My dad, who I care for, is away for a couple of weeks. He’s gone to stay with my sister in the countryside so I’ve got some space, some time off. It gives me a break, although it’s not exactly party time. I don’t have any money so I watch a lot of TV, read books, chill at home. I probably sound like the dullest person – I just drink tea and eat bread.
It is weird being a carer. In quiet times, I might think about the future and the jobs I could do one day. I loved working as a florist before and I’m good at it, although I don’t think I could handle the customer service part any more. I’ve had it with people now. I’ve spent too many hours dealing with the Department for Work and Pensions (DWP), the NHS, hanging on the phone, queueing for appointments; I’ve reached my limit in trying to be nice to people – but the creative side of floristry, being in the backroom with your music and your flowers? I’d love that.
Those thoughts are difficult though because, first of all, it would mean my dad was either dead or in a home. He could have another 30 years in him and by then I don’t know what the world will be like, or the workforce. I’ll have a huge gap in my CV and nothing to show for it. It’s easy to compare being a carer to having a kid, because responsibility-wise, there are similarities. But when you have a baby, all being well, they will grow up and start school in five years. My dad’s not going to get more independent, he’s only going to need more help – and when he doesn’t need my help any more, it’s for the worst possible reason. It’s almost like having a kid in reverse.
You could go mad thinking about it, so I’ve had to do a lot of “work” on myself. It’s easy to be full of rage so I’ve started meditating, doing yoga, practising gratitude and trying to follow the whole “living in the moment” thing. There are still these thoughts hanging over me: “He could die any minute … oh my days, I hope he doesn’t die … it’s a pain in the arse having to look after him … but what’s the alternative?” When they get overwhelming, I just have to let them pass. He’s safe now.
My dad’s hilarious so there is a lot of laughter, a lot of humour, even if it is dark. The other day, I’d been shopping for him and I said: “Don’t you just love seeing a fridge full of food?”
“Oh no,” he said. “I look at it and think, ‘I might die before I can eat all of that!’” There’s something going on with his health at the moment. He’s lost a lot of weight. The other day, he told me to only buy a pint of milk instead of the usual four-pint bottle – meaning he might not live to drink it all. Conversation about death is constant.
Most of the time, though, I’m not really thinking about what might happen – I’m just dealing with now. Dad’s landlord has written to increase the rent by £10 a week so I’ve contacted the housing people, who have said that he needs a new contract to be able to do that. The flat isn’t suitable for Dad any more anyway. It has stairs and there’s no central heating, just space heaters. There are rats too – we’ve got poison down and I’m going over later to chuck out any dead ones. The carpet is rank. There’s no way the landlord could rent it out to anyone else in the state it’s in. I’ve got Dad’s name on a couple of waiting lists for a ground-floor flat and I’m pushing to get him somewhere safer.
My own landlord is great – he hasn’t said anything about raising the rent, although I wonder if he’s burying his head in the sand. The prices are mad now. My mum bought me my sunflower spread as it’s gone up from 90p to £2. I think about winter and the cost of heating on top of it all and ask myself how we’ll manage. Then it’s back to mindfulness. We’re all right for the minute. That’s all we’ve got.
As told to Anna Moore. Siobhan is in her 30s and lives in the Midlands. Names have been changed
The Trussell Trust is an anti-poverty charity that campaigns to end the need for food banks. Show your support at: www.trusselltrust.org/guardian
