By Samantha Renke in The Metro.
Sometimes people ask me if I have a carer – a question which I find highly inappropriate, ableist and offensive.
Still, let’s clear this up: I live alone in London, but I do have a young woman who works for me. I don’t call her a carer, she is my personal assistant – a much more fitting job title as she assists me and allows me to be as independent as I can be in a disabling world. She doesn’t care for me – that’s the responsibility of my mother, who makes me chicken soup when I’m sick.
The idea that I’d need someone to ‘care’ for me, as one would do for children, doesn’t match the reality of my situation. She doesn’t just help out physically, she also helps me run errands and stay organised. She’s more like my confidant – we even go for drinks together.
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