Julie

 My friend Julie.

Julie lost her mother recently. As usual, I am probably the last person to find out about it probably because I am so tunnel visioned about many things.

She writes her post here.

"The past few weeks have been pretty weird. Up until a few weeks ago, I had a solid identity as Mum's carer. The house was like Hotel Central, with a steady procession of district nurses, carers and doctors dropping in and out. I had a limited amount of time in which I could go out and always had to be back for a certain time. Now they have all melted away and I feel like a satellite that has dropped out of orbit. Life has rewound to thirteen years previously, when I had finished my degree and diploma in music and I didn't have a clue where I was going with it. And yet." 

I have followed Julie's adventures as a carer for a while. She is and always will be one of the most admirable people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. She sacrificed much of herself for the sake of caring for her mother. That is always a sign of someone truly special, kind and generous. People like that are rare in this world. We live in a modern society where our elders are usually shoved off to a old people's home so that we can all get on with our lives. I have seen many people as a doctor. I have seen the way,their grown children leave them in residential homes and forget about them when their usefulness comes to an end. I have seen people like this in hospitals and nursing homes who are terribly lonely. As doctors, we always try our best to give them that one friendly smile. Kindness is of course free.

It is though rare these days to see a daughter lovingly take care of her mother as Julie did.

A little known fact to the world around me is my role as a carer from the age of 10. I suppose, I had been embarrassed of identifying myself as one. My father was a disabled man at the age of 52 when encephalitis hit him. My world had turned upside down. Since the age of 10, I have desperately tried to turn my world the right way up. I had spent years concealing who I really was as the word "carer" carried a kind of stigma. No one would understand why I opted to take care of my father.  So many doctors kept telling me to place my father in a home but I refused. I made it to medical school despite all the odds being set against me. I quietly did my best and defied all the predictions of what carers should be. I wasn't going to just have an NVQ in care as many carers organisations expect. I was going to do my best without making any excuses whatsoever. I suppose over the years, I have become extremely good at concealing many aspects of my life. Perhaps, I just did not want people to perceive this as a weakness. After all, in the world of medicine, caring for family is an alien concept. Sure, the work system understands "mothers and babies" but the same respect is not given to carers as such.

I had responsibility and few understood what this responsibility meant. When I commenced working as a doctor, I paid for my father's rehabilitation to ensure maximum independence. When Ward 87 happened, the NHS assassinated the support system for my family. When the GMC hunted me down, I prayed everyday just to be able to work for the years my father needed supporting. Despite being a fugitive and working in fear, I managed to support everyone. I think this concept is missed when doctors are essentially assassinated for no reason whatsoever. The NHS is often gleeful in maliciously assassinating good doctors but fails to understand how many members of their family depend on that doctor.

During my time in the NHS, I would complete oncalls, return home to complete further care and sleepless nights. I would say my maximum time of sleep was about 2 hours per week. It is true that I learned to  work efficiently and faster than many of my colleagues. I didn't have the comfort zone of being able to make any errors.

During the last six months of his life in 2005, I cannot remember having any sleep at all for weeks on end. When he died, life seemed more difficult than the time he was alive. I am not really sure why. It just happened to be the case. I cared less and less about the GMC and their sniffer hound behaviour. Losing a parent is extremely difficult and traumatic and no other type of loss compares with it. My viewpoint of the world was that everything was largely irrelevant and there was no point being uptight about anything.

I learned many things when I was a carer - I learned to survive better than most people and I learned to survive independently. I have never ever regretted my decision to take care of my father. I did it because I wanted to and because I respected him for all he taught me. There are many education systems in our world. I think my father's was the best.

When people we love die, there is though always light at the end of the tunnel despite the initial shock and devastation. I recently told Julie that death is a transitional phase much like evolution and physics. It is also part of life. Nothing is ever the very end. Sometimes, it is just the beginning.