Jackie McGregor: The invisible burden - the harsh reality of life as an unpaid carer
Next week is Carer’s Week when the nation acknowledges the silent army of unpaid carers, of which there are 220,000 in Northern Ireland. Nearly 60 percent are women.
The aim is to raise awareness about carer’s roles and the challenges they face, also to highlight the immense contribution they make to families and communities.
The theme is, “Caring About Equality,” calling for a fairer society where carers are truly valued, recognised and supported. The life of a carer is not an easy one.
When I was 19, I became a full-time carer to my mother who had multiple diseases. What started as a temporary measure evolved into a permanent arrangement. She passed away with Alzhiemer’s when I was 39.
Then my father became ill. I cared for him full-time along with looking after my new baby. Being a forty-year-old mother to a newborn and carer to an elderly parent succumbing to Alzheimer’s, was utterly exhausting.
I spent nearly 30 years as a full-time carer. When my father died, I was 47. I didn't feel free as some might think. More strife lay ahead. A legal battle ensued over the family home, bequeathed to me by my father. Relatives challenged the will, determined to oust me from my life-long residence.
After seven years, the matter went to court, resulting in a three-day case where I underwent cross-examination in the witness box. I felt like a criminal. The stress was unbearable, especially since I had developed panic attacks and agoraphobia decades earlier due to the pressure, isolation and anxiety of full-time care for my mother. My stress was impounded when my husband suffered a heart attack just days before the court hearing. Thankfully he made a recovery.
Although I won the court case and costs, it didn't feel like a victory. It was a heartbreaking and extremely costly experience.
As Carer’s Week approaches, I reflect on my time as a caregiver. In truth, it sucked the life out of me and left deep scars. It was all consuming. The constant vigilance, personal care, managing medications, and coping with challenging Alzheimer’s-related behaviour, not once, but twice over, took a huge emotional, physical, and mental toll on me. The sheer commitment is unimaginable unless you’ve lived it. My world shrank I became a prisoner in my home; my social life was non-existent, financial security was just a dream. It was hard.
Would I do it again, I’ve asked myself? Absolutely, in a heartbeat! Like most carers, my caregiving stemmed from love and the worry that no one else could care for my loved one as well as I could.
220,000 carers province wide aren’t in it for the great social life and fat wages, they do it out of devotion, mostly to their own detriment, because most unpaid caregivers looking after family members, friends or neighbours are of the opinion that it’s better to wear out than to run out. They often sacrifice their own security with no savings or home ownership. They receive much praise but little help, they need more than admiration; they need respite, better financial assistance and robust mental health support to help them continue with their invaluable contribution.
The estimated annual value of unpaid care in Northern Ireland is £5.8 billion, but who cares for the carer?
FINALLY FREEING MYSELF OF THE CLOTHES-I-NEED-TO-SLIM-INTO - BYE BYE BABY!
I was in full battle mode with my drawers. They were so crammed with garments I couldn’t close them. I glanced at the contents. A pair of jeans I haven’t worn since last century, a new top still with the tag attached, a skirt also with price tag, and a beaded top that, although it didn’t quite fit, it was so breathtakingly beautiful I’d decided to keep it and slim into it. In fact, the entire chest of drawers was filled with FFFs (Future Fit Fashion) they all required weight loss to wear. In truth I felt silently judged by them every time I opened a drawer and still hadn’t lost a pound.
A recent survey revealed the average wardrobe holds around £200 worth of unworn clothing, with a significant chunk of it being items we aim to slim into. Though studies indicate less than 15 percent achieve this elusive goal, something told me I was never going to be one of them. It was time to put myself out of my misery and dump the FFFs.
I began packing them up, suddenly it felt freeing to get rid of reminders of goals unreached. The new wardrobe space was welcome; I would fill it with elasticated waistband trousers and roomy, stretchy material shirts.
"What's that?" my son asked, looking at the bags I’d left by the door for charity.
"I'm donating the clothes I was keeping for when I lose the baby weight," I replied.
“Mum, I’m 18!” he exclaimed.
Yep, it was time for them to go!