doing a lot of drugs and having a c‐section.

Never mind, I thought, I’ll have a ‘Not my 4oth Birthday Party’ when I reach the magic age of 42.

But then Dad began to get really ill and I got in a tizzy and I had a two year old, for fuck’s sake, and my in‐laws sold their house with no‐where to go so they had to come and live with us and my head imploded. My in‐laws are ace and I’d never have done anything else than put them up, but I found having them here really difficult, and I was cross with them for coming here, which threw me completely. I hadn’t seen it coming and I was utterly disappointed in myself not to mention, completely perplexed. I mean, I couldn’t understand it at all. Why was I so angry? Why was I finding it all so hard? Even after they had sorted themselves out and left I was asking myself what on earth had got into me.

Finally, a couple of months after they’d gone, I worked out that my irrational anger stemmed from the fact that with them in the guest room, my parents couldn’t come to stay and worse, they just happened to be in the guest room over the last summer that my parents would have been able to visit us here. It was all bound up with the subconscious realisation that I would never be able have my folks here again and my subconscious was blaming my in laws for being homeless at the wrong time! Obviously it couldn’t do anything constructive like give my conscious mind the heads up but at least I worked it out eventually. As I said last week, I’m a bit slow. Once I’d finally cottoned on I cried most of the day but it was such a huge relief to work it out, and the next morning I woke with shingles, which I still believe I had instead of a nervous breakdown.

Looking back on it, not a great year for trying to plan a party then, that one. Indeed, I completely forgot about it and I guess I should consider organising a thought as an achievement at that point! Yes. Party planning was definitely right out. So I thought I’d wait until I was 45 but neither McMini nor I had a party that year because we got hit by a car and then I was going to be fifty so soon that there wasn’t much point.

Thus, it was that celebrating hitting 40 never worked out and here I am, looking down the barrel at another Important Birthday with an equally huge lack of enthusiasm to do anything about it. Although at least I’ve remembered, I suppose that’s a step up.

Originally, I was in the clear. McOther told me he would organise something and not to worry but a month ago, he fessed up that with his work the way it is, and no prospect of his work‐life balance moving towards the ‘life’ end of the see‐saw any time before he retires (0r, more likely, dies of some stress‐related illness) he wasn’t going to be able to organise anything.

This has left me with a conundrum. I feel that having failed miserably to organise a party‐like ‘event’ for my 40th Birthday, even if McMini’s arrival was pretty cool. It behoves me to do it now. So far, you’ll be impressed to know that I’ve done a really good job of ignoring it and hoping it goes away.

The thing is, when I think of a party, I think of a bar‐b‐queue or a marquee on the lawn, and caterers and everyone I know; family and friends, turning up to eat food and get pissed and have a good time. And I’m thinking of, possibly, a couple of speeches. You know, kind of like a wedding only more relaxed. Except that I realised that one of the main reasons I don’t really want to have a party is because at all the events like this I’ve had so far, my parents would be there. And in this case it wouldn’t be an issue if they were dead, we could raise a toast to them and remember them fondly, but they’re not dead. They’re alive. But they can’t stay here; no chairlift, no 24 hour care etc. Putting aside the fact that my dad … well … when you hug your father goodbye and he sometimes gropes your arse you know it’s getting to the stage when public appearances have to be handled carefully and only attempted on the right kind of day.

So that’s the nub of it. If I have a party. I have to plan it all as if my parents are dead while they’re alive. And few things bring home the fact they are both losing their minds — and that my brother and I get the special joy of watching that happen — more forcefully than planning an event they would have attended, but can’t, as if they are dead, when they’re alive. Which also highlights that they are … kind of … undead.

And it drags up all that other stuff about how part of me almost wishes they were dead because it might be the most merciful thing and because watching them fade away is so painful. And the fact that some days I rejoice that they’re around but others their predicament is like some enormous millstone around my physical and emotional neck that just gets heavier and heavier and heavier and cannot be put aside. Ever. And it brings home how hard it is to live a normal life with this crippling sadness and makes every other load I have to carry so much heavier. And I try to see the joy in life, I really do, and normally I’m quite good at it. But sometimes it’s extremely difficult especially when the physical pain of my knees over the last year has been at about the same level as a newly twisted ankle every. fucking. day.

Thinking about it, I guess I just want to be more than someone other people need; a dead leaf blown about on the winds of other peoples’ neediness, but it’s hard to find the time to be anything other than mother or carer and when I do, that has to be spent looking after my stupid bastard knees, or creeping round the house taking about ten hours to do the amount of cleaning able people do in two minutes. Perhaps I’m getting carer fatigue. Is that a thing? Dad has been losing his mind since 2004 and Mum since 2015. It’s a long time to keep CBT‐ing yourself and to drag that shit around and it takes more and more time so then of course, you end up with less and less time to yourself; pretty much none once you’ve taken care of the physio/gym/exercising/pain management routine.

This last two weeks we were away and in the first week of our holiday, while the others skied, I wrote. I only managed an hour or two each day but it was so unbelievably wonderful to get my life back. Once I’d done enough walking or swimming to feel I could eat as much as everyone else, I sat down at the table. There was no washing or cleaning to be done. There was no meaningful internet so none of the things I was supposed to be organising — the Parish magazine, for example — could be attended to. No stupid shitey little ‘can you book so and so’ or ‘can you find a weekend when thingwat and oojah can visit’ or jobs that should take ten minutes but end up taking for fucking ever.

There was no replying to emails, no organising anything, no futile attempts to get folks round for play dates with McMini which end in failure because other people work or are more organised than me and sorted their free days months before the holidays began. That week of writing was a tonic but it has made it all the harder to go back to the, ‘treat yourself to 20 minutes a day two days a week if you’re lucky’ regime under which I usually live. I think I’m feeling this now because it’s the summer term, which means that, in the first half, at any rate, it’s pretty much all three day weeks for me so I’ll get bugger all done. So as we do the inevitable PD day — heaven forfend that the number of full weeks this half of term should outnumber the short ones — I’m just looking down the barrel of disappearing up my own arse as I try to do the stuff I usually do, organise myself enough to be able to attend and plan social events and steel myself for the fact I have to plan a party and probably won’t write anything until July now.

So, many apologies, but sometimes, I think it’s OK to have a bit of a rant about things, like this. When it feels as if life has punched you to the floor, it’s alright to kick your legs about and scream like a toddler having a tantrum every now and again. You know, just for a moment or two, before you pick yourself up and carry on. I have therefore added this post to the ‘rant’ category but not the ‘massive rant’ category on this blog. (Yes those categories really do exist.)

On the up side … there’s my boys and McMini. On Monday, McMini and I spent the day together. It was hugely entertaining. For example, I sat with him while he was doing his homework. It took about three hours because his concentration levels came in three millisecond bursts but he got it done and we had a very entertaining conversation along the way. How’s this for an opener?

Mum, it’s interesting isn’t it but you would think phlegm was spelled f‐l‐e‐m wouldn’t you?’

At no point did the word phlegm crop up in the pursuance of his studies, it’s just a random thought that occurred to him. Or there’s this one, from our holiday, in a restaurant.

Hey Mum! Those curtains are just like the ones in Jabba the Hutt’s palace.’

This one was followed by a lengthy discussion as to whether frogs use fart and if so, whether it will help add lift when they jump — complete with demonstrations by McMini, naturally. All conducted as he demolished a bowl of frog’s legs and compared himself to Jabba the Hutt in Return of the Jedi, you know, when he was eating those little squeaky things.

Then there are the Horrible Choices questions.

Mum, which would you rather? Be killed by a giant sword or run over by a steam roller?’
‘Neither.’
‘No Mum, you HAVE to choose.’

Or the use of a glue gun to make a sniper’s rifle. Amount of time from McMini seeing the glue exit the front of the gun to our making ‘fake’ drool: too short to be measured by current instrumentation.

And there’s his continued torturing of Alexa. Yesterday’s questions include:

Alexa, how do you make chocolate ice cream from poo?
Alexa, what does urinate mean?
Alexa, what is urine?
Alexa, where does poo come from; the willy or the mouth? (He’s so desperate to make her say ‘bum’.)
Alexa, what is poo?
Alexa, can you eat poo?

So purile but so funny. Because I’m really mature. By next year McMini will probably be rather more mature than I am but at the moment, hanging out with him usually involves us giggling until we cry at some point.

Meanwhile McOther and I are watching TV and I ask, in exasperation with a character, why she is sleeping with someone she knows is a baddie on the other side,

Ah, keep your friends close but your enemies closer,’ says McOther.
‘So that’s why you married me!’ I say. McOther laughs and I get a little fizzy buzz from amusing him.

I would be so lost without them.

Posted April 21, 2018 and visited 621 times, 5 so far today

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