We have a young hedgehog that is currently residing with us in our house. Eldest son saw him in the pond as he was clearing it, fortunately the water level was quite low. Hubby rescued it and has wrapped him up in towels and put him in a box, with some food. He is currently in the conservatory and is calling for is mum. now here lies the problem. We have no idea where mum is and it is likely that the nest was disturbed because the pond was full of leaves and other bits and pieces that are not usually nearby. So we think that the fox probably got there or cat and disturbed them. We have been on the lookout for an adult hedgehog, we had one in the garden the other day, but so far we haven't seen one. We know from experience that the mother is likely to kill the youngun because it will have been with us and handled, but hubby couldn't leave it to die, he had to give it a chance. so he is now spending the night, in a box, covered in old towels and grass in the conservatory, with the doors closed, safe away from the dogs. he is still calling for mum, and we go in occasionally and talk to it. The poor thing is frightened and probably in shock as well. However his chance of survival is good, and hopefully, he will get through tonight. Tomorrow a phonecall will be made to Tiddywinkles for advice, but for now we are doing what we can.

In the room there is a hospital bed, a telly and a settee. There is very little room to move around in without getting in someone's way.

One chair has had to be removed from the room.

The bed is occupied, the occupant bed bound (her choice). She needs 24 hour care. She had a chest infection, took to her bed and never got out again. She dozes in and out of sleep, covered up by sheets and blankets, a rail up to keep her in though she has been known to move around and get twisted, laying awkwardly. She isn't eating. She struggles to drink. Her carer gives up her time to feed her which is becoming more of a drain. It took two hours today to get her to eat some pureed fruit. She barely drinks. She ignores requests to take a sip of juice or tea. She refuses it, wants to be left alone in her world. Every so often she will make a comment - "pull me up" "leave me alone". She regresses into her own little world a time when she was happy. She will mutter "Should have gone to work today" or "had a good time at the park earlier" but all those who hear know that she hasn't left that bed, will not do so.

The careworkers come in three times a day. Two of them to help wash and change her, to make her comfortable to check for sores and cream them. They chat to her, she does not answer. They sit and talk to keep her company, to give a little respite to the main carer, the daughter, to ease the strain a little so that she can put the washing machine on again for the umpteenth time that day. They tidy away, get rid of the evidence of their presence and move onto their next client that needs their help.

The daughter, the main carer, who promised her mum when she was a young woman that she will look after her, sighs and stands in the kitchen looking out of the window, the pain and strain of her predicament etched on her face. She can't sit in the room with her mum for now, there is too much to do. The washing machine is on again, there is food to prepare and how is she going to get more washing dry when the previous lot isn't yet? She shrugs her shoulders and bows her head.

Her back hurts from trying to get her mum settled into bed properly this morning. She is tired. She is sore. She is depressed, but knows she has to go on. There is too much to do. There is shopping to get, but there is not enough time to do it all in between the constant care that she has to give her mother. She can't remember the last time she saw her grandchildren. she can't remember when she last saw her friends. She no longer goes out unless it is to get medication for herself or to do a quick shop round Asda once a week. She is stuck indoors 24/7, there is no respite from what she faces on a daily basis. Her mother needs 24 hour care and nursing homes are few and far between. She knows that next time the careworkers come there will be more to do, more washing to be done. She has been up since 4.30 this morning and knows she will not see bedtime until about 11 this evening. Most days her youngest daughter is around to help, but she has to work and even she also shows the strain of the burden they share. Dinner takes two hours to spoon feed to the woman in the bed. The same woman who gave birth to her, the same woman who bought her up and looked after her. The same woman who now acts like a baby. And then at some point she will have to feed herself before she starts all over again.

Help? What help? apart from the careworkers who come in three times a day that is all the help she gets. The hospital bed arrived because it was easier to have a bed that rises up so the careworkers don't bend. Occupational health want to put a hoist in, a ramp, make adaptions to the living room, to the bathroom and the hallway. The daughter said no. She knows her mum won't leave the bed and anyway she still has to live in the house when her mum has gone. It is her house.

She needs help not more equipment. Everywhere she looks there is evidence of her mum's confinement. The box of pads the woman wears, the sterilising liquid, the clothes that she needs, the pile of sheets for the bed, the commode that is no longer used, the wheelchair that will not see the light of day again. Everywhere you go, in the small house, you have to move something to get by.

It is no longer the home she loved, the home she raised her children, the home she was happy in. The home she lovingly tidied everyday. the ornaments have gone, been put away to make way for the few things her mum brought with her when she first came to live with her. Was it really only three years ago?

The carpet that she hoovered daily is dirty where her mother kept wetting herself and staining it. The carpet is ruined where it has been cleaned so much. The fireplace that was polished daily until it shone, now stands looking tired and forlorn, the cup stains from where the careworkers leave their cups. The house is barely recognisable as her home except from a couple of photos that hang on the wall. She shuffles her feet along the floor of the kitchen, reloading the machine a tear escaping from her eye.

The letter that came this morning, tells her that she has been unco-operative, that all the suggestions that had been made had been refused by the family. Occupational health, it seems, believes that she is being un-cooperative, that she should have turned her home into a house of equipment, altering everything for the lives of the people that still live in that house. For the people that have to share their living space with a woman that will lay in a bed and not use the equipment that is suggested.

She remembers the day they visited and what they wanted her to do, even telling her that she would have to get rid of the one sofa that remains in that small room. Where will I sit? Where will my visitors sit? She had asked them. This is my home. they tell her they are trying to do the best they can for the patient, to give her some quality of life. That woman who won't leave her bed.
What about me? she asked. What about my quality of life? she questions. But they do not answer, there concern is with the woman, her mother, in the bed.

As she reads the letter she crumples it in her hand and wipes the tears that spill from her eyes. Why? she wails, why don't they listen. Why don't they believe me when I say that this is my home?
She is at the end of her tether, she is lost, she feels so alone.

Why don't they care about the carers?

In the meantime the old woman lays in the bed, her eyes closed against the world, oblivious to all that is around her. She no longer recognises the people that come and go. The ones that try to feed her and tell her to swallow the food they put between her lips. She no longer wants to listen. She is in her world, do not cross it.

She is waiting to die.
She knows he will come for her.
For now she will wait, in her world, behind closed eyes.