I feel angry that dementia has robbed me of the father I know. My dad. My clever, enthusiastic, build-anything, fix-anything, diagram-drawing, politically aware, loving, grumpy, hilarious, try-anything once father.
I feel angry that his dementia has robbed my mum and dad of their retirement together and is now robbing my mum of her life, her savings and her own health.
I feel angry that I feel guilty and selfish. I resent the fact that I feel guilty every time I want to stay in London instead of go to Norwich for the weekend.
I feel resentful that I have to use our valuable short amount of time off sorting stuff out instead of keeping on top of my own chores – ironing, gardening, car MOT, catching up with friends, shopping for stuff, spending time with my children and step children OR JUST BLOODY SLEEPING.
I feel guilty that “people” think I should not have moved away.
I feel guilty because I think “people” think I should be dropping everything to be up there all the time.
I feel guilty because I don’t WANT to do that, because for the first time in my life I have an interesting fulfilling job, with responsibilities which means I have to work hard.
I feel resentful that “people” think my parents are the greater responsibility.
I feel angry that they think I can pay bills with love.
I guilty because I feel I should be there.
I feel tired. Not as tired as my mum though.
I feel impotent at the lack of effect I can have on getting any action.
Impotent rage at those who should be helping but show no signs of understanding how urgent the situation feels to us.
I feel sad.
I feel sad because my dad is not a person in the eyes of many now.
I feel sad that my mum, my brother and I have had to decide whether we should have a DNR in place. (Not yet)
I feel relief that dad is finally going to be looked after in a home.
I feel relief because I know that I won’t get woken by a call from a hospital telling me that mum or dad have been hurt due to his violence.
I feel guilty about that relief.
I feel sad that my mum feels guilty that she is “putting on me”.
I feel selfish when I book an amazing, once in a life time holiday about which I've spent my whole life dreaming.
And I feel resentful that I daren’t tell my mum about it because she might resent me going (she won’t).
I resent that I think I can’t be happy and excited about things in front of my mum right now because her life is falling apart.
I feel sad that my mum has had to be broken before anyone did anything to help them.
I feel guilty. I feel resentful. I feel selfish. I feel sad.