Not as in vomit, don’t worry – if you read this post then I’m sure you’ve had enough information on bodily fluids, I’ll try to keep it clean as I can, for now, but I can’t promise miracles, like.
No, sick as in ill. I’ve already mentioned a few times that I’m my other half’s carer, and I suppose I should elaborate a little.
My other half fell ill 2 years ago, near enough to the day. He was dizzy constantly, he fell into things, he didn’t trust himself holding our son, and after the seeing the GP, he took a few weeks off work. The doctor supposed it was stress related, which we didn’t query as his job was ridiculously stressful (he managed a pub) , 80 hour weeks, no time with his family, not enough sleep, bad diet to fit in with stupid hours etc. We didn’t think to question it, it seemed to make sense with his job.
His weeks off and days off dwindled yet the dizziness stayed. I couldn’t compute how he was dizzy ALL THE TIME. I believed him and trusted him entirely, but it just didn’t compute somehow. When people complain of dizzyness, you sit ’em down with a glass of water and say soothy soothing things in calming tones and it passes in a few minutes, yeah? I didn’t have a bloody clue what to do, how to help at all. I just figured it would pass and we could carry on as normal again soon.
But it never did.
2 years on, and he is still dizzy 24/7 to varying degrees – from sending him flying down the stairs or to the floor in a heap when he’s completely lost his already non existent balance to just gently swaying or walking into walls and doors like a harmless drunk.
He is getting increasingly foggy, and just doesn’t seem to be here most of the time, lost in his own little bubble.
He forgets a lot of things, he couldn’t tell you for a million quid what Christmas 2010 was like, or what we did. But more importantly, he misses Bean’s milestones, eventhough he’s here all day every day, certain things just don’t register the first time Bean does something or says a new word, I show him photos and he has no idea when or where they’re from.
Since September 2011 he’s developed new symptoms at an alarming rate, from being in constant pain, to losing his temper, to tinnitus, to difficulty reading, writing, speaking and extreme fatigue.
He never goes out.
When he first fell ill he was a typical bloke, “It’s not gonna stop me,” he’d announce and he’d troop out for an hour to get his hair cut and I’d stay at home sick with worry. Every single time he returned he’d have fallen over in the high street, once he had to be helped to his feet by two policemen, with a crowd around him, laughing like he was a funny spectacle probably thinking he was some pathetic pisshead, drunk at 11am.
He’s still having tests, but his GP is less than helpful and doesn’t listen to him. We still don’t know what’s wrong. We still haven’t got a name for what this is, and we have absolutely no idea how it will impact our future. My amazingly kind mum has leant us some money for him to see someone privately next week in the hope that something might be done to answer all our questions and give this horrible illness a name for us, but if that fails, like everything else has, I really can’t imagine what we’ll do next.
I describe myself as his carer as I honestly don’t know what other term to use. I don’t have to bathe him, but I have to wash his hair as he can no longer bend down to do it himself. Or feed him, but all cooking and shopping is done by me. Or clothe him, but all washing and cleaning is dealt with by me. Along with all Bean’s needs too.
And every single day, it breaks my heart a little bit.
To watch someone you love completely, need help so badly and you can do nothing to make it better just for a second.
To watch someone young, fit and healthy deteriorate so quickly.
To feel so broken yourself and yet you still have to be strong for them.
To listen to old friends and even close family describe him as a hermit, because they Just. Don’t. Get. It.
To not being able to do anything or go anywhere as a family, and not being able to plan anything.
To have to explain to your 3 year old that Daddy isn’t well, and that Daddy can’t spin you around in circles or do roly polies with you in the garden because he’s just too poorly.
To have to say goodbye to the life you once had and worked so hard for, and never be sure if you’ll ever have that life again.
Sorry for the downer, but I can’t write about peeing in buckets all the time, can I? Don’t worry, normal filth will resume shortly.
Thanks for reading dudes, if you have any comments or thoughts, or if you’ve ever been through or are going through something similar, hit me up in the comments.