Two weeks.

RESPITE

There’s some mad packing going on and some arguments too – I’m trying to get my mum ready for tomorrow morning when we try to get her into respite care for a fortnight.

It’s not easy, I can tell you.

In case you’ve been wondering why I haven’t had a bucket list, why there weren’t any fantastic last ever holidays; I’m a carer.

For the last three years since my diagnosis I’ve been caring for my mum without a break and going mad.

In fact, I should have had a break.

Carers are entitled to four weeks ‘respite’ care every year. My Mum should have gone off to a home to give me a much needed break.

If you are poor it’s free, if not you pay. Either way it’s a lifeline to sanity. I didn’t get it.

Why didn’t it happen?

Because her doctor didn’t bother to tell us.

That’s right, she couldn’t be bothered to tell us.

She simply didn't give damn about us.

 

So, no break for three years.

Three years when my cancer just got worse and worse.

When I broke an ankle and it was misdiagnosed.

When I had a thrombosis.

When my Mum had her own serious health problems.

All that time I got no help, had no break. The things I could have done, the places I could have seen.

To say that I’m angry doesn’t do justice to how I feel about this.

It’s come far too late for me - summer is long over. I’ve got nothing booked – no time to sort anything out and I have no plans. But it’s a break and I really need one.

And things will happen – you know that!

Starting Monday afternoon.

Neil Harris

(a don’t stop till you drop production)

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