“It feels like I don’t have enough energy to look after Mum and fix myself, so I just look after Mum.“

Anna has been caring for her mum, Rose, who is living with vascular dementia, for the past four years. Prior to this, Anna was also a carer for her father, who had frontal lobe dementia. Read more about Anna and how she has had to adapt her caring style.

My name is Anna, and for the past four years I have cared for my mum, Rose, since her diagnosis of vascular dementia.

Before caring for Mum, I cared for my dad, who had frontal lobe dementia. His memory was still sharp, but his decision-making changed. At 90 years old, during a blistering heatwave, he decided it was the perfect time to do some crazy paving in the garden!

Sadly, we lost Dad three and a half years ago to an aggressive brain tumour. He never got the chance to move into the new flat that he and Mum had bought.

Grieving While Being a Carer

Just eight weeks after Dad died, I had to move Mum into that new flat. I emptied the only family home I had ever known, packed away Dad’s belongings, and said goodbye to his beloved garden — a beautiful, calming oasis he had worked so hard to create.

Since then, I feel as though I have been living on autopilot.

I settled Mum into her new life, found social activities for her, and tried to make everything as comfortable as possible. Mum has been stoic about this next chapter — sometimes too stoic. At times, it feels like I am grieving on my own, with no one to share the pain.

I was already broken before I became Mum’s Carer. That has had a massive impact on my mental health.

The Person I Used To Be

I don’t sit in a corner and cry, but I am nowhere near the person I used to be.

I have lost my thirst for life. I used to be hyperactive, always busy and full of energy. Now, I feel the opposite.

It feels like I don’t have enough energy to look after Mum and fix myself, so I just look after Mum.

Mum’s dementia is still in its early stages, and I want to help her stay independent for as long as possible. She lives around the corner from me, and I encourage her to get out as much as she can. She comes to mine for coffee or a meal, and she goes to local coffee mornings at nearby churches.

I am grateful that Mum is easy-going these days. She is usually happy to say yes to whatever I suggest.

Mum’s Personal Assistant and talking Clock

I often describe myself as Mum’s personal assistant and talking clock.

“Mum, you’re meeting your sister for lunch. You need to leave now.”

If Mum is not with me, I call her around eight to ten times a day. I wake her in the morning if she has slept through her alarm. I tell her which coffee morning she is going to, what time she needs to leave, and what she needs to do.

Then come the follow-up calls. More reminders. More prompts. More little nudges to keep her day on track.

I have installed a camera in her lounge, so I can check whether she has got up or fallen back asleep. Before that, I now realise Mum would sometimes fob me off and tell me what she thought I wanted to hear.

The camera means I can keep a watchful eye on her without disturbing her, especially when she is busy in the bathroom with her stoma.

It’s The Little Things

A lot of my time is spent thinking about Mum’s routine. Has she eaten? Has she had a drink? Has she got to where she needs to be?

From the outside, it might not sound especially stressful. But it is the little things that build up over time.

I know some Carers feel they are not listened to by the person they care for. I am stubborn, and Mum knows I will keep going until she has done what I have asked.

I had 20 years of stand-offs with my dad. He was too intelligent and too stubborn for his own good — and still thought he was a puppy at 90.

“No, Dad, you’re 90! I’m going up the ladders, not you!”

He would usually come round in the end, but the tug of war was mentally exhausting. I could not face going through that again with Mum, so I made sure we found a different way.

Using My Name in Vain

Mum attends a day centre once a week. Sometimes they call me to say she is refusing to drink from the water bottle she has brought with her — the one I told her to take.

“Tell her Anna said she’ll rip her head off if she doesn’t drink it!”

It sounds harsh, but it works. And sometimes, as a Carer, you find humour in the everyday moments because it helps you keep going.

Caring, Loving, and Carrying On

Caring for Mum is not one big dramatic moment. It is hundreds of small moments, every single day.

It is the phone calls, the reminders, the worry, the planning, the grief, the humour, and the love.

I want Mum to stay independent. I want her to enjoy life. I want her to feel safe.

But somewhere in all of that, I am still trying to find myself again.

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Anna did not wish to use her photo, so a photo library image has been used.