I was wrong of course, about my mother being home soon. She would spend around two and a half months in rehab.
I went back to work after having settled my mother in. The logistics of living in Jersey were not great and she wanted to see me every day, but I managed every other weekend.
That was the time the when-the-chips-are-down-good-friends start rallying around, taking supplies to my mother on a daily basis and providing moral support. I don’t know how I would have managed without them. Especially Jane who was visiting on an almost daily basis and also sorting out my mother’s laundry.
Living one hour flight, followed by a 1.5-hour drive away from my mother, it was not easy, but the pressure I put on myself, as well as my bank balance, to fly over and be there for her as much as possible was immense.
My life took a nosedive. I was juggling my own life and my job with hours of bedside vigils and discussing my mother’s future with hard-nosed consultants whose bedside manner was not going down well with my mother.
I became apathetic and dare I say depressed. My mother was completely oblivious to what I was going through. In her mind, whatever I was doing for her, was never enough.
Most weekends I would be at her bedside, returning to work on the Monday, deprived of sleep, drained, both mentally and physically, which is what 3 GP’s had thought was wrong with my Mother in January 2012. My work was suffering and my social life had trailed off because I was never around at the weekends.
Next … Rehab and Reminiscing