"I could not exist, much less live a fulfilling life, without my carer"

Writing for National Carers Week, Hannah Buchanan explains why the role of carers in our society is so important, and why we should be more aware of what they do for us.

This week is National Carers Week. In my eyes, carers are a group of unsung heroes who do not get the recognition they deserve.

Of course, as human beings we all know what it means to care. We believe in things we are passionate about, we care about friends and those who mean something to us. But being a carer is something different altogether. It means taking responsibility for somebody else’s life while forgoing your own. It is not an easy job and is fraught with challenges but is one that is very rewarding not to mention necessary.

For example, I write regularly on many different subjects. But let me put a very simple question to you – how do I get to the computer to file my pieces? How do I get enough energy sustenance and nutrition to complete the task? If I fancy a night out clubbing with my friends, how do I get there and who is waiting for me when I come back?

In all three scenarios the answer would of course be with my carer’s help. I could not exist, much less live a fulfilling life, without my carer.

Having been born with cerebral palsy, the role of caregiving has always been extremely important to me. In the earlier part of my life my main caregiver was my mother, who brought me up as a single mother and undertook all the duties around caring for me. She did this with little help from the Government, and very little help from the outside world. She was one of the army of unpaid carers who devote their time and energy to their children with disabilities.

My mother nurtured me in many ways, encouraging my ability to read and write, and also musical abilities too. She wanted the best for me and fought to ensure I got it. This meant my mother made many sacrifices for me. She could not go out to work nor earn money because her life was consumed with looking after me. She knew there was nobody else to help and the buck stopped with her. Although we visited my grandparents regularly when I was younger, and I could be left with them for short periods, they were not in any position to offer long-term assistance.

When I was 18, I went away to boarding school to do my A-levels. I took them at Alton College and boarded at Lord Mayor Treloar National Specialist College, a facility specially equipped for those with disabilities. Once at university in Oxford, I was cared for firstly by in-house students on gap years, and then later on care was provided by specific agencies, enabling me to take full advantage of the rich academic and social programme Oxford had to offer. It was a beautiful city, a beautiful time and there was never a dull moment. It was the first time I felt truly alive.

Following university, I moved to a local authority facility in Hampshire where my freedom was somewhat curtailed due to staffing constraints. I existed but looking back I never really lived. This was nobody’s fault - it was just the circumstances I found myself in at the time.

But it was when I moved into my bungalow that caring really came into its own. After meeting many nice people I established a firm relationship with the carer and friend I have to this day. She encourages me to live life to the full and I couldn’t do what I do without her. She enables me to take risks - not risks that put me in mortal danger, but perhaps situations I have not faced before that I would benefit from. Can you believe that before I met her I had never experienced the London Underground?

I feel in control of my own life thanks to carers. I feel empowered and able to make choices. But at the same time,  I never take my carer for granted and miss an opportunity to appreciate them. It is true to say that disability is to some extent a social construct. Since I met my current carer I feel far less disabled than I used to. I feel stronger and more confident – ready to participate in life.

I used to struggle to come out the house. I didn’t have agoraphobia or anything like that – I was just frightened. I’d been cooped up in the disability hostel for a long time and was just out of practice with life. But my carer helped me to regain that confidence.

However, I also feel that carers are highly underestimated and underappreciated in patriarchal society. To me, the job of carer should be on par with that of doctor. Doctors save lives but carers maintain quality of life so that a hospital admission is not needed in the first place. They keep people clean, hydrated, well-fed and happy. They help them maintain their hygiene and dignity. In short, my carer enables me to be an active participant rather than a spectator in my own life. That is a great thing to help somebody do and I feel it is woefully undervalued, both financially and personally, in 2013.

We need to be kinder to carers, pay them better and value their contributions more. Without my carer’s help, I literally would not be able to get out of bed in the morning. Without her encouragement, I would never have whizzed around the Underground. I am glad she’s here.

 

Everyone needs a hand to hold. Photograph: Getty Images

Hannah Buchanan is a blogger with a specific interest in LGBT, disability, and feminist issues and the potential crossover between them. Follow her @HannahBoo3131

Shaun Botterill/Getty Images
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All the Premiership teams are competing to see who’s got the biggest stadium

It’s not just a financial, but a macho thing – the big clubs want to show off that they have a whopper.

Here in NW5, where we live noisily and fashionably, we are roughly equidistant from Arsenal and Spurs. We bought the house in 1963 for £5,000, which I mention constantly, to make everyone in the street pig sick. Back in 1963, we lived quietly and unfashionably; in fact, we could easily have been living in Loughton, Essex. Now it’s all changed. As have White Hart Lane and Highbury.

Both grounds are a few metres further away from us than they once were, or they will be when White Hart Lane is finished. The new stadium is a few metres to the north, while the Emirates is a few metres to the east.

Why am I saying metres? Like all football fans, I say a near-miss on goal was inches wide, a slow striker is a yard off his pace, and a ball player can turn on a sixpence. That’s more like it.

White Hart Lane, when finished, will hold 61,000 – a thousand more than the Emirates, har har. Meanwhile, Man City is still expanding, and will also hold about 60,000 by the time Pep Guardiola is into his stride. Chelsea will be next, when they get themselves sorted. So will Liverpool.

Man United’s Old Trafford can now hold over 75,000. Fair makes you proud to be alive at this time and enjoying the wonders of the Prem.

Then, of course, we have the New Wembley, architecturally wonderful, striking and stunning, a beacon of beauty for miles around. As they all are, these brave new stadiums. (No one says “stadia” in real life.)

The old stadiums, built between the wars, many of them by the Scottish architect Archibald Leitch (1865-1939), were also seen as wonders of the time, and all of them held far more than their modern counterparts. The record crowd at White Hart Lane was in 1938, when 75,038 came to see Spurs play Sunderland. Arsenal’s record at Highbury was also against Sunderland – in 1935, with 73,295. Wembley, which today can hold 90,000, had an official figure of 126,000 for the first Cup Final in 1923, but the true figure was at least 150,000, because so many broke in.

Back in 1901, when the Cup Final was held at Crystal Palace between Spurs and Sheffield United, there was a crowd of 110,820. Looking at old photos of the Crystal Palace finals, a lot of the ground seems to have been a grassy mound. Hard to believe fans could see.

Between the wars, thanks to Leitch, big clubs did have proper covered stands. Most fans stood on huge open concrete terraces, which remained till the 1990s. There were metal barriers, which were supposed to hold back sudden surges, but rarely did, so if you were caught in a surge, you were swept away or you fell over. Kids were hoisted over the adults’ heads and plonked at the front.

Getting refreshments was almost impossible, unless you caught the eye of a peanut seller who’d lob you a paper bag of Percy Dalton’s. Getting out for a pee was just as hard. You often came home with the back of your trousers soaked.

I used to be an expert on crowds as a lad. Rubbish on identifying a Spitfire from a Hurricane, but shit hot on match gates at Hampden Park and Ibrox. Answer: well over 100,000. Today’s new stadiums will never hold as many, but will cost trillions more. The money is coming from the £8bn that the Prem is getting from TV for three years.

You’d imagine that, with all this money flooding in, the clubs would be kinder to their fans, but no, they’re lashing out, and not just on new stadiums, but players and wages, directors and agents. Hence, so they say, they are having to put up ticket prices, causing protest campaigns at Arsenal and Liverpool. Arsène at Arsenal has admitted that he couldn’t afford to buy while the Emirates was being built. Pochettino is saying much the same at Spurs.

It’s not just a financial, but a macho thing – the big clubs want to show off that they have a whopper. In the end, only rich fans will be able to attend these supergrounds. Chelsea plans to have a private swimming pool under each new box, plus a wine cellar. Just like our street, really . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 11 February 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle