This elicits a laugh.
‘Don’t think there is a perfect woman for Con. I think he found the perfect woman years ago, but he just couldn’t recognise her, what with all the imperfect women he keeps finding,’ I joke.
I pour her tea, hand it over to her and our fingers touch. I think it’s the touch that does it because suddenly she lets go of the cup, puts her hands on the table, rests her head on them and begins to sob.
‘Oh Freya, I can’t do this. I, I thought I could look after your father but I’m the wrong person to do it, because I am going to hurt him. He is going to get a pressure sore or he’s going to choke on some food because his ability to swallow is going, or something is going to happen that I’m not going to be able to sort out. I was so stupid,’ she says.
‘You’re never stupid, Mum,’ I say gently. ‘You love him.’
‘I thought love could fix everything, but he has medical needs and I can’t fulfil them. I’ve been putting it off but I know there is no other way: he has to go back tofull-time care, where they can look after him properly.’
She can’t speak for a few moments as the sobs come.
I say nothing but just keep hugging, knowing the story will come out when she’s able to go on.
‘The occupational therapist was in yesterday and we had a talk,’ she says. ‘We need so much more equipment to keep him safe here and it would be like turning the house into a hospital and having medical staff on all the time and I could still mess up. He could have another stroke, probably will, and what would we do? The list of things that could go wrong is endless and I don’t know what to do.’
‘You’re going to do what’s right for Dad,’ I say, holding on to my calm.
‘But I thought this was the right thing for him, being with him, loving him.’
‘And it was for a while but not anymore,’ I point out. ‘That doesn’t mean you’ve failed. You have given him everything and you can still continue to give him so much love, but it just won’t be here.’
‘But I want it to be in our home.’
‘And yet it can’t be, Mum,’ I say. I know my job here – I have to help her through this pain.
‘I’ve tried so hard, I’ve tried to keep up a happy face and make it look as though I was handling it all but ...’
I smile at her gently.
‘Mum, I was doing that for months after being mugged, pretending it was all fine. I know there’s no comparison between that and poor Dad, but the truth is the same: sometimes putting on the happy face isn’t the answer.’
Even as I say it, I know this is startlingly true.
‘Sometimes, we are powerless and we just have to let go of this false sense of control and say,no, I’m not coping. I don’t feel great today, I can’t do this... What helped me was my support group and you don’t even have time for that.’
I think of all the people like my mother who are carers, who truly go through tragedy day after day and do it with such courage no matter how exhausted they are. And what helps them most is to be honest and to say when they cannot cope.
‘Mum, we have to protect Dad and if that means he cannot be cared for here, then he cannot be cared for here, OK?’
‘I thought you’d hate me for saying that,’ she says, ‘because I told everyone for so long that I would look after him and it would be fine.’
‘Mum, you’re one person,’ I say. ‘You can’t do everything. Eddie and Granny Bridget were quite enough. But add someone as neurologically and physically disabled as Dad, and you can’t manage. Let’s all sit down, put our heads together and find out the best place for Dad.
‘You gave him time at home in his own home where he’s been loved and now he will be somewhere else where he will be loved, but where he will be safe, medically speaking. Because that’s something you can’t give him anymore, no matter how much you love him.’
‘OK,’ she’s nodding now and I grab some tissues from the table and hand them to her. ‘I was afraid you’d think I was a coward.’
‘You’re far from a coward, Mum,’ I say. ‘Now, how about tomorrow we talk to Scarlett, Con and Maura.’
‘I think Con is going away for a long weekend.’
And suddenly we both laugh in the way you laugh in the middle of great pain.
‘Is he ever going to settle down?’ I say.
‘Probably,’ says Mum, ‘some day. He has to do his own thing, find his own way.’
