IT is now a year since James was diagnosed with dementia and I have lost count of the very many appointments we have had with doctors, district nurses, specialists and the emergency room in that time.
But while entirely sympathetic to James’ plight, I have found myself increasingly irritated that these appointments are always entirely about him.
Tell a medical professional that you are haggard with exhaustion because your husband has been roaming around the house for the past several nights, and they will uniformly remark “Oh! How awful for him...”
Or say that his regular, unplacatable and undistractable, sundowning is enough to tip you over the edge of sanity and they will note that he must be feeling distressed.
Which of course he is.
But all the while the unacknowledged knot inside me turns tighter and tighter...and I fear one day it is going to snap.
Today however, is all about me for once, with a home health check “for carers”.
The cynic in me wonders if this is real concern for my welfare, or if the NHS just wants to establish how much more I can take before I break.
But I nevertheless agree to the visit which I am warned will take two hours.
Two hours? The same time James’ Memory Test took.
I make a mental note to mug up on world rulers, and counting backwards from 100 in sevens just in case my own marbles are to come under close scrutiny.
But it all turns out to be very unalarming.
The nurse is a motherly older woman, with an endearing twinkle in her eye, and so small, that short as I am, she would tuck comfortably under my chin.
We talk. A lot.
I cry. A lot.
She makes notes and nods kindly...
And I feel for the first time in a long time that someone is actually listening to me.
We work slowly through her long and thorough check list and she finally comes to the question of whether I would like counselling.
I would not...
I don’t need someone to talk to, I tell her.
What I need is someone who will come and hose my husband down in the early hours when he has poo-ed himself for the third time in a night...
But we both know that isn’t going to happen.
Besides, I tell her, I have a blog (yes, this very blog you are reading right now!) which helps me get stuff off my chest.
Her ears prick up.
May I have the link? she asks slightly shyly.
I may be a care support nurse but I am also a carer myself and I think I would enjoy reading it...
It has been a very pleasant visit and we part friends.
But the news is not all good.
My earnest hope that I might keel over some day really quite soon comes to nothing...
I am, it seems, in robust health - and good for several thousand miles more on the caring clock...
Truly utterly utterly depressing in the extreme. Can’t tell you how much I feel for you (and how much I have been there too)
Why not try some counselling - I am.