An awful lot of my fellow carers get diagnosed with depression: and I can understand why.
An awful lot of my fellow chronic ailment suffers get diagnosed with depression; and I can understand why.
I'm feeling more than a little down at the moment. It's been a progressive slide over the last 3 weeks or so.
I'm currently on antibiotics for a sinus infection - I read somewhere recently that killing off your natural gut bacteria can result in a temporary bout of depression. I'm hoping that is what is behind this current nose dive. Will find out next week, once the antibiotics are finished & I restock my gut flora.
Unfortunately, I am not convinced that the antibiotics are the only cause.
It's not been the best of weeks. But at least tonight Mum isn't having one of her turns - the last two nights she has become unresponsive or combative when the carers have come in for their evening (& last) visit of the day. Her turns are hard to describe because until you see one the words meaning nothing. In a nutshell her eyes close, her body goes completely limp and yet she calls out for "Harry" meaning dad. If she doesn't get what she's calling for she becomes increasingly agitated. Mostly, anyway, sometimes it's other people. She can hear what you say to her but she won't respond with words, you might get a slight nod of the head, but then again she may just go still. I should probably enquire of Social Work what is going on in her head during these turns, since they seem to know everything else. . . !
We have quite a big garden, too big for us to manage appropriately any more. But dad likes to buy plants, though there really isn't anywhere to put them now. My sister likes to point out that he shouldn't be doing this, which leads to a good old fashioned row. I merely add to the furore by planting things in tubs/pots/planters.
Well, didn't I discover this morning - after the issue of my power screwdriver having "disappeared", a whistle blow from mum (aka shit patrol), my disappointment at not having strong enough hands or wrists any more to make do without a power screwdriver - that someone had chopped down one of my trees.
I almost cried.
Isn't it daft? A tree being cut down either through stupidity, careless or maliciousness, is the straw which breaks the camels back.
And yet dad cannot understand why I won't plant my plants in the garden - the fact that if I do he promptly digs them up and either throws them out or chops them up so badly they die after he shoves them into an inappropriate spot in the garden, isn't relevant.
The fact that one can only tidy up shit and be continually supportive of another human being for so long, is relevant.
The fact that my "good" thigh is now ripping with each stair I climb is irrelevant.
Trouble is, none of it is irrelevant - to me. To the rest of the world my wants/needs/desires are totally irrelevant, but, to me, it isn't.
I've had people in the past say to me "anything we can do to help" but when you ask them specifically, suddenly, the offer is withdrawn. Don't say things you don't mean - a lot of the time I haven't the energy or the spare brain capacity to be anything other than literal.
So, as I listen to the washing machine, on, again, to 2 television sets competing, I consider the fact that it's entirely possible I am developing depression. I've been down this road before. I had hoped never to go down it again but sometimes life conspires against you and those you rely upon to help maintain the balance have too much on their own plates to be there even for a small restorative conversation. But, that's life. Self sufficiency & all that - trouble is, we get trapped in our own thinking and that's when things go wrong.
Here's hoping it's a quiet night (unlikely since it's Gala Day and people will be roaring drunk and screaming/shouting/singing as they wander along the path outside the house) and that, with the end of the antibiotic, comes the sunlight at the end of this tunnel.
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