I begin these new chronicles not from the beginning—that would be too easy—nor from the end (since I don’t know what that will be), nor from the middle (I’m not sure which stage I’m in), but from the now. Yes, I know, I’m lazy; the here and now is the easiest place to start, but at the same time, it’s the hardest to accept or remain present in. I can consider myself an official caregiver for about three or four years now, and during this time, many things have happened to me. I’ve experienced a wide range of emotions and gone through different stages of acceptance. For me, I think the saddest thing of all is something no one talks about—or maybe it’s perceived as something that shouldn’t be talked about. Keep reading, and I’ll tell you what it is.

Thank you for continuing; I always fear people won’t get past the first paragraph (wait, what am I talking about? In my last entry, I said I do this for myself—how silly of me). Anyway, getting back to the topic: after all these years as a caregiver, I’ve realized that, besides the difficulty of accepting a loved one’s illness—especially when it’s your mother and it’s an illness that robs her of her memories—the hardest thing is seeing how all the people she considered friends, and even family, act as though she’s no longer here. I’m not saying they should call her every day or visit her often, but it goes beyond that—it’s total forgetfulness, and in some cases, a lack of respect.

Let me explain: since I moved my mother here from Madrid about four years ago, only one friend has continued to call me, ask about my mother, or make an effort to visit her. I imagine the others think, “If she doesn’t remember us anymore, why bother?” The fact is that even her own sister hasn’t come to see her in the four years she’s been here. It’s always been me taking my mother to see her on several occasions. On top of that, her own niece—my cousin—has completely ignored her, even going as far as not inviting my mother to her eldest daughter’s wedding. This is the same daughter my mother cared for during the first years of her life while my cousin worked. I imagine she thought, “Why invite her? She won’t remember anything, and we’ll have to look after her. It’s easier to just forget about it.”

My aunt called me to say they didn’t invite anyone from outside Madrid to the wedding, which is why my mother wasn’t invited. But on the day of the wedding, I saw with my own eyes—through the social media posts of my cousin’s daughters—that they were celebrating with over 100 people, many of whom were from outside Madrid. When they realized I had seen their posts, they blocked me.

I don’t think I need to keep sharing stories like this, but it becomes clear that when you’re no longer in good health, you become a burden to others. I could say the same about some of my friends (not all), who have never said to me, “Nuria, do you want me to stay with your mother for a while so you can go out and disconnect?” or “Nuria, do you want to come with your mother to…?” Now I, too, am forgotten.

The harsh reality of life slaps you in the face, and it takes time to recover, but I assure you that when you accept this reality and live in it day by day, you become a stronger person with much more love and compassion for your loved ones and those around you. You learn to strengthen your empathy, and a new feeling grows within you.

That’s all for today; I just wanted to bring this to light as soon as possible so I can focus on more entertaining posts in the following entries. I promise you, not everything will be like this.