A Carer’s Diary – Episode 5

Her birthday falls early in the month, then, of course, there is the slow march on Christmas itself, that plumped-up goose of a festival, with enough cares and disappointments to last one the whole new year through.

She so rarely does well with her birthday. I have a headache yet, writing these lines three days after. And this year wasn’t even so bad … no one died, no one even got injured. Not that we could tell, at least.

We took a drive down the A5 to Lichfield, and spent a crisp and pleasant morning admiring the cathedral. It was busy – and Harriet did OK with this, on the whole, questioning just once why anyone else was here, getting “everywhere”. We shopped in the cathedral gift shop. We took morning coffee in their café. She gave all her money to the young girl selling the Big Issue, and then ran away from her before she could thank her. It really went incredibly well. And she was happy.

But Harriet’s birthday also means she must spend time with her family, and this really is tough on her. The mental strain is incredible. It had been her mother’s birthday just seven days before, and so stressed and anxious had she become at the thought of even the merest social celebration with her mother, that she scrupulously avoided any contact whatsoever with her throughout the entire day – unable even to send her good wishes via the telephone. And despite these precautions, she was still unbelievably ill twenty four hours after the event.

I sometimes wonder whether her family realise the dread with which she faces up to their visits. We both wind up feeling nauseous. This year, her grandmother chose to ignore the get-together entirely, and no one really showed too much disappointment at this. When parents and brother and aunt had each crowded into our compact living room, I did my fussy carer’s routine, garishly over-compensating for Harriet’s lack of social poise by endeavouring to be the life and soul of the party: relentlessly offering up drinks and scones and cake. Harriet’s social skills are virtually nil in these circumstances. She cowers and flinches within the darkest most distant corner of the room, content to allow the vapid conversation to float above and around her.

No one really enjoys the occasion, for one senses her family get in and get out as quickly as is demi-polite. Once all of that’s over, she is free to return to her belligerent, not-coping status: wearing bed-dress, hunkering down in front of the iPlayer, shutting out the rest of the world.

This birthday there were no tears or suicide attempts; no self-harming; no Sections; no emergency call-outs for the GP. But there is so little pleasure in the day for her, and I do feel sad that this has very much been the pattern over the decade I have lived with her. Could I do more to enliven things? Do more to facilitate a better birthday for her? That evening, she spoke excitedly about visiting the SnowDome next year, to go tobogganing. This sounds terrific fun, and I really hope it comes to something. But all of that’s twelve months away, a whole lifetime of trying to keep her well and alive. Anything could happen, anything could go wrong, before then. And there’s still Christmas to get through too, of course: the family lunch, the Cliff Richard CDs, all the visits and the unending victuals.

Christmas is fire-fighting with Harriet, as simple as that, and never ever like it used to be for either of us. We get through it, that’s about all that can be said. And rarely in one piece. Taking on the love and care of someone with a mental illness is to accept that your life will not be like it used to be. Her illness dominates everything. This takes some getting used to, especially at the momentous times of year. Nothing will ever be like it used to be.