DEMENTIA CARE: SWAMPED BY TINY DETAILS AGAIN.

Maybe it is just the time of year. Nothing slows down like February. My best efforts place me in front of a keyboard. But I end up keyboarding other things, and not this blog post. I can go deep into the month before making it to this place for blogging purposes.
   I am here, seeing to tiny details. They are the details that’ll overwhelm you. Not the big things. The big thing staggers into view, or earshot, and you just fucking deal with it.
   Tiny details. Death by a thousand foil cuts. I don’t take foil cuts any longer. The pill-popper gadget protects my thumbs from the assassin’s blade. Or from the ludicrously sharp layer of metal that holds pills in place.
   I jump on a tiny detail. The pill crusher. It is electric. There’s a spare. Also electric. And there’s a spare for that. Manual. But I see a detail, and I pounce. You throw the pills into the plastic cup thingy that screws onto the engine.
   You fire up the engine and crush the pills. Then the pills, powdered, fall like snowflakes into the drink. I pour more drink in and swirl the mixture around. The real trick is to do this without creating lumps in the milk. The mug is plastic, and capped, so the drink won’t spill. You can’t have lumps in there, clogging the exit. Over the course of a year, the nature of the pills might change once or twice.
   We are taking about the same pills in the same dosage. But the texture is altered. Then you might have an easier time of it crushing the pills. (The same is true of blending powdered milkshakes into the milk. A change in manufacturer made blending more easy.)
   The tiny detail is in the daily grind: literally. I overlooked particles of medicine left in the crusher receptacles. I use the pill holder and the other holder from the spare, creating a conveyor-belt of crushing.
   Putting fresh pills in this morning, I saw the residue had built up. So I removed the pills, thumped the holder on the counter, and poured the loose dust down the drain. In that way, seeing to small details, paying attention to small things, I avoided creating a tiny overdose.
   But it reminds me that I need to keep finding better ways to handle things. Stay on top of the small detail at every turn. Supermarket sponges, for bathing, were good. Then they became tiny, and no use for carer purposes.
   So when it was time to replace the sponges, as I do regularly, I’d run out of decent sponges. I ran away from the supermarket to join the internet, and bought a load of sponges in. The detail here was from the carers.
   They like to use two sponges, preferably different colours, and of different sizes. Basically, this boils down to one sponge for the face and one sponge not for the face. I mixed and matched sponge offers, deals, quality of material, type, size, colour, discounts, and within the week all of the sponge problems were solved.
   Going from room to room as a carer, you check the electrics. And I noticed that extension cords, which are useful if looked after, were all different. They’d been added gradually, over time. Electrical requirements change.
   Is it ideal to have a hospital-style bed plugged into an extension cord? No. But the cord provides a different degree of safety. It takes the cable under the bed to a locale where the carers don’t walk. This removes a tripping hazard.
   Yes, it is far easier to plug the bed into the nearest socket. But that socket is placed at the worst location. It’s where one carer goes to and fro, making many adjustments, and there’s no way to avoid tripping over the wire, there.
   I really started looking at the extension cords. Uniformly different. Some had surge protection. Others had no such luxury. Length of cable was wildly out of any kind of tune. Number of sockets available. Also random.
   Tiny details. What to do? I replaced them all. Everything was upgraded to surge protection, with an added safety switch, and individual switches. Coloured ones, for at-a-glance reference. This is all trivial. But when you ask yourself, of the oldest-looking cable, how long has that been here? What is the maximum load? I guess it said on the cable label, but the cable label dried up and blew away in the wind.
   Time for change. At one swift drop of the sword, I cut the old cables away. Don’t cut electrical cables with a sword. That’s a hot tip. Which is what your sword will end up with, if you go cutting live wires.
   Everything is shiny and new again. And restructured. Extension cords are not in danger of overload. The bed might be on an extension, but the electric mattress isn’t. Separate feed. Luckily, it is long enough to take the same quiet path away from the carers. Has its own socket, right there on the wall. Secure as can be.
   I upgraded nail clippers. I guess this all goes back to the start, and taking control of someone’s life. You can’t take control of someone’s life when you take control of someone’s life. Leave things for them to do.
   But do take over.
   I was forced to reorganise the pills. Then I was forced to reorganise them all over again. I took charge of ordering prescriptions. Something I’d helped with, unofficially. That’s how this starts. You are an unofficial carer for a time.
   In my case, two years. After two years, I was a fairly official unofficial carer. Just signed on the dotted line and made it legal. The thing I think back on is the towels. All white. Clean. Easy to see when they get dirty, you’d hope.
   But are these white towels cycling through. Or is someone’s dementia addling the process? I took over. All I did was arrange for new towels. Different colours. At a glance, on a daily basis, whether you lived in the house as a carer or not…you could walk in and use your memory of the towels to match up to the routine of cleaning them.
   That’s the way it went. I varied the routine of this thing, that thing, off the back of tiny detail. Towel colour. A system that worked. Just vary the details. Adapt to each system and mini-system or micro-system in the house.
   A colourful remnant of the early days? The breakfast tray. I’ve only just retired that, and replaced it with something sturdier. Safer. Oh, the original tray was safe enough. But wearing out, I knew it had to go. Replacing nail clippers, a few towels, electrical extensions, well, I just added the tray to the list of recent alterations.
   I need to replace that thing soon.
   When is soon?
   If not now, when? Within the month? Yes. Within the month. And that plan saw the end of the old sponges. There were no handy sponges in the pile of replacements. So I changed a detail or two, and now I have spares for spares.
   Soon enough, it’ll be time to restock plasters, bandages, dressings, and other handy items for use in a sudden mini-crisis. At least I can use those as well. The anti-spill drinking mugs are not for me. I freshened those up recently.
   Running a household is one thing. And running a household as a carer for a client of one…that’s many things. The same things, only more so. Everything in life, but with a little bit extra. I cleared out a few light bulbs that clearly only fit lamps that are no longer here.
   This does not make me sound as though I am on top of the detail. Hidden truth: no one is on top of the detail. We are on top of as much of the detail as we can spot, on any given day. Night changes everything. You come in for the start of morning routine and you see a thing. It can wreck your day. So you jump on that immediately. And hope there’s a spare.
   Details extend to the street. It’s the calendar on the fridge, and the fridge magnets moving around, telling me which bin goes out that week. I walk to the street and check to my left for the bin that always goes out super-early, just to confirm I haven’t messed things up.
   But the detail is there for me, at the bins. All I need do is check the level of the bin. If the recyclable bottles are at the brim, then I’m pretty certain that’s the bin that goes out. A failed bin collection would ruin me for a week. But there’s a hotline to call. And you’d leave the bin out for another day, knowing the service has been delayed for some reason. They’ll get to you.
   Blogging is not a priority. But the tiny detail nagged at me. Two weeks in, fixing a million things, blogging can wait. And it could. In another two weeks. The blogging cycle starts again. I’ll have demolished a cardboard mountain by then, I hope.

 

DEMENTIA CARE: SURVIVING AN EXPLOSION.

For the first time, and the last time, I survived an explosion. The last time? No, I don’t plan on shuffling off this mortal coil if I am caught up in an explosion again. I just don’t plan on getting caught in the same type of explosion ever again. How severe was the blast?
   Cleaning it up took an hour of my time. Kinda messed with my day. Luckily, I was fine. What sort of blast was it? Dangerous, of course. I am talking about a thing that I guard against. An explosion that I’ve always been wary off. This is an event to avoid. And I’ve avoided it for absolutely ever. Until now.
   In caring, kitchen gadgets are your friends. The coffee machine. And the other coffee machine. The air fryer. Both fridge and freezer. The other fridge-freezer, in case of emergencies. The hob, the grill, and the oven are all useful. And the microwave saves you so much time.
   The microwave has one great danger. Avoid microwaving liquid. Never microwave water. If you want to heat water, use a one-cup kettle. Thirty seconds later, and you have that water. If you need more, spend another thirty seconds on it. But don’t use a microwave for water.
   And I never do. I never will. The microwave saves you a bother. Microwaving water only increases the chance of bother. Why? There’s a possibility, when removing hot water from a microwave, that it will reach the boil without actually boiling.
   To be clear, you don’t even need to remove the heated liquid. I’m using water as a generic example. As the microwave plate circles inside the device, that motion alone could trigger an explosion inside the microwave oven.
   All it takes is a disturbance…motion…adding a spoon or other utensil to the bowl…and the energy has to go somewhere. It escapes as a bomb, of sorts. How dangerous is that? Potentially lethal. Could cause life-altering injuries. I was very lucky.
   What went wrong? I put soup in the microwave. In a very smooth bowl, with a steam-release lid. The release was open. It always is. Smooth receptacles can lead to this explosion. Cook your liquids in rough containers, apparently. Or leave a wooden spoon in the bowl, to create a sense of roughness. It’s the uniformity, the smoothness of the plastic, that was a contributing factor.
   Yes, I’ve been researching after the fact.
   Also, keep an eye on your soup. Or whatever it is. Stir before cooking. And stir a minute into cooking. Stir, minute by minute, until you’ve reached the allotted time. Take care. Just add a few seconds to the overall cooking experience. Play safe. Because playing dangerously ain’t no fun.
   Don’t overcook your liquid. I remember setting the timer for one minute beyond the regular cooking time. And that’s a no-no. Learned this the hard way. I wanted the thicker heavier soup to really take in the heat. That was my downfall. I put the soup in the bowl. Set the timer. Took the soup out. Sat the soup on the counter. Lifted the lid away. I stood back, as I always do. And, as a precaution against soup explosion, I maintained an upright position. No face over the bowl. My final precaution was, as standard, to slip the spoon in and stir to see if bubbles formed.
   Rarely, bubbles have come up. Venting the energy to the world. These precautions saved me a potential trip to the hospital, though not to the washing machine. I had to go there. When I placed the spoon in the bowl, there was a half-bang and pop sound. The soup exploded.
   I thanked myself for always maintaining this ritual when cooking soup. Stand back. Don’t lean in. Stir. What the fuck?! Well, I won’t be doing that again. Immediately, I ignored the mess. This was considerable. Mainly, the counter-top took the brunt of the wet blast. The floor was next. And the ceiling after that. I took a light spray of everything that went up and fell down.
   This spray landed on the new shirt, new jumper, and new trousers I’d newly put on that day. I cursed the notion of deciding, the previous day, that I should clean all the fridge and freezer doors. They needed a bit of maintenance. I should have waited until the explosion. Damn it.
   Ignore the mess. You can’t fuck around with hot liquids. I ignored the mess and went to the sink. The only area affected was the back of my hand. Hot soup blooped up and over the skin in a wave. Five minutes under cold water, with a break to see how my hand felt when the coolness wore off, and five more minutes under cold water…and I was okay. No need for emergency medical assistance.
   I rescued what was left of the soup from the bowl. Not much. Then I turned to alternative arrangements for a meal. I had to eat, after all. Meals are taken after caring duties. I make time for the meal after duty. So I had plenty of time ahead of me.
   Some festive fare, and a seat. Checking on the hand. A mild sensation. Tingling. This soon faded. I was extraordinarily lucky. The smooth bowl and the extra time cooking. These things conspired against me. I was aware of the dangers of microwaving liquid. This is why I don’t microwave water, or milk, or anything really fluid like that. The only truly fluid item I microwave is soup.
   Being aware of the explosive dangers wasn’t enough. If I’d done full research, I’d have taken more precautions. The precautions I always take…they became routine. Stand back, stand straight, don’t lean, dip the spoon in, watch for bubbles. I was surprised by the bomb.
   Then it was down to the clean-up. Obviously, you spins the wheel and you makes your choice. If the bomb goes off in the microwave oven, there’s the danger of damage to the machine. And if the bomb goes off on the counter, there’s soup everywhere. Everywhere. And where is that? EVERYWHERE. I faced the prospect of dealing with soup everywhere. The counter was the easiest to clean. And the floor was easy, too. I have a protective mat there, that I dump the shopping down on. Very easy to clean. The fridge doors. Damn it. I cleaned those the day before. The ceiling was a bother. After that…
   You go back around everything, looking for what you missed. Some of the mess went down the cupboard doors below the counter, and across the cupboard doors above the counter. I went into full HOTEL MODE, and cleaned the undersides of areas I couldn’t see. What did I find there? Warm soup.
   With the place cleaned, I turned to ditching the soupy clothes in favour of fresh ones. An extra cycle for the washing machine. What did I learn? I learned that the partial precautions I took were only partial precautions. My research tells me that, in future, if I cook soup in a microwave, then I’ll keep an eye on the time. Ha, that one random time I added a minute to the meal and created a bubbling time-bomb. Those were the days, eh.
   Fuck.
   I never had a soup explosion until I had one. And my basic precautions saved me from a bowl of soup to the face. I type this after days of cooking soup on the hob. Which, admittedly, I do more of in the winter. Irony. I find winter is a time for getting away from being a carer. There’s more actual cooking. Less microwave business. Yes. Extreme irony, given what happened.
   It is impressive, I’ll admit. Seeing the force of the blast hit the ceiling. The microwave bowl channelled the blast up. How much higher would the soup have gone, without a ceiling there? Don’t know. The distance was just shy of 1.5 metres, or roughly five feet. Height of a person.
   You think you are safe, until you realise you aren’t. I’m reminded of using Patient Transport to go to a clinic. One of the passengers spoke to the driver about placing laundry in a cupboard at the top of the stairs. She slipped and went down the stairs, altering her life forever.
   My rule for upstairs is…keep the landing clear. Don’t store laundry in the cupboard on that landing. Never change clothes on the landing or on the stairs. I was in the habit of throwing on a jumper going from a room to the landing, heading for the stairs. One day I realised the folly of that.
   True, I used to store towels in that top cupboard. But I’ve reorganised the house so that towels hang on rails close to where they are needed. And there is no laundry cupboard, any longer. I guess the tendency is to fill your hands with towels, overload them, and struggle to open the cupboard door. Moving back as the door opens. With no way to grab a railing if you slip.
   How would I deal with an accident like that? If I still had the use of an arm, I’d reach for the phone that’s permanently on my hip. We do have the Community Alert, so even a dud phone wouldn’t stop me if I could still crawl. Luckily, the door from the foot of the stairs to the room with the alert…that’s easy to push open. I could do that from floor-level.
   What would have happened if the soup exploded in the microwave? Messy clean-up. Maybe writing the microwave off. What would have happened if I’d stared down into the soup bowl when it went off? I’d have spent five minutes with my face under the cold tap, at best. Or I’d have struggled to phone for an ambulance, at worst.
   Killed by soup. Not how I’d want to go. Very tasty soup, though. I guess that’s what counts.

 

DEMENTIA CARE: WINDY WINTER MAINTENANCE.

We’ve reached that point at which the lights switch off around 8.00 in the blue-black morning and come on again around 4.00 in the dull grey afternoon. Cloud coverage has, mostly, been here. Proper mashed potato clouds, and lots of them.
   Occasionally, clouds vanish. Then Jack Frost comes dancing in across the rooftops and into the grass, resting a wee while on wooden fences and plastic bins. The weather is mild, turning less so. Heating is on. Blankets pile high. Ice is a rarity, for now. We’ll see.
   The clickbait news stories online predict Soviet ice storms brought to you directly from Stalin’s house. That’s on a weekly basis. At any hour, I can turn to a satellite view of the Atlantic and see snow forming mid-ocean. It transforms to rain long before it passes Ireland. Then it rains on Scotland. Rain is the thing.
   Except. A recent windy-fucketty storm refused to drop a single drop of rain. The clouds could only roll by at scudding speed. No less. They didn’t have time to stop and shower us with torrential rain. Snow was out of the question. Sleet is something no one has seen in an age.
   Yes, the heating is on. That hall is toasty. The kitchen is warm. Those rooms are protected from the chill. But this windy storm blew a gale through the keyhole. I decided to take action. After investigating a load of keyhole protectors, shields, barriers, gates, and wind blockers, I settled on a plastic flap that you glue to the door.
   This had to be tested. Planned for. Rehearsed. First. No carers due. Don’t want them flattening me as I lean over to fix this handy gadget in place. As a precaution, I lock the door anyway. There’s a bit of theatre. I dramatically wipe the metal surface free of dust and grime. (There isn’t any.)
   Then I dry the surface. I place the plastic shield over the keyhole. Yes, it fits just fine. This is something you believe to be true when you read the dimensions of the product, check the reviews, and measure your door. But it is nice to find the bloody thing fits.
   There are two covers for the glue strips. I peel one away with the skill of the Batman performing aggressive ballet moves on a long line of thugs. The second glue strip defeats me. Well. The whole situation is fucked beyond belief, now. Of course that was going to happen.
   I try again. (It’s all I can do.) These gadgets are sold in packs of two. But I am hoping to keep the second one as a spare for the day when the first one falls off the door. Of the two doors into the house, only one has a keyhole that runs open. The other is a different design, and ignores gusts of wind. Also, I’d say the door with the large open keyhole is the door that faces the wind more often. Great.
   The only solution is to remove the protective cover from the far end. These strips are red. I don’t have the option, when defusing this bomb. I must cut the red wire. Or peel back the red strip, anyway. Luckily, for a second, I manage to improve my chances by using sheer luck. It’s a great skill that I just invented.
   Luckily, I prepared the gadget for use. Also, luckily, no one knocked at either door to deliver a parcel just then. And no one phoned. The fire alarms stayed off. And I didn’t have to sneeze. I suddenly remembered that I wasn’t cooking anything anywhere in the kitchen.
   Press to the door. Hold in place firmly for half a minute. Retreat and hope the thing stays glued in place. The hardest part was trying to maintain some sort of uniform pressure on the plastic for any length of time. There’s the frame that surrounds the keyhole. And then there is the flap that comes down to block the draught. Together, these bits form a bulky arrangement.
   The trick is not to accidentally slide sideways, ripping the plastic off and bouncing into the wall. I fix the barrier in place. Then I adjust where I am kneeling. And I press on the barrier again, just to be sure. This takes a ridiculous amount of effort.
   Eventually, the job is done. I open the portal. Wind hits me in the face. I close the portal. Wind, begone! The wind claws at the door, but it can’t gain entry. Terrific. Job is done. Right? Not quite. I take the spare gadget and put it in a drawer with other handy things. It’s there if I need it.
   Job done now, right? Not quite. Unlock the door for the care team. Finished. Okay? No. Now I must get used to the presence of this piece of plastic around the keyhole. Opening and closing the door is a little bit different. Locking and unlocking the door…same. So unlocking the door and opening it becomes a whole new experience. A new keyhole experience, I guess.
   And now, I have (mostly) adjusted to the arrangement. No more irritating blasts of air from the keyhole. The windy storm that propelled clouds across the sky…that is a memory. I see more storms brewing in the Atlantic, on the satellite view. They’ll fizzle into drizzle.
   That wasn’t the only piece of maintenance. The weather was windy, rainy, with battleship grey clouds forming up in the shapes of battleships. The house is intact. No rain reaches me. Except. I’ve just put the washing machine on. Just before leaving the kitchen, I turn and spot water on the floor.
   I couldn’t have splashed that much water from the sink to the floor after cleaning that cup, surely? Correct. I switched the light on. Holy fuck, the washing machine has been hit by an iceberg and it is now spreading the joy as far as my shoes.
   Emergency mode. Where is this coming from? The machine, or the pipes behind the machine? It’s leaking from the door. I switch the machine off. A tiny corner of clothing is wedged inside the door seal. This is a first. Not just for this washing machine. But for all washing machines ever. The door sensor didn’t register the imperfect seal. That’s what I trusted. When, in reality, I should have done what I always do: check to see if any clothing overhangs the seal. Dull day. Kitchen light was off. I’d come to the end of caring routine for that morning. Next step. Switch the machine on. Grab a meal. Go.
   The meal was ready to go. I decide to switch the washing machine on at the last second. It worked. Started washing. But this tiny patch of cloth was absolutely borderline. A quick tidy around the kitchen before I left. That saved the day. Or I’d have gone away and had a meal for ETERNITY. Any time away from a room with a flood in it is ETERNITY.
   Machine off. Mop out. Clean it. Clearly not the pipes behind the machine. Now what? The water inside is finally below the lip of the seal. Flooding stopped. But I have to empty the machine. There’s going to be a bit of water as I open the door.
   Except. The door won’t open. I am on my knees on the (dry) floor, realising this is a call-out under the guarantee, the insurance, whatever, and as this is December…I’m utterly fluckergasted. It’s like being flabbergasted, only with a bit more swearing.
   I’ve endured a week without the tumble dryer, after an “emergency” product fix was arranged. Could I go a week without a washing machine? Yes. But it wouldn’t be all sweetness and light. It would be washing-ageddon. Armageddon, with no washing. And more swearing.
   The door won’t open. I’ve been here before. There are things you can do to open a jammed washing machine door. Last. Not first. Last. You call the engineer out. First. You try everything else. So. Switch the machine off. There’s a timer. Usually two minutes. After that, you can open the door.
   Doesn’t work. You go to the next stage. Wrestle the machine out of its lair and unplug the machine fully. Now it really is off. Two minutes. Nothing. Press the OFF button anyway. Maybe there’s a lingering trace of electricity in there, telling the machine to stay locked.
   Tick, tick, tick. Time’s up. Open the door. No good. Jiggle the door. Open the door. No good. Make a fist. With the base of your fist, thump the door. This sounds fucking stupid, I know. But I’ve used this method before and it worked. Doesn’t work this time. Rinse (don’t rinse…the machine is off) and repeat. Thump. Open. No. Thump again. Open. No.
   Time for string. You can loop string around the curve of the door and then pull tight to reach the catch. Apply pressure. Some fixes tell you to use wire. But wire might damage the plastic, the glass, the rubber seal, and the metal. So use string. If you pull too hard, the string snaps harmlessly.
   I try the string trick. Loop around. Draw tight. I can feel the catch. Gather both ends of the string in one hand and work the door handle with the other. No good. I keep up with this, getting close, until the string snaps. Then I have an awkward time removing the string.
      That’s going nowhere. The machine is already wrestled out of its nest. So take the screwdriver to the back of it and remove the top cover. This is tricky. Now you can see down to where the lock is. Try to manipulate lock from the inside. And from the outside at the same time. You need five hands for this. And a steady hand to hold those five hands.
   At this point, it all works and I pop the door.
   If it fails to work for you at that fateful place, a place of desolation, realistically you go back over all the methods so far and confirm that they don’t work. Then you have a terrible choice. Dismantle the lock from inside if you can. And that looked like a feat to me. An epic misadventure. Or call for help.
   You might still be able to dismantle the lock and get absolutely fucking nowhere. Then you call. I mean, you could just order a new machine…but that’s going to take days to reach you in December. Or at any time of year. With the lock popped open, I worked to remove the offending article of clothing, which was tangled in the seal. It was twisting around into a rope as the washing cycle started.
   Out came the washing. I checked the clothes. Seemed okay. Nothing torn. Close call. The seal was intact. I put the cover back on. Plugged in. Wrestled the machine into its lair. Switched on. Tried a test spin and drain first. That went okay, and took the last of the water out.
   I’d dried the floor and the outside of the machine. Looked for leaks. None. Set the machine to wash. Waited as it started up. Door solid. No leaks. All good. This was a few days ago. I hear the machine on its spin, now. It hasn’t leaked in days.
   What do I remember? All the times a piece of clothing stopped the door closing. Alarms flashed. Not this once. The most borderline of borderline events. I guess the door was working loose as the cycle progressed, leaking more water. Yet it was still locked shutter than shut.
   The weather outside matched my mood. Anyway, I fixed the problem I’d created. At that point, I fucked off and had a coffee. Though I fucked off by staying in the room to have that coffee while keeping an eye on a very useful piece of cleaning equipment. Something I’d rendered extremely useless, for a frantic half hour of fixing that felt like the entire month of December with a January thrown in as a bonus.