A Day in the Life of a Carer —“It’s Your Turn”

The alarm goes off.
For a moment, I stay still,
wrapped in the warmth of my duvet,
listening to the rain against the window.

It is cold.
It is dark.
And I am tired before the day begins.

I pull the covers closer.
Just five more minutes.

Then I remember:
it’s your turn.

Somewhere along the way,
my life changed.
My diary began to fill
with someone else’s appointments.

My phone became a lifeline.
My days needed planning
around the needs of my ageing parents.
There was no ceremony.

No training day.
Just one task,
then another,
until caring became part of everything.

I get ready for work.
I mean to have breakfast,
but there is something to sort out,
a call to make,
a message to answer.

I will eat later.

Six hours at work.
Six hours of listening,
thinking,
helping,
giving.

By the time I finish,
breakfast has become a missed lunch,
and my stomach reminds me
that “later” still hasn’t arrived.

Outside, the rain is falling.
My coat is damp.
My feet ache.

I want to go home,
put the kettle on
and sit down.

But first:
it’s your turn.

“How are you today?”
“Have you eaten?”
“Have you taken your tablets?”
“What did the doctor say?”
I listen.
I check.
I make a mental note.

Then another.
Then another.

The GP needs calling.
The prescription needs collecting.
There is a hospital appointment to arrange,
transport to organise,
a date to remember.

I write it down,
because my head is already full.

Then the phone rings.

“The heating isn’t working.”

I find the number.
Explain the problem.
Wait for the engineer.
Try to arrange a time
when somebody can be there.

Another call.

“The Wi-Fi’s gone.”

Then:
“Something’s wrong with my mobile.
Can you come now?”

I try to explain it over the phone.
Press this.
Look for that.
Tell me what you can see.

But frustration rises at both ends,
and I hear myself say,
“All right.
I’m coming.”

Because:
it’s your turn.

A letter has arrived.

“What does it mean?”

I read it once.
Then again.
Find the reference number.
Ring the office.
Wait in the queue.

“Your call is important to us.”

I look at the clock.

The bank has called.
Someone else says money is owed.

Who called?
What did they ask?
Did you give them any details?

I keep my voice calm,
while worry begins
its familiar journey through my mind.

Some days, I make it to the gym.

I move my body,
but my thoughts are elsewhere.

Have I missed a call?
Will the pharmacy still be open?
Did I confirm that appointment?
What needs doing when I leave?

Even here,
I am carrying a list.

And sometimes,
I am impatient.
Sometimes,
I let the phone ring for a moment,
because I need one breath
before I answer.

Then comes the guilt.

I love my parents.
I want them safe.
I want them comfortable.
I want them to feel heard.

And I am tired.

Both things live inside me.

There are tender moments, too.

A familiar laugh.
A story I have heard before
and somehow want to hear again.

“Have you had anything to eat?”
they ask.

For a moment,
I am their child again.

Then I gather my things,
check tomorrow’s arrangements,
and head home.

This is what I want people to understand
when I say,
“I’m a Carer.”

There is a whole day behind those words.

Please ask how I am.
Give me time to answer.
Offer something practical:

“I can collect that prescription.”
“I can make that call.”
“Sit down.
I’ve brought you something to eat.”
And sometimes,
the kindest words of all:

“Stay under the duvet a little longer.
I’ve got this.

Today,
it’s my turn.”

By Angela Mitchell