The Lady in the Back Row

Last day of April.

Every night, back at the hospital. Same routine, same in and out just part of life at the moment.

The new hospital is a major upgrade.

Brighter, more open, and somehow easier to sit in.

And the views, million dollar views. Looking out over green, open space with the bay in the distance, it almost makes you forget where you are for a minute.

Mum turns 74 today.

It’s been a warm week, especially for the end of April.

Walking in tonight didn’t even feel like autumn. Full moon’s out bright and hard to miss.

Nothing really different otherwise. Same routine, then heading home, knowing we’ll be back again tomorrow, and somehow it’s May already.

That’s it.

Happy 74th Mum.

Today is about getting through one day at a time.

I keep showing up, doing what needs to be done, trying to be strong for everyone around me.

On the outside, I hold it together.

I say the right things, make the calls, keep moving forward.

But inside, it feels like a lot.

More than I let on.

There’s this quiet weight that sits underneath everything.

I don’t always say it out loud, but it’s there, this feeling of being overwhelmed, stretched thin between holding everything together and not quite having space to fall apart.

Still, the day keeps going.

So I keep going with it.

One step. One task.

One moment at a time.

That’s enough for today.

Today feels different.

After a week of unexpected autumn warmth, I woke to a world wrapped in fog.

Not cold, just quiet… soft… a little mysterious.

The kind of morning that makes everything slow down for a second.

No work today. Just the simple rhythm of life, pick up the dog, school drop-off, take the car in for a service, then walk back to my daughter’s place.

Nothing extraordinary.

Day two on the right medication. Still so early. They say it can take months to notice a real change… but I can’t help quietly watching, wondering, counting.

There’s something about today though, the fog, the stillness , that makes it feel like a beginning.

Countdown starts here.

After dropping the car off, I decided to walk home with the dog .

But the walk has told me something I didn’t want to fully face.

She can’t really walk anymore.

The arthritis has taken hold, and what used to be an easy hour has stretched into two… and we’re still not home yet.

Every step is slow, careful, and a bit painful to watch.

And while I started the day in my head , day off, task after task, things to get done , this walk has completely changed the pace.

She couldn’t rush, so I couldn’t either.

Somewhere along the way, the frustration softened.

The fog, the quiet, the forced slowing down… it actually became something else.

Something still. Something present.

This wasn’t the walk I planned.

But maybe it was the one I needed.

I just realised I missed Sunday.

Not because I forgot, not because I didn’t care, but because life has been so full, so consuming, that the days have blurred into one another.

Hospital hours, worry, advocating, thinking, not sleeping properly… it all just carried me straight through without stopping to mark it.

But so does this, recognising that sometimes what you’re living through is bigger than routine.

Since December, I haven’t missed a day.

That matters to me.

But so does this recognising that sometimes what you’re living through is bigger than routine.

And here I am, noticing it now, and continuing on.

Because that’s what this has always been about, showing up, as best I can, in the middle of real life.

So Sunday slipped by.

Today didn’t start well.

I’d set the alarm for 5:30pm instead of 5:30am, so I woke up an hour late and straight into that familiar rush.

But despite the shaky start, the day found its rhythm.

It was organised, and somehow everything flowed the way it needed to.

And then, finally, after months and months of pushing, questioning, advocating, not letting things fall through the cracks… the gold standard medication has begun.

I don’t think “relief” even covers it. It’s more like a cautious exhale I didn’t realise I’d been holding for so long. I’m crossing everything I have that this is the turning point.

Because yesterday is still sitting with me.

The image of my girl, so frail, so unwell, it didn’t leave me.

It followed me into the night and kept me awake, my mind circling the same fears over and over.

It’s a hard thing to see someone you love look so close to the edge.

But today feels different.

Today there is a thread of promise.

And right now, that’s enough to hold onto….. for all of us.

A standard Saturday.

Ordinary, everyday tasks.

The kind that go round and around, washing, tidying, sorting, planning, doing it all again.

There’s something grounding in that rhythm, even when it feels repetitive.

Especially when life elsewhere feels anything but steady.

No alarm this morning, and that alone felt like a gift.

Waking up naturally, no jolt, no rush. Just easing into the day at my own pace.

It’s a lovely, warm autumn day.

The new hospital, what a contrast. Set in the most beautiful spot. Green everywhere you look.

Trees that soften the edges of everything.

And then the ocean bay in the distance, stretching out, steady and constant.

The breeze moves through it all, like a reminder that things keep flowing, even when we feel stuck.

Routine is the key right now.

Not because it fixes everything, but because it holds things together. Getting up, showing up, doing the next small thing.

Keeping up with what needs to be done, without trying to solve everything at once.

Just one step. Then another.

Round and around, but still moving forward.

There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from hard work.

It’s not from working full time.

It’s not from caring for children.

It’s not from managing a home, or even two.

That kind of tired has structure. It has purpose. You can see what you’ve done at the end of the day.

This is different.

This is the exhaustion of sitting in the gaps.

The space between mental health and physical health.

The space where symptoms don’t fit neatly into one box.

The space where services don’t talk to each other, and no one quite takes responsibility.

It’s the constant loop:

in and out of hospital,

in and out of conversations,

in and out of systems that are meant to help, but somehow don’t meet in the middle.

It’s advocating, explaining, repeating.

Telling the same story again.

Pushing for urgency while being told to wait.

Holding it all together while things feel like they’re quietly falling apart.

That’s what’s exhausting.

Not the doing,

the battling.

And as if that kind of tired isn’t enough, the nights aren’t even giving relief.

A nicotine patch was meant to help but instead it’s brought vivid, chaotic dreams that run all night long.

The kind that feel real, unsettling, relentless.

So even sleep isn’t rest right now. Just another layer of exhaustion to carry into the day.

There’s a particular cruelty in watching someone you love sit in that space, knowing they need help, knowing help exists, and still feeling like you’re trying to bridge something that shouldn’t even be broken.

And yet, here we are.

Still showing up.

Still pushing.

Still holding the line.

Because what else do you do when it’s your child?

So today, it’s Friday.

And that matters, not because anything magically fixes itself, but because even the smallest pause counts.

A breath.

A moment.

A line drawn under a week that asked too much.

Some days aren’t graceful.

Some days are just survival.

You wake up already tired.

There’s too much to do before your feet even hit the floor, kids to get ready, work to think about, houses to manage, animals to feed, people to care for.

And somewhere in there, you’re supposed to take care of yourself too.

That’s the part that quietly disappears.

Because when everything stacks up at once, you don’t think, “How do I thrive?”

You think, “How do I get through today without everything collapsing?”

And sometimes, if I’m honest, the ways I’ve coped haven’t been great. A drink to take the edge off.

A cigarette to get five minutes of space.

Not because I don’t know better, but because in that moment, it feels like the only pause button I’ve got.

That’s the reality people don’t talk about.

Not the highlight reel. The middle of it.

But here’s what I’m starting to understand:

Holding it together doesn’t mean pushing harder.

It means pulling things back.

It means asking:

What actually matters today?

What can wait?

What do I need, not what do I expect from myself?

Some days, the answer is very simple:

The kids are fed Everyone is safe The basics are done

That’s enough.

Not every day needs to be productive. Not every moment needs to be strong.

Some days are just about stabilising.

And looking after yourself doesn’t have to be big or perfect.

Sometimes it’s:

drinking a glass of water sitting down for five minutes choosing not to make things worse

That counts.

Because the truth is, if you’re the one holding everything together, then you matter more than you’ve been allowing.

You don’t have to solve everything today.

You don’t have to have a five-year plan.

You just have to steady yourself enough to take the next step.

And then the next.

And then the next.

That’s how things get held together, not in one big moment of strength, but in small decisions to keep going, without losing yourself in the process.

There’s something steadying about waking at the crack of dawn. Before the noise starts.

Before the demands.

Just sitting outside with a coffee, listening to the birds, watching the sky slowly shift from dark to light. It’s a quiet kind of reset, one of the few moments in the day that feels completely untouched.

Wednesday. Midweek already.

I spoke to Mum last night, which was nice.

Simple, familiar, grounding.

The kids are doing okay, and that matters more than anything else. That alone is enough to hold onto.

The hospital is still the hospital. Waiting.

Still no movement on the new medication.

Another follow-up, another push, another bit of energy spent trying to get a response.

I put in feedback to mental health services as well, nothing back.

Not surprising, but still frustrating. It shouldn’t be this hard to be heard.

Outside, the little dog wanders. Round and round and round.

Not searching, just moving.

The dementia has taken that sense of direction, that awareness of where she is or what’s in front of her. She keeps going in circles, pauses for a moment, then starts again. There’s no decision in it, no intent. Just the condition, quietly playing out.

This morning I gave her a syringe of water. The bowl was right there, but she didn’t register it.

At least this way I know she’s had something.

Something small, but something certain. Enough to get her through until I’m back this afternoon.

It’s a strange kind of care. quiet, repetitive, mostly unseen.

Doing what you can with what’s in front of you, even when it feels like it shouldn’t be this hard.

But there’s only so much you can keep pushing in one moment.

So the approach today is simple: get on with it.

Not in a dismissive way, not in a defeated way, just in a practical one.

Focus on what’s in front of me. Keep things moving where I can. Let the rest sit where it has to for now.

The morning helped.

That quiet start, the birds, the light coming in, it doesn’t fix everything, but it puts things in place.

A small pocket of calm before stepping into the rest of it.

And sometimes, that’s enough to carry you through the day.

The world feels mad sometimes. Social media is loud, chaotic, overwhelming.

People carry so much, and it spills everywhere.

And I do get pulled into it.

Daily.

It affects me deeply, because I care. Because I have a heart.

I don’t think you can see so much of the world’s pain and not feel it.

But I’ve learned I can’t live in that space.

So I make a conscious choice to look away, even just for a moment. To come back to what’s real, what’s mine, what’s right in front of me.

And I don’t have to search for gratitude.

I just look around me.

My beautiful grandchildren.

A roof over my head.

Money in my pocket.

A car to drive.

Food in the cupboard.

A safe, warm bed to sleep in every night.

A beautiful tree standing quietly in the yard.

It’s already here.

The noise is still there.

The world is still the world.

But I don’t have to carry all of it, all the time.

So I ground myself.

I come back.

And I’m thankful…..every day.