Still Me

A poem by an unpaid carer

For more than thirty years
I cared for other people.

A nurse.
A midwife.

I knew long shifts,
night shifts,
weekends,
Christmases
and on-calls—

that feeling of never quite knowing
when the phone might ring.

I knew tiredness.

I knew responsibility.

I knew what it was
to put somebody else’s needs
before my own.

But eventually,
however long the shift,

there was a handover.

Someone else took over.

I could take off my uniform
and go home.

There were days off.

There was annual leave.

As Mum grew older,
life began to change for both of us.

In October 2024,
I made one of the biggest changes
of my life.

I moved two hundred miles
to live with Mum
and care for her full-time.

I left the uniform behind.

No hospital.

No ward.

Just Mum and me.

I had spent a lifetime caring.

But caring for Mum
was different.

Because at the end of the day,
there is no handover.

No colleague appearing to say,

“I’ve got this now.”

No journey home.

Because this is home.

My day starts with Mum.

Helping her wash.

Helping her dress.

Taking our time.

Making sure she is safe
as she moves around our home.

Making sure she is warm,
comfortable
and settled.

There are appointments
to remember.

Paperwork
to deal with.

Things to organise.

Things to anticipate.

Things I carry in my head
because somebody has to.

And at night,

I still listen.

Even when I sit down,
a little part of me
is still listening.

There is no weekend
when caring stops.

No bank holiday.

No annual leave form
I can fill in and say,

“I’ll be back next Monday.”

Because Mum will still need care
next Monday.

But if I told you only about
the washing,
the dressing,
the appointments
and the sleepless nights,

I wouldn’t be telling you
about Mum.

Mum loves people.

She loves to socialise,
to be out,
to have something happening
around her.

She enjoys her food.

And she loves to travel.

So we go out.

We eat.

We meet people.

We laugh.

And we still travel.

Because needing care
hasn’t changed
who Mum is.

Mum is 88.

But 88 doesn’t tell you
who she is.

Neither does a diagnosis.

Neither does an assessment
or a form.

She is the woman
who still enjoys going somewhere new,

sharing a meal,

being around people,

and having something
to look forward to.

She is Mum.

And that’s important to me.

I don’t just want Mum
to be safe.

I want her to have a life.

A life with enjoyment.

A life with people in it.

A life with places still to go
and things still to experience.

And I want us
to keep making memories together.

Because before I am her carer,

I am her daughter.

I am called
an unpaid carer.

I sometimes stop
at those words.

Because if I wasn’t here,

Mum’s need for care
wouldn’t disappear.

Someone would still
have to help her.

Someone would still
have to be there.

Someone would have to be paid
to provide the care
I provide unpaid.

I receive Carer’s Allowance.

But my caring day
doesn’t know
when thirty-five hours
have passed.

It doesn’t look at the clock
and stop.

It simply continues
for as long as Mum needs me.

I don’t say that
because I regret being here.

I am here
because Mum needs me.

And because I love her.

But love
doesn’t pay the bills.

Carers Leeds
became part of my new life.

I joined a carers group.

I became involved
with Carers Voice.

I met people
who understood
some of the experiences
that come with caring.

Through the Time for Carers Grant,
I received help
towards buying an iPad.

That iPad has helped me
stay connected.

It means I can join meetings
and take part in opportunities
from home.

It has helped open the door
to research,
conversations,
new people
and new ideas,

without always having
to leave Mum.

I found myself contributing
to discussions about social care,

home care,

technology,

and even artificial intelligence.

And gradually,

I realised
I still had a great deal
to contribute.

For more than thirty years,
I saw health and care
from the professional side.

Now I see it
from the other side too.

I know what it is
to be the professional.

And now I know
what it is
to be the daughter.

To wait.

To chase.

To fill in the forms.

To navigate systems.

To discover that something
which makes perfect sense
on paper

can feel very different
when you’re living it
at home.

I carry both experiences
with me now.

And when somebody asks
what I think,

I tell them.

When researchers want
to hear lived experience,

I speak.

When there is a chance
for my experience
to make a difference,

I want to be part of it.

I didn’t expect
caring for Mum
to lead me here.

But it has.

And somewhere along the way,

I found my voice.

My life has changed.

I left a career
I had spent decades building.

My income changed.

My financial independence changed.

And I lost some of the freedom
to decide, on the spur of the moment,

“I think I’ll do this today.”

But I haven’t lost myself.

Underneath all the new responsibilities,

I am still me.

Still a nurse.

Still a midwife.

Still Mum’s daughter.

Still curious.

Still laughing.

Still making plans.

Still looking forward.

And Mum is still Mum.

We still go out.

We still laugh.

We still enjoy a meal.

We still socialise.

We still travel.

We still have places to go
and things to look forward to.

I don’t know
where this journey
will take us.

None of us really does.

I only know
where it has brought me.

Two hundred miles
from the life I had,

into a life
I never expected.

There is no uniform now.

No handover.

No annual leave.

But there is Mum.

There is love.

There is laughter.

There are places
we haven’t been yet.

There are memories
we haven’t made yet.

There is a voice
I didn’t know I had.

And after more than thirty years
of caring for other people,

and now caring
for the woman who once cared for me,

I am her carer.

I am her daughter.

And I am still

me.