Bbq chicken, chips, green veg
Today can be summed up in an emoji, and that emoji is 😩
The morning’s carer turned up very early, mere minutes after Suki had transitioned from cuddly teddy bear to hungry cat, so I was still wearing only my nightdress when I opened the door.
Mum refused to get up, and stayed in bed just long enough for me to go into the bathroom, undress, and grab a flannel for a wash. Then she got up and stood outside the door telling me she needed the toilet. My wash lasted less than 90 seconds: I guess it’s a good thing we don’t have any hot water for me to shower, as mum clearly wouldn’t let me stay in the bathroom long enough to have one anyway.
The carer did her best with mum, but I spent more time than I liked stepping in, to tell the carer which products to use (and then she still used the wrong ones), ask her to help mum get dressed, ask her to help mum get changed as the clothes she had given mum were dirty…
She did, however, make me a much-needed cup of coffee, so everything was forgiven.
Not long after the carer left, mum called me from the bathroom, in tears, because her bottom really hurt. She had put toothpaste. On her bum. Where she’s sore from her lichen sclerosus. And cried because it hurt.
Even as my mind was boggling at how we arrived at this situation, I was talking mum through the apparently complex procedure of wiping off the misapplied mintiness: “use one of the wipes. In the pink packet. The one in your hand. Now wipe. Wipe. Don’t just wave it around, use it to wipe off the toothpaste. Wipe.”
Unsurprisingly, this caused mum quite a lot of discomfort, and she made liberal use of her catchphrase, “you will help me, won’t you?” With barely repressed sighs, I repeated my own mantra, that we’re waiting for the doctor and there’s nothing else I can do.
“Oh. I thought you cared enough to do something,” said mum. I just can’t interpret that as anything other than a deliberate attempt to hurt me.
Eventually, with mum (relatively) clean and settled back in front of the tv, I looked up the address of the venue for the first aid training next month, so I could book the necessary taxis. And promptly discovered that the training is in Ryde, not Newport, so the hotel I had booked was in the wrong town.
Then I discovered that I had accidentally booked a rate that doesn’t give a refund if cancelled, and can’t be transferred to a different hotel in the chain either. Nothing is ever easy, is it?
I booked a different hotel, in the correct town, which is much cheaper but also much more basic: it’s literally going to be a place to sleep and shower – no coffee machine, no all you can eat breakfast, and no free chocolate. Still better than being at home, though.
(After contacting customer services, Travelodge have, very kindly, offered me a full refund in voucher form, to be used at some point in the future. They would have been well within their rights to just say ‘no’ and keep my money, so thank you Travelodge for being decent to an over-stressed carer who can’t understand basic terms and conditions. I’ll keep the voucher for a trip somewhere nice early next year. Ideas of where to go (UK only) gratefully received!)
That sorted – which took about three times as long as it should have done, with mum interrupting me every 30 seconds – I stopped mum from trying to put a t-shirt on over her cardigan to stop her tooth hurting (I can’t even begin to follow that ‘logic’), got her some painkillers, and collapsed until it was time to cook dinner.
That dinner was bbq chicken from the freezer, chips, and green veg, followed by the chocolate cheesecake mum bought while out with Lady Friday the other day. I made a bit of a mess of slicing it so ended up with a bigger portion than mum. She didn’t notice, and I’m not sorry: after a day like this, an oversized portion of chocolate cheesecake is all that’s standing between me and screaming into my pillow.
And so goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow, doubtless just as stressed, because the world hates me atm.
