What happens when you lose the person you love, though they continue to live? How do you manage that grief alongside the responsibility of caring for someone who needs you more than ever?
Six years ago I was catapulted overnight into this cruel scenario when my mum had a devastating stroke.
I had given birth to my third baby just days before, and my glamorous mum — who was very much still mothering me — was helping to care for my other two young children. I spoke to her at teatime on the phone. I was bringing my baby home from hospital the following morning and she told me she loved me, like she had done most days of my life.
It was the last time she would ever say that, or even my name. Two hours later, her brain bled away the life she had known, and she was rendered immediately, and permanently, paralysed and brain-damaged.
For the next five and a half years I cared for my mother. But I lost my mum that night. I’ll never forget walking into her bedroom soon afterwards — a bedroom she would never see again as she would lie downstairs on a pressurised bed in the converted dining room.
By her bedside was a novel, the bookmark showing it was only half read. Her make-up was sprawled across her dressing table, and clothes she had left out to wear for lunch with a friend the next day were hanging up.
I looked at that book she would never finish, make-up she would never clear up and clothes she would never wear, and the immediacy of that loss was shocking.
Although my mother was still alive, ‘mum’ was gone. The woman who had smothered me in love all my life, who was always by my side or on the end of a phone, was no longer able to support me. The searing loss I felt was extraordinary, and yet it was hard to admit to, let alone talk about, because nobody had actually died.
Suddenly finding yourself grieving for the living can come about when someone suffers a traumatic brain injury like my mum’s stroke, or due to disorders such as dementia, which cause unpredictable or complete memory loss.
It can also happen with long terminal illnesses such as cancer, where your loved one is reduced to a shadow of themselves before your very eyes.
It can be instant — as in my mum’s case — or be a long agonising drift as a mother or father, husband or wife, brother or sister, slowly changes.
While most people associate grief with the death of a loved one and can seek, or offer, the appropriate support, this sudden loss of a relationship can also trigger a very real and intense mourning which can be just as devastating.
Missing my mum while still caring for her was extremely difficult.
‘When a loved one dies, people rally round. But when a loved one is ill, the sense of loss is often not acknowledged,’ explains Caroline Scates of Dementia UK.
‘Carers are often living with crippling emotions such as guilt, anger and sadness, and yet it is not recognised. Roles and relationships change when someone is seriously ill, and you are grieving for the person they were — families and carers really struggle with that.
‘You don’t love that person any less, but you do have to learn to live with the new relationship while mourning what you have lost.’
Maureen Winfield is a glamorous 78 year-old from Huddersfield who grieves daily for a man who still lives.
‘I’ve lost my best friend and my husband,’ she says of Michael, to whom she has been married for more than 56 years.
‘People don’t understand that I am grieving for our relationship. All I see is a shell there. Most of the time he just looks blank, though when I get a smile, it absolutely makes my day.’
The Winfields had a strong marriage and did everything together as a couple, but Mike no longer recognises Maureen as his wife.
‘I think he is looking for the younger me. He knows I’m someone that he knows,’ she tells me, her voice breaking. ‘My face is familiar and there is an emotional connection. But he would say: ‘She’s not my wife,’ and he felt he was having a wrong relationship and was living with the guilt.’
The dark cloud that engulfed their marriage started to form five years ago when Mike became forgetful.
‘It was like living on a knife edge all the time,’ says Maureen.
The eventual diagnosis — Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia — was in some ways a relief, but also, for Maureen, spelt the end of her marriage as she’d known it.
‘It took a while, but I had to realise he was not coming back to me as my husband or my friend. He is still here, and I can’t let go of him, but my relationship has gone.’ After caring for Michael at home for as long as she could, the agonising decision was made last June to move him into a home.
‘It was heartbreaking to leave him there,’ she says. ‘The guilt was terrible. I made my marriage vows to him and I feel like I’m letting him down.’
She has to take two buses to get visit him there, five days a week.
‘I never come away without guilt, and have very much mixed feelings when I leave,’ she says. ‘If I get a smile or some acknowledgement from him, then that for me is a good visit. The difficult ones are when there is little or no positive response or he just looks completely dejected.’
As I discovered when my mum had her stroke, the sudden change this can bring to a relationship can be really debilitating.
Naturally, caring for her became a priority over most things, including at times my own young family. But I felt so angered by the situation. What I wanted, what I ached for, was the support, the humour, the comfort and the wisdom of the very woman I was helping to look after.
For many going through this ambiguous grief, there can be feelings of loss of your own independence, loss of control and of a lost future. For partners, there might also be loss of financial security, loss of freedom, sleep and family harmony.
I needed the support of my mum, but had to manage her care along with all the other demands on my time.
I constantly felt pulled by guilt, anger, grief and frustration. It took me a long time to realise that amid child-care and parent-care, I needed to also focus on self-care.
To get through this tumult of emotions, you have to build a new relationship with your loved one.
Maureen went on a course run by Dementia UK where she was given skills to cope.
‘At first I cut myself off and didn’t want people to know about Michael’s condition,’ she admits.
‘But going on the course gave me confidence when I met other carers like me.
‘One of the most important things I learned is to have access to others who are going through the same experience,’ says Maureen, who has two daughters to whom she is close, but says friends in a similar boat often offer the most comfort.
Sarah Clayton, 51, reflects on the other dark thoughts that cloud your mind when you are grieving the loss of someone still living.
She cared for her mother for nine years after she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, having already watched her father waste away from lung cancer
‘With both of them, there was a time when I knew there was no longer any quality of life for them, and I began to long for them to be free from the misery of their illness,’ she confides.
‘It’s such a difficult time wishing your loved one’s lives away. You desperately miss the people they once were, you are fearful of what is to come, but you just want their suffering to end.
‘My mother died three years ago and it felt like a huge weight had been lifted from me. I feel lighter emotionally, but do miss my parents and think about them most days.’
I know with my own mum, I often wished it was over for her, even though I was simultaneously devastated at the thought of losing her.
This issue is explored beautifully in the recent book and movie A Monster Calls, where a young boy whose mother is dying of breast cancer struggles with the torment of wanting the whole scenario to be over, while dreading the final loss of someone he loves so much.
With my mum’s stroke, with dementia, with long terminal illnesses, there is always a terrible conflict of emotions and grief.
‘Grieving for the relationship that has gone or changed is a very sad and difficult situation,’ explains Kathryn Smith, operations director of the Alzheimer’s Society.
‘Your parent or partner are not behaving in the way they used to, and people can feel grief and feelings relating to loss.’
Gemma Little, 33, from Northumberland was only 11 when her mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
For more than a decade she became her mother’s carer, and lost the loving support that her mother should have provided as she was growing up. ‘My dad had to do all those things I really needed my mum for, like puberty talks and girl stuff. The person I loved and often needed slowly disappeared and you become their carer, leaving you grieving for the person they were.’
‘People definitely didn’t recognise what we were going through as grief,’ she adds, tellingly.
‘It was hard at home, but it was hard at school as well because I got bullied. People used to say that my mum was mad because they would see her walking the dog and she would shout random things that she didn’t mean and didn’t understand.’
Sadly, Gemma’s mum died at the age of 64, just before Gemma’s 23rd birthday.
‘I thought it was a relief for her because it meant she wasn’t suffering any more,’ says Gemma.
‘It’s odd as well. You grieve as you go along because you are losing her as the dementia develops. I thought I was OK when she died, but then about a year afterwards I had a breakdown. I think you’re trying to be strong for everyone when it is happening, and all of a sudden what you’ve been through just hits you.’
So for those struggling with an often ambiguous, silent grief, what can they do?
As I discovered, it is really important to acknowledge your loss, identify your feelings and let yourself mourn the changes that have happened in your life.
It took nearly two years of debilitating grief before I realised I had to let go of the relationship with my mum that I so craved and come to terms with the new one.
It was summer and I had woken early so I went out for a run. As I crossed the beautifully deserted beach near my home, I was sobbing.
I realised I couldn’t continue to live life crippled by the grief of missing mum. It was stopping me enjoying every aspect of my life.
It was then I made the decision to let go of the relationship I was mourning for and to try to embrace the one we now had.
Later that day, I visited my mum and kissed her gently on the forehead. I left the house and walked around the park where we had taken endless walks together over the years before the stroke. Then I sat on our bench and looked to the skies and whispered a loving, tearful farewell.
It was agony. But when I returned, I kissed my mum again, knowing now I could carry on with the love and care she needed.
I never stopped missing her, but acknowledging things had changed for good helped me carry on.
‘Do not lock it up,’ advises Kathryn Smith. ‘Recognising and not being ashamed of that grief is important, as is making time for yourself each day.
‘It is not just grief for a relationship, but your own loss and the life you once had, so it’s important to consider your own needs.’
It is also important to focus on positive things you and the person you are caring for can still do together.
Dementia UK’s Admiral nurses can support families through that adjustment. They helped Maureen deal with Michael’s condition and to focus on care for herself.
‘I became aware of the Admiral nurses and attended one of their courses, learning so much about the condition,’ says Maureen. She bonded with others who understood her hidden grief. ‘I set up a private support line on Facebook and we still talk. Every day we pour out our feelings and exchange our personal advice.’
Maureen still visits Michael most days and mourns the loss of her relationship with her husband. But she also acknowledges the need to care for herself.
‘I learnt simple things like making a promise to do something for me. At the age of 78 I went to get my nails done for the first time in my life. I learned I am important, too.’
Gemma fundraises for Alzheimer’s UK and, as a nurse, often looks after dementia patients and can advise their family.
‘Acknowledge that this grief is very real then try to enjoy as much time as you can with your loved one,’ she says.
A year ago, my mum passed away in my arms, with my dad and brother holding her hands, almost six years after her stroke.
I miss her every day, but my grief began a long time ago, when I realised she would never again tell me she loved me.
SOURCE: Alana Kirk, Daily Mail