Helen Razer writes in response to Rudds excision of carers payments

This strange vinyl seat is neither pretty nor particularly comfortable. Nonetheless, it offers a sort of nervous intimacy. As I sit in the chair, holding a blended spoonful of something between puree and broth, I ease into its familiar slouch.

Thousands of people were sat in this chair before me in, what I imagine to be, an almost identical humour. We offer food. We cajole, "Go on. Eat something. Keep your strength up!" And we hope that the patient will just eat a little. And we hope (although we wouldn't tell you) that the patient will eat nothing at all.


It is clear that my grandmother is dying. She's just doing it very slowly.


I'm sitting on a sofa in a room that will shortly be described by real estate copy writers as a "family" area. It's far too big for my parents who are on their own for as long as the respite centre will care for my grandmother. My mother, who looks at least ten years older than her physical age, has been crying and asking the same question for an hour or two.


It is clear that my mother is dying. She's just doing it very slowly

Unleashed: Crying for carers