Taking care of my Nan became my identity – and overnight, that disappeared

When we were young, she'd do loads of things for us. She'd take us to school (up until the age where it wasn't cool for us to be seen with her!) She'd accompany us on holiday, like to Jamaica, where she lived before her retirement. And she'd even sneakily get me McDonalds that I'd eat after school for dinner.

As I got older, I'd tell her all sorts of things. "Be quiet, Nan – I'm on the phone", and she'd say: "You're on the laptop too much, go find yourself a nice young Jamaican girl with long hair and nice nails."

We would talk like that, that's how it was with my Nan.

Then, when she was 70 or so, she started having some health problems. First she had a mini stroke, then she had problems with her liver and her eyes. This all happened around the same time that my mum became ill with motor neurone disease (MND).

In our culture, it's natural to take care of your family. That is just something we do. While Dad became Mum's main carer, we quickly realised Nan needed more help and support too.

Me and my cousin stepped in to help. For years, we'd help Nan to the hospital for her treatment and appointments. Then it really started getting serious when Nan was diagnosed with dementia at the age of 87.

The dementia affected Nan in different ways. Sometimes she'd get angry and that did get worse over time. It got to a stage where it needed more than one person to manage her.

That's when we (my cousin and I) decided we'd share her care. We split the hospital appointments between us, and looked after Nan together as a team – from cleaning her to feeding and staying with her during the night.

Looking back, while difficult, it was an honour.

Nan got worse during the latter part of the 2020. Sadly, when the dementia really took hold there was a lot of confusion. She thought I was someone other than her grandson at times.

She also became quite scared a lot of the time and needed a lot of reassurance about what was going on around her. Though it was remarkable that she'd never forget our names.

During the last months, there were moments where she'd be really spritely, and we really enjoyed those as best we could.

Nan surrounded by her family. She did so much for us growing up.

A week before Nan passed away, I knew time was limited, so I called everyone, and I said: "It's time to speak to Nan now." Because I could see her slipping into an unconscious state.

One of Nan's last words days before she passed was: "What a beautiful day". She woke up and her bed was facing the window so at least she could have a good view.

That was the last time I heard her speak. She transitioned two days later.

I contacted Marie Curie after my Nan's funeral at the end of January. I wanted to someone outside of my family as part of the whole process, in order to bring a new perspective.

It doesn't matter how big we are. I'm, 6'5" and strong – there were times I had to lift Nan into bed. But we all need support at such times.

It was good to just talk about some of the nuances of being a carer and then life 'post-carer'. What it's like returning to everyday life. Taking care of my Nan, became my identity – and overnight, that disappeared for me. Even if it's not your main job, being a carer causes you the most stress and gives you the most reward too.

For me, the bereavement support gave me a chance to see my Nan as someone I actually looked up to. So many memories came back as I talked about her – memories which I thought I'd forgotten.

It made me appreciate who she was outside of the title of 'Nan'. You know, she was Nan to me, but say to you or someone else she would be Hazel. She was just human, like all of us.

My advice to anyone who's caring for someone would be to have a strong team of people around them throughout the process of caring for someone sick with dementia or any other terminal illness.

Work together with family who can help, and remember to communicate.