Somebody once told me that you’re never truly grown up while your parents are still alive. Well my dad died more than 30 years ago, but you’ve probably seen from some of my other posts that my mum is still with us, even if not in the best of health.

When we were children I can recall my grandma worrying about us, and my mum’s response used to be that she couldn’t wrap us in cotton wool. My sister and I grew up and made our own lives and mum continued to live hers in her own way. Sometimes it seems that she’s invincible: a heart attack, a close call with pneumonia, a broken hip and now dementia. A few years ago when she was healthier she used to give me pep talks and remind me that she wouldn’t be around forever but her GP has referred to the indomitable spirit that has kept her going.

However (I bet you heard that word coming) she is becoming weaker and frailer. Her lack of interest in food means that her calorie consumption has dropped with the resultant loss of weight. She probably has no idea what she looks like as she won’t permit herself to use a mirror. The lady that was known for clacking around on her high heels now slops around with back-trodden slippers, using a Zimmer frame for balance. Her pride in her appearance has gone as she has no interest in checking it. Her former insistence on foundation garments (a good bra and a belt) has been transplanted by going bra-less and wearing knickers that are several sizes too large, and sometimes the latter fall off so she goes commando at home. Make up is now never applied, with the exception of a bit of lippy for a funeral a few weeks ago, she hasn’t had her hair done for more than six months and many of her clothes have burn holes from the careless discarding of cigarettes.

This morning my sister phoned to tell me that even mum’s carer was concerned at her lack of energy and interest. All she wants to do is stay in bed and sleep, or go back to bed for another sleep if she has been persuaded to leave her bed. The mother who would never get dressed without having a bath, now has to be coerced into getting in the tub about once a week, and often shows a lack of interest in even having a wash.

I’m sure many others have been in my position and it will continue to happen. But how do you stand by whilst a loved parent neglects themselves to such an extent? She isn’t tempted by food, stating that she’s never enjoyed it anyway. The less she eats the more her stomach shrinks and the less she can cope with. A while ago I scrambled two eggs and put them on two small slices of toast: one for her and one for me. Even her portion was more than she could eat. She used to love my scrambled eggs, and my husband is often critical of ones that are served in restaurants or hotels, preferring my lighter, fluffier home-made versions.

Unfortunately I missed the doctor’s responses to my phone call, so will have to speak to them tomorrow although I don’t know what they can suggest or do. She refuses to drink the Complan that has been prescribed to add to the few calories she consumes, and all the health care professionals state that she maintains capability so her wishes have to be respected.

Tomorrow I will visit again, armed with another 200 cigarettes as she values them more than she does food. I will again phone the doctor and see if somebody can visit her at home while I am there, so that I can countermand her declarations that she is fine. If she isn’t too tired I may be able to encourage her to watch some Wimbledon tennis on the television, or I will deal the cards for a few more hands of kalooki, and I will again try to coax her into eating something, in spite of her protestations that she doesn’t really fancy anything.

And all the while I will try to put into practice what my counsellor is trying to instil in me: the fact that I am important and do matter and must take care of myself, and I will also attempt to work on the de-stressing strategies and spare some time for relaxation meditation before my next workshop to counteract the stress of keeping all the balls in the air at the same time.

One rather tired hamster wants to climb out of her wheel until tomorrow and build up the reserves needed to cope with another day. If only I could get a good night’s sleep. The irony is not lost on me: my mother just wants to sleep, and I can’t.