It is a truth universally accepted that a person in their mid-to-late twenties, in possession of a good fortune, must have moved out from home and be living on their own. Be it their own property or in a rental (and in this economy, it’s most likely a rental). But I must confess, dear reader, that I, a woman in her early thirties with a decent savings account, still remain at home. Of course, this was not all by choice. I did try to leave home multiple times. First when I was younger and had fights with my parents (though I’d only disappear for an hour or two – something which led a friend at work to break out in peals of laughter). Then an attempt only a couple years ago after I’d had enough of the ongoing battles with personal space, independence and the thousandth speech of how me, a woman barely 155 centimetres in height, was tearing the family apart.

Unfortunately, the rising cost of living, indicated by the interest rates, meant I could not afford to move out. Not to mention the falling out I had with my possible flatmate at the time.

Thankfully though, my relationship with certain family members thawed somewhat afterwards. But it was still a fraught living arrangement. Until, my mother, in her infinite wisdom, stepped away from work at the tender age of 61.

Initially, she claimed this was to look after my grandmother (her mother). However, freed from the expectations of her high demand job, she decided it was the perfect time to live the life she had wanted since her marriage to my stepfather back when I was still a teenager.

With my, somewhat reluctant, blessing, as well as my grandmother’s, she headed to China. And I was left to saddle the work of caring for an octogenarian.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My relationship with my grandmother has always been fairly positive. While we may have quite different ways in how we perceive the world, there is still a strong bond between us. No doubt strengthened by the time we spent together when I was still a ankle-biting menace, and watered by the unconditional affection she has constantly showered me with. But there have been moments in the last year and bit where I’ve felt my patience fray. Or have felt far too overwhelmed with the responsibilities I did not ask for.

Unfortunately, familial duty and the expectations of those around me have meant I’ve continued to shoulder most of the burden alone. That and the fact my grandmother’s stubbornness means she won’t ask anyone for help (unless it’s me. Or my mother).

It’s a lot. Especially when I feel like I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

But there have also been certain incidences that have made the experience worse. When I’ve felt all but powerless to provide her the support she so desperately needs.

My grandmother had endured several chronic illnesses. When she was young, she broke her leg. For more than half a century, she has lived with the reality of having one leg shorter than the other because her leg never healed quite right. While it never impacted her too significantly, she was never as mobile as other able-bodied people. What would take me, or my mother, ten minutes to traverse, she would need upwards of twenty to twenty-five.

All of that changed when she caught COVID at the tail end of 2022. For the first time, she would actively complain of the pain in her thighs and find it difficult to stand for long periods of time without taking some sort of painkiller. While it was gradual at first, it was exacerbated during our trip to Egypt and Turkiye. And, upon our return, she seemed less and less capable of standing on her own two feet.

Cue my mother’s exit.

Every day for nigh on a fortnight, my grandmother would grouse to me about the pain. How the medication she took, mostly paracetamol but sometimes ibuprofen, wasn’t really alleviating any of the pain she was experiencing. Or, if it was effective, there were side effects she didn’t like.

I was at a loss on what to do. She had already visited her general practitioner multiple times. Heck, she even had the poor lady on speed dial. But when bedrest did not solve her problem, we’d encouraged her to stay active to prevent muscle atrophy. I’d also suggested distractions to keep her mind off what she could not control by encouraging her to partake in mahjong clubs or practicing her singing.

None of it seemed to work. She was solely focused on curing her legs.

Except the solutions presented by the doctors were not steps she wanted to take. After all, why commit to surgery now when she had already gone through life without it?

Then, in November 2023, she told me she had lost vision in her left eye.

At the time, she had phrased it in a way that hadn’t sounded too serious. Just months before, her ophthalmologist had conducted cataract surgery on the eye and it was possible she was simply experiencing some discomfort or irritation. At her direction, I sent him an email.

And that was when she began to panic, stating her vision had gone dark.

I called his office then and we arranged an appointment as soon as we could. Once we arrived at his office, we waited nigh on two hours for a diagnosis before we were informed we needed to head to the emergency department of the Sydney Eye Hospital.

What should have been a routine check to ease her fears turned into an hours’ long nightmare. I didn’t get home until after midnight whereas my grandmother had been hospitalised so they could conduct further tests.

For an entire week, I waited on tenterhooks to see if she would be discharged. Colleagues and friends checked in, of course. But they always asked how my grandmother was doing. If she was holding up all right.

They never asked how I was doing.

Until one colleague at work did. And I felt myself unravelling.

Though I told him I was hanging on, the pressures of not knowing if my grandmother was going to be fine, had slowly built up over the days. My mother was still overseas and while, true, my cousin was in Australia and also had the means of checking in on our octogenarian relative, I felt myself adrift.

It probably didn’t help that I’d already suffered the loss of a close family relation when I was child. But I do know that I wasn’t ready to lose my grandmother. Not then.

Perhaps not ever.

In that moment of vulnerability, I stepped away from the computer, sat down on the ground, and cried.

I cried again late 2024 when I had to deal with both my dissatisfaction in the work place and the pressures of home, including my grandmother’s unwillingness to listen to either me or my mother on what was best for her (instead, she was allowing herself to be swayed by her greedy Aged Healthcare support workers), and I just snapped. Not at her, of course, though there was a lot of heat in my words. But I felt like a tiny speck of sand against the waves of the ocean. Once again, overwhelmed. With little to no support for what felt like an impossible task.

Heck, I even let out a primal scream in the car as I drove to catch-up with my friends for a spot of badminton. But it didn’t alleviate any of the pressure. I was just left empty. Despondent.

There was no longer anything left in me to continue pretending everything was fine.

Taking care of people is hard.

While I do want to be there for my grandmother, there are times when I just want to step away and have someone else take the responsibility from me. And though I don’t want her to think she’s burden on me, the truth is, if I was living alone, there would be a weight taken off my shoulders.

I wouldn’t have to hurry back home after a night out with my friends. I wouldn’t turn down an invitation for an impromptu road trip up the coast because I’m worried what might happen if she were to take a nasty fall at home. And I wouldn’t be so taxed with making decisions on what to buy and cook for lunch and dinner, calculating whether or not she had enough nutrients from my homecooked meals.

Still, I suppose I ought to count my blessings.

Most of her chronic conditions aren’t so bad. And when she came back from her brief trip to China last year, there seemed to be some improvement in her energy levels. While she does gripe still on her chronic pain, it’s not everyday. Probably because she has made peace there’s no easy solution to it and it can’t miraculously go away if she just takes the right medication. She’s also adjusted well to the loss of vision in her left eye. And, at the very least, there’s no significant sign of mental deterioration in the form of dementia.

True, her memory isn’t quite the best but when you’re home most of the time, and you don’t have a 9-5 job to go to, I doubt even I would remember the days of the week or the actual date. Heck, even after transitioning to 2025, muscle memory still had me typing out 2024 instead.

But it’s also not easy being her calendar, her cook, her chauffeur and whatever else my grandmother needs from me. There have been moments when I feel like I unfairly take out my frustrations on her when it’s not really her fault. And it scares me that I might be turning into a version of my mother with all her negative traits.

And yet, I cannot wait for the day she returns and finally takes up the responsibility she unceremoniously thrust upon me…