I am not a carer. I hate the term. I really hate the term.
I suspect that I fulfil most people’s definition and expectation of what a carer is. I look after my husband. I make sure he has his meds on time. I make sure he always has food when he needs it, even if he doesn’t want it. I make sure he has clean clothes and a comfortable bed. When he needs it, I help him bathe. When he’s sick, I look after him.
But I am not a carer. I do not do any of those things because I am a carer. I do those things because Michael is my husband. Calling me a carer takes away from that. It makes me sound like an undertrained nurse or someone who perhaps does it for the money. Calling me a carer not only diminishes me, it diminishes Michael. It turns him into someone who needs to be cared for, an invalid, someone who is broken.
Michael looks after me. He makes sure I have my meds on time, when I need them. He makes sure I always have food when I need it, even if I don’t want it. He makes sure I have clean clothes and a comfortable bed. When I need it he helps me bathe. When I’m sick, he looks after me.
Michael does those things for me because he is my husband.