How Do You Celebrate A Dead Person’s Birthday?

It was Mum’s birthday over the weekend. I asked my flatmate how you celebrate a dead person’s birthday. Perhaps with a caterpillar cake and a solitary candle, alone in a room somewhere. She said she’d join me on the cake.

It’s odd how arbitrary dates become meaningful when somebody dies. So many days have passed by since Mum died, most without a second thought, but the 23rd of each month, the monthly anniversary of her death, always sticks in my mind.

Mum was first diagnosed with breast cancer just before her 50th birthday, and it really wasn’t a ‘thing’. I was talking to someone the other day about how it literally wasn’t a big deal when Mum was first diagnosed. None of us thought it would ever come back. None of us were ever particularly worried about it. Mum had caught it early; she had a lumpectomy, and then chemo and radiotherapy. But we were told the chemo and radio were preventative not cureative. Mum would take a week off work for each round of chemo, and for radio she just nipped down while she was at work. Cancer round one flew past us and we barely blinked. It was nice to have Mum home a bit more, and she taught me how to knit, but beyond that life carried on as normal.

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That’s why, when the terminal diagnosis appeared, it was all a bit of a shock (at least to us, I think Mum had known there was something not quite right for a few months).

It was four years ago now that Mum was first diagnosed. It’s both amazing and horrible how much life has changed in that period of time. Four years ago I had never seen Mum with no hair, I’d never seen her in a wheelchair, fed her water through a sponge, or wiped her face for her when she couldn’t reach. I’d never made a tiny pizza cut into tiny pieces, made scrambled eggs, or cried into Mum’s unresponsive body. Dad had never sent Mum flying upon encountering a rabbit hole whilst driving her wheelchair, broken such horrible news to our family and friends, or driven to and from the hospital upwards of five times a day.

Even in the almost-year since Mum died, so much has happened. My brother got into Oxford, my other brother picked up a handful of GCSEs, and I got a new job. My granddad has been reinvigorated upon the installation of a pacemaker, my Dad’s flown his plane to new places, and my aunt and uncle have visited new countries.

24th September, Mum’s 54th birthday (or do you stop counting when someone dies?) passed, just as every other day has. People often say that they hope their loved ones are celebrating wherever they are but I’m not sure I believe in heaven, or an afterlife. I’m not sure I believe that Mum is alive in another world, space or time. I think she’s probably just dead. But her spirit and everything she’s taught us will live on in us.

One thing we have decided to do (which is perhaps a little cliché, but we’re rolling with it) is to raise money for charity. The local children’s hospice needs £5000 to install new lighting along the corridor by the children’s bedrooms, which will not only make it nicer for the children, but will also light up the artwork on the walls. Mum worked there for many years, before later becoming a trustee, and myself and my brothers have fond memories of spending time there while she was working. The hospice holds the values, vision, and beliefs that Mum held. It’s an ambitious target, but we’re hoping to raise this money through donations and fundraising. If anyone would like to make a donation in Mum’s memory, you can do so here, or by texting ‘FOYO53’ followed by £1, £2, £3, £4, £5 or £10 to 70070.

Featured: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/naomibarrow/celebrating-birthday_b_12199738.html

Children Can Bring Light To The Darkest Of Days

Cycling home today, I saw a lot of Mums pulling various uniform-clad little ones across traffic lights, book bags trailing behind them. I also saw a couple of late-teens-early-twenties-aged-child-looker-after-ers laughing and giggling with their rabble, jumping and skipping along the road.

I love seeing it, it’s so lovely to see people happy and enjoying life.

It does make me miss the various little people (and slightly bigger people) I’ve been lucky enough to take care of, though. Growing up, I babysat for the vast majority of the village from the age of fourteen (being a Beaver Scout leader and having younger brothers helps with that!). I’ve lost count of how many lounges I’ve sat in, stories I’ve read, and games I’ve played.

Through volunteering, there are even more hours spent looking after children to add up. The hordes that have come through Beavers, Cubs and Scouts (at one point I helped out at all three, spanning two different troops), and those I worked with when volunteering with Shout Out Leeds, with Team v, at a school or two, play groups and church.

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When working in a toy shop for a few years, I met a lot of kids, some very briefly, but there were other more regular shoppers who I got to know quite well. As a student ambassador for a couple of years, I interacted with children and young people of all ages. With many it would be a ten-minute chat, or occasionally a day doing various activities. But residentials were the best bit of the job: whole weeks getting to know some incredible young people, being privileged enough to share their stories, hear their worries, and listen to their hopes and dreams. There are so many young people who I got to know really well, but who I will never see again.

Out of all of the children I’ve looked after, there are a couple who have, perhaps, made the biggest impact on me.

The twins who showed me that even though the world can be ridiculously rubbish, there are still smiles to be had, and Peppa Pig can fix almost anything. They showed me that what my body looks like doesn’t matter, so long as it’s healthy enough to take them swimming. They reminded me that baking can be fun, giggles are infectious, and that mess can be joyful. Their Mum recognised that things could be rough, cancer was rubbish, and hugs from little people were sometimes all that was needed to calm a storm.

The three children belonging to my friend. The youngest, born just a month after Mum’s terminal diagnosis, reminding me that life is cyclical and though people die, and it’s crap that they die, people also live, people are born, and life is precious. The middle one has enough energy to keep a power station active for a week and an imagination to rival that of acclaimed writers, who continues to show me that dreams are important and life isn’t as serious as you think. The eldest, an incredible footballer with a big heart, always outside playing with his friends – a continuous reminder that life is greater than these four walls.

Finally, the two boys who I spent Summer, Easter and Christmas with for three years. The boys who baked with me, swam with me, built dens and Lego models with me, ran down to the river, came to the library and tackled buses with me. The boys who took me to the Great Yorkshire Show, the Royal Armouries and Leeds museum. The two boys who let me kiss things better, let me hug them, let me care about them through a time when the world felt so uncaring. However rubbish my night had been, whatever crap was going through my head, however downright awful I felt, they never failed to lift my mood, show me how to smile and bring light to the darkest of days.

Kids are incredible (as are many of their parents!). I’m not entirely sure how/why their parents decided I was responsible enough to keep their little people alive, but I’m so glad they did. I don’t know how many of them will remember me when they are my age, but I will remember many of them.

Summer has come to a close, and I haven’t done a single day of childcare. It feels very odd. I’ve finally emailed my student ambassador job to let them know I’m not coming back, and had a lovely email in response. I miss some of these children a huge amount. I hope that I can see some of them soon (though a couple of them moved to Guernsey which is mildly inconvenient). I’m growing up and moving on and it’s impossible to take everything from my past to my future, I guess it’s just about recognising that these experiences will always be a part of me and my life – they have shaped me and helped me grow into the person I am today; they have got me through some really tough times. Moving forwards is hard, leaving things I enjoyed and loved is hard – but ultimately, it’s right.

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There Was A Life Before Cancer

It feels as though cancer has been part of my life forever. It’s only been 4 years. Two elevenths of my life. Or 18%. So not all that much when you calculate the percentage, but I suppose cancer will always be part of my life, now. Having a Mum die of cancer does that to a person. The word cancer will always hit me in a way it never did before August 2012, and I’m more alert than I ever used to be for signs and symptoms of cancer in both myself and those around me.

So over time that percentage will grow. But however much it does grow, whatever number it hits, it will always be under 100%; I had a life before cancer, and there will be parts of my life to come that won’t be defined by this disease, either.

I’ve just cleared out my childhood bedroom at Dad’s house. It used to be called home, or my parents’ house, but none of those seem to fit any more. So it’s now Dad’s house. It’s been a few weeks since I was last there. It’s all a bit odd… When I first went to uni, I didn’t go home for weeks on end. But as Mum became more ill, I went home more often, so it never really felt like I was moving out… or moved out. I haven’t slept in that room since Mum’s coma in February 2014, I’ve always stayed in the spare room, but that’s another story for another day.

Going through my room was like travelling through time. With every cupboard, every drawer, and every bag, another set of memories was uncovered.

It’s amazing how many details of childhood get lost in the fog of memory and time. I had a house in a village and a small primary school and some friends. I had reading achievements, book cover design achievements, a poem in a published book. I had a church, a Sunday school, the Fairtrade stall, a few Christian camps. I had swimming badges, Brownies badges, Guides badges, Explorer Scout badges, and Duke of Edinburgh awards. I had music certificate after music certificate after music certificate. I had multiple art books, a jar of wool-ends from the granny square blanket Mum helped me put together, another jar of little paper stars I used to fold. I had tennis trophies, a table tennis bat, a few medals from charity runs. I had enough charity and volunteering t-shirts to clothe a small army.

I uncovered the life of a person with hopes, dreams, aspirations and confidence. Someone who looked to the future, knew what she wanted, and had long-term goals. Someone who got involved in anything and everything, and aimed to be the best at everything she tried. I uncovered the life of a person who feels so far removed from myself that I’m not sure I recognise them.

Some of losing these things is just growing up. It’s a natural part of life. But it’s almost as though cancer came into my life and slowly took my interests, and what made me ‘me’, erasing them from my life one by one.

I had a life before cancer, but I don’t want to go back to that life, because it doesn’t feel like ‘my life’ anymore. I don’t want to try and go back to the person I was before because it would be like trying to fit a jigsaw piece into a hole that it doesn’t belong in. I would say I feel broken, and irreversibly changed, but I’m not sure that’s entirely true. I have changed. My perspective has changed, and to some extent my life values have, too. Cancer has ripped a hole in my life, and caused me to forget to live for a couple of years. It makes living hard at times, even now, because it feels like I’ve ‘checked out’ for the last few years, and in that time things have changed and people have moved on – it’s impossible to jump straight back in feet first.

I had a life before cancer, and I’m not going to get that back. I don’t want to get it back. But if I had a life before cancer, I can have a life after cancer, too. I’ve just got to keep taking steps forward, no matter how hard it gets. I’ve just got to keep on keeping on

Also posted on Huffington Post.

Cancer Takes Another Life

I’ve just heard that Dr Kate Granger died yesterday, at the age of 34.

I first ‘spoke’ to Kate over twitter a couple of months before Mum died. I’d seen her floating about on Twitter a while before then. I knew she was being treated in Leeds, and had asked Mum if she knew her (a high probability given that there were just 3 consultants in Mum’s palliative medicine team). Mum said that she’d seen her around, fundraising and things… or something along those lines.

Kate contacted me last April, after I started blogging about Mum’s illness, saying:

Im so sorry to hear about your Mum. She helped me through some very tough times…

In fact Im really missing her support now & I almost feel disloyal for seeing another pall care cons.

I had no idea Mum had treated her and when I mentioned it to Mum, Mum brought up the whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing which I’d forgotten… I later read Kate’s books and, though Mum wasn’t mentioned by name, with the knowledge that Mum was her consultant at times, I could sometimes see the Mum I knew coming through.

She then contacted me again a week before Mum died:

Dear Naomi, reading your latest blog was heartbreaking… Just wanted to let you know Im thinking of you and your mum. K xxx

We had a short conversation. She asked me to pass on to Mum that she was still defying the odds and was in their thoughts. Mum wasn’t particularly responsive at the time, but I told her and she smiled.

After Mum died, she messaged me again:

Oh I’m so sorry to hear that Naomi. Thank you so much for letting me know. She was a fab woman your Mum. Never forget that. Huge hugs & love to you & your family xxx

And then, later on:

Have been with my girlfriends today – not something we manage as often as we should. We were planning our Christmas get together – an unexpected event for me – but found myself stopping & thinking about you & your Mum. How tough Christmas will be… Your blog is absolutely beautiful. Thank you for speaking out about dying & grieving so eloquently. Thoughts are with you xxx

I know that Kate caused waves in some of the work she did. I know that some medics weren’t always happy with the way she tweeted things, or what she wrote. I also know she raised a huge amount of money for charity, got people talking about death and end of life care, and highlighted the importance of clinicians introducing themselves (#hellomynameis).

Hearing of her death is upsetting. For me, it is another link to Mum which has been lost. But from a wider perspective – it’s another life lost to cancer. Another person who’s life has been cut short due to this horrible illness. Another grieving family who are left to make sense of the nonsensical. I hope that they can take comfort in the fact that Kate was loved by many, and that she made a difference.

Illness vs Death

People don’t realise that has horrible as Mum dying was, it’s her illness which is having such a huge effect on me at the moment.

It was seeing her slurring and seeing things on the walls, unable to eat or walk, and then getting lost in Leeds in the dark on a Friday night because I was so upset I didn’t look where I was going and before I knew it I was stuck somewhere not-so-safe. Before that I was so confident at being out and about but now if I’m out in the dark I am so anxious and it’s only made worse by noise.

It was seeing the woman I’ve always seen as so strong, capable and ‘big’ unable to even reach up to her face to scratch her cheek… having to feed her water through a sponge and wipe her face for her. Then seeing other women, who I’ve always seen as role models, crying. Leaving the room and crying. Turning away and crying. Breaking down unable to speak. Having to remain strong for them, because they needed it.

The last stages of her illness were hard, really hard… but it was the sudden deterioration 8 months prior to that which really changed everything. It was so sudden and so unexpected.

I miss my Mum a huge amount, and there is a lot to come to terms with, but it’s the illness I’m struggling to get past. I get images in my head and I can see them in front of me when I’m watching TV or walking in the street or whatever and they won’t go away. Sometimes it feels like I’m back there. I haven’t slept in my bedroom at Dad’s house since that week.

I don’t know how to deal with it or where to go with it. There are no answers or solutions. I don’t even remember it all properly (yet?) but it’s just always there.

10271626_747664941922103_6494238436515259520_nIt was seeing the woman I’ve always seen as so strong, capable and ‘big’ unable to even reach up to her face to scratch her cheek…

Marie Claire Article: My Life Was Perfect… Then My Mum Died

My life has always been set out in front of me. Nursery, primary school, secondary school, possible gap year, uni, have a job, get married, produce 2.5 children and buy some pets, then watch my children go through the same system I did while I excel in my job, bake cookies on weekends, and skip off into the sunset. A nice, neat, perfect little life.

I imagine that anyone else who has grown up in a middle class family will have had similar expectations. I know many people at my secondary school had a similar life plan – lots of students achieved 11 A*s at GCSE followed by 3 A*s at A-Level. BTechs weren’t even taught and the advice was generally to study the ‘better’ subjects; sciences and maths, avoiding the ‘doss’ subjects like Art or Product Design. Following a gap year, I trotted down the uni path like everyone else.

That was where things went a little ‘off-piste’. During my first year, my Mum was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Even though Mum was ill and I visited her in hospital and things, I carried on with my studies. The amount of pressure I felt to carry on as ‘normal’ was immense. The pressure didn’t come from anyone else – everyone completely understood that things wouldn’t be ‘normal’. Instead, the pressure came from myself. I needed to fulfil the perfect blueprint that I’d always believed defined success.

With second year complete, I hobbled into third year. Mum was ill. She was dying. But little old me needed to fill this mould, so I continued to head to lectures when I could. My attendance was more sporadic than I’d have liked, and I visited Mum every night, but I kept smiling, kept attempting to read, kept trying to work out what the heck a p-value was and why it was relevant.

Then Mum died. Four days later I walked into a statistics lecture and sat ready to learn. I tried to do the maths whilst replying to texts about funeral arrangements. I was happy and ‘normal’. People commented on how ‘strong’ and ‘brave’ I was. Well done to me, big gold star for completely ignoring grief and pretending to be absolutely fine.

A week or so later, my attendance was occasional at best. People were talking about having a break and postponing graduation. I didn’t know what to do. I needed to ignore everything in my life and follow the rules and the path that have always been set out for me. I had uni telling me to consider time off, my Dad telling me that maybe after the funeral it would all be better – that my dissertation might be a ‘good distraction’. All I wanted was my Mum.

I ended up sat in front of my GP and asked her what to do. She told to take time out. So that’s what I did. I agreed to take a Leave of Absence from October to January, then complete the first term the following year and postpone graduation.

This train to ‘perfect middle class life’ was still heading to the same destination but via a different route. People understood that I needed some time; Dad thought I could work on my dissertation still while I was off, it was all good.

Then it came to coming back, and I still wasn’t ready. I was trying to work out how to live life without my Mum. I was trying to get my head around returning to studying, despite not having the concentration to read even a few pages of a book. I was trying to compute how I’d get to lectures when some days I was struggling to leave my room, or even shower. My support team felt I would do myself a disservice if I returned to uni in January, both in terms of my health and my grades. So that was that, more time out, no uni until October. No lectures, no workshops, no essays to write, none of it.

Fastforward a few months, and the train to ‘perfect middle class life’ is now so far gone I can’t see it. Making the decision not to return was one of the hardest choices I’ve ever had to make. The pressure to be ‘perfect’ and ‘invincible’ is strong.

I feel like I should show the world that cancer took Mum but won’t take me. I feel that I should just ‘get on’ with life and build myself up, bit by bit, to create this ‘perfect’ life that has always been set out for me.

My fear of failure is something I fight against every single day. To look perfect, study perfectly and have the perfect social life. But sometimes, carrying on isn’t brave – breaking that ‘perfect’ mould is. It would have been easy to stay at uni and keep attempting to go to lectures. It would have been easy to cobble together some words and hand in sub-par work. It would have been easy to break myself in order to finish my degree ‘on time’.

Taking leave means that I’ve had to find a new place to live and find something to fill my days with. It means that I’m going to return to new classes with people I don’t know. Perhaps the hardest thing about it, though, is that I have to admit to myself and the world that I’m not okay. That life has got in the way of this path I’ve always thought I had to follow. I have to face up to not just my grief, but also to the effects of seeing Mum’s health slowly decline.

I have to admit I’m not ‘perfect’ and work on myself, and admitting to that is probably one of the hardest and bravest things I have ever had to do.

Read more about Marie Claire’s #BREAKFREE from Fear campaign.

Two Years

Today marks two years since I heard about Mum’s diagnosis.

I don’t really know what to say. There isn’t really anything to say, I guess. It was the start of the longest, weirdest, 20 months of my life. Mum looked well. I couldn’t compute how she could be so ill and look so well.

One day I’ll write a post about coping with that news. But at the moment I’m struggling with getting my brain to do anything much, so today is not that day. I miss Mum. I miss the person I was two years ago. I desperately want the old me back and my old life back but I know that can’t happen. I will never be the person I was two years ago, because so much has happened and changed, but hopefully I can become a new person, with some of the old spark.

Check Your Lumps and Bumps!

Cancer is a word we don’t like to say. It sticks in your mouth like treacle. It doesn’t feel nice. It doesn’t sound nice. It’s a word that invokes fear in some, memories in others; to some it means nothing.

This Thursday is World Cancer Day, a day designed to get people talking and thinking about cancer.

I’ve written about Mum for months; about her last months of life, and our first months of life without her.

But through all these blog posts, I’ve never really gone back in time and spoken about her full story.

Mum was diagnosed with cancer, initially, in August 2012. She found it super early – before even a mammogram would pick it up. She had a lumpectomy that September and started on a course of chemo. We were upset, but not overly worried. She had caught it early so prognosis was good. The chemo, and radiotherapy were to wipe up any remaining cells rather than to target a particular lump. Mum spent a week at home after each round of chemo, and then went back to work for two weeks. When radiotherapy came around she’d simply pop down during her working day, get zapped, and head back to work. Cancer was annoying, but she wasn’t about it let it get in the way of living her life.

By Easter 2013, cancer was gone and life started to get back to normal. Mum was on tamoxifen, a drug developed with help from Yorkshire Cancer Research, but apart from that cancer was a thing of the past and we all moved on.

In February 2014, Mum found herself somewhat achy and decided to get checked out before going on holiday. That was when we found out that the cancer had returned, and was terminal. Mum had a good six months of relative health while on hormone treatment. When it stopped working and she started chemo again, there were a few hospital stays but Mum was still working, right up until her brief coma in February 2015 (February isn’t the best month, apparently!). She never worked after that, and though her health picked up a little for a short while after, it then declined steadily until she died in October 2015.

Mum’s story is one cancer story. One story out of the 338,263 new cases of cancer in 2012.

Cancer didn’t die with Mum, either. I might not have cancer, but I’m still affected by it. I don’t want cancer to be a part of my life anymore. But like anyone else who’s encountered cancer, I am hyper-vigilant for any lump or bump, any mole… anything that might indicate that cancer is making an unwelcome appearance in my life.

My Mum died. She was an incredible human being and will always be part of me, but she’s not here anymore and it hurts. It’s been over three months since she died and I still cry most days. I still have trouble sleeping, rarely sleep through the night, and dream about Mum dying over and over again. I still keep my phone on me at all times and check it repeatedly. Images and memories of Mum’s illness play over and over again in my mind.

One night I worked out that Mum’s cancer was all my fault (don’t ask). As much as people tell me it is in no way my fault and just a random cell mutation, as much as people reason with me and explain this to me, I still get dark nights where I feel as though I’m being crushed under the weight of guilt.

Cancer didn’t just take Mum’s life, but it took some of mine, too. Some of my brothers’, my dad’s, my aunt’s, uncle’s, grandad’s. It reached my friends, through me, and the friends of all my family members. It reached my lecturers and others who have helped me. It’s not something which is isolated to the sufferer and it’s not something that goes away when the person dies.

This World Cancer Day, if you do nothing else, please just check yourself for any suspicious lumps or bumps. Cancer Research UK has a guide on checking for cancer on their website. Catching cancer early can increase your chances of recovery. Life gets busy and it’s so easy to procrastinate these not-so-fun tasks, but please take it from me: it’s important.

If you’d like to donate to Yorkshire Cancer Research through my JustGiving page, please click here.

Campus Society Article: What it’s like caring for a terminally ill parent when you’re at university.

I remember the day Mum stopped being able to walk. I had to help her from her bed to her chair and wheel her to the bathroom. She could still wash herself at that point and once she’d finished I wheeled her back, found her medication and fixed her some lunch. I remember it so clearly because it was the last time I had some quality time alone with her.

I didn’t know that I was a carer until I’d been caring for over a year. Mum was diagnosed with terminal cancer during my second term of university. She died at the start of my final year.  I knew that none of my friends had a terminally ill parent, but that was about as far as my thinking went. It was only when I met someone from the charity York Carers who started asking me questions like “Do you worry about your Mum when you’re in lectures?” that I began to realise how different my student life was compared to my peers.

I didn’t think I was a carer because I still lived at university.  I hadn’t realised that a lot of things I did were things that my friends didn’t do. Like going home more a lot more often and checking in on my family every day. When going home, most of my friends would be waited on hand and foot, but even though I did still take my washing home (so much cheaper than on campus), I normally did it myself, and often ended up cleaning and cooking a fair bit too. I also didn’t appreciate the toll of emotionally supporting my family and worrying about not just Mum, but also about my Dad and brothers and how they were coping.

My caring responsibilities started slowly and increased steadily by the time Mum died, I hardly realised how far my life had shifted from that of a normal student. To begin with, it was just a matter of visiting home more often to see her. But over the course of Mum’s illness I’ve had to do many more things including visiting her in hospital, helping her drink, fetching her medication, and moving her around the house.

When she was in hospital, I occasionally missed lectures and in my second year I had to postpone my summer exam to give me enough time to catch up on all the work. I’m the eldest of three children, and the only girl, so I definitely felt some responsibility for managing the house while Dad was in hospital, transporting Mum’s family, or working.

Perhaps the biggest area of my uni life being a carer impacted was my social life. I could never commit to anything too far in advance for fear of letting people down and when I was at uni I often spent time catching up on work instead of being out with my friends. To begin with my friends were amazing. I lived in halls and we’d often crash each other’s rooms. I remember one friend arriving in my room with chocolate fingers and a film one night when I was having a particularly bad day. But in second year, as we moved out of halls and I had to go home more often, it became harder to keep those friendships up. The more time I spent at home or in hospital, the more distant I felt from uni and my friends there. I drifted from them as their lives moved on and mine stayed stuck in cancer-land. It wasn’t their fault, and whenever I do contact them or see them around they’re really supportive and still invite me to things. It’s just how it was.

Other young adult carers have shared similar experiences. Through the power of Twitter, I found two other carers with stories a bit like mine. Maariyah, a first year student at the University of Portsmouth, has been caring for her Mum for years and like me didn’t realise she was a carer for a long time, “I didn’t actually realise I was a carer until I got older and realised my role” she told me. Jane, a master’s student, has been caring for her sister for most of her life and now cares for both of her parents, too. Both Maariyah and Jane live at home and travel into university for their lectures, which in itself gives them a very different university experience from their friends, but one I instantly
recognised.

Bethany, a first year student at the University of Bedfordshire, has cared for her Mum from a young age. She lives at uni too but, like I did, travels home often.

Both Jane and Bethany mentioned how difficult it could be to socialise. Having less time to see their friends might be an obvious one, but they also spoke about not wanting to cancel plans at short notice, letting their friends down, and Bethany said “because  of my caring role I don’t like to go out much and haven’t found the confidence to have a social life at uni.”

Thankfully, all three carers receive support from their local carers organisations and Jane is also supported by her personal tutor and a lecturer. Talking about her lecturer she says “she’s been a star, I honestly believe that without her I would’ve definitely dropped out of uni. She’s been my rock throughout the last few years, she’s always there for me both academically and personally.” These supports are lifelines. Helping carers to manage the various strains on their time and providing them with occasional light relief. I can relate to this, I’ve been incredibly well supported by both my academic supervisor and my college welfare team who have constantly gone out of their way to help me out. Once I discovered I was a carer and found York Carers, I began to receive support from them too which has been invaluable.

It is estimated that there are 290,369 carers in the UK aged 16-24 but the true number is unknown because so many young adult carers may not even recognise themselves to have a caring role. Out of those who identify themselves as a young adult carer, 25% won’t tell their college or university about their caring role. It isn’t quite clear why but often it can be because they don’t know the support that could be available to them, or they are worried about the reaction of their tutors. Under the Care Act, 2014, every carer is entitled to support to help them to carry on with their life. This includes the right for every carer to receive a carer’s assessment, assessing the needs of themselves and their family to make sure that they receive the support they deserve, such as help with the caring itself, assistance with travel costs, or enabling the carer to have some time away from their caring role so that they can do something else for a while.

Despite the difficulties caring can throw up, most of us wouldn’t want our responsibilities taken away. I got a sense of pride from caring, I love my families, and would rather care for them myself than have a relative stranger do it. Being a carer, I learned a lot. I learned about the issues facing a person with limited mobility, both in their house and when trying to get out and about. I discovered how non-wheelchair-friendly many places are and found a new appreciation for anyone wheelchair-bound. I learned how to support a disabled person around their home – and about the various gadgets available to help with that. I also learned things about myself, mainly that I’m more resilient than I ever thought possible.

Every carer needs support. There’s no reason that being a carer should stop you from attending university or college, if you want to. If you think you might be entitled to carer support, go to carers.org to find your nearest carers centre.

This article originally appeared on Dorms, the online magazine of Campus Society, check it out here.