Where to go from here?
Bed, I'd say. This is the great thing about being a dementia carer: bed. End of the night. Last of the pills dished out. Plans looming, yes. But it is time for bed. Plans made must wait until they hatch into plans fulfilled. Bed first.
And what a great thing bed is. You might be shocked to hear that. Standard of care. That is important. Quality of. Frequency of. Nature of. Care.
Get fucking real. If I don't have a good night's sleep, it's ALL fucked.
This blog lay gasping for oxygen in the hard vacuum of the carer's world. No time for blogging. And no fucking energy for blogging. I just want my bed.
Never mind that I have a recurring dream that the bed is built on a giant clockwork machine, and that machine is disintegrating as the world collapses around me.
Fuck that. Not important. All that's important is...I wake up in an uncollapsed bed.
I gave thought to the future of this blog as I overindulged during the festive period. Chocolate - it's fucking magic. The same problem still kicks me in the face...
Turn my dementia care experience into a book. Swearing included. So...this blog stays light on material. Posts remain sporadic. If I blogged it all here, the book would be out. On the blog. And I'd rather sell it on Amazon. That's where the audience is.
Did I mention chocolate? Of course I did. It's fucking magic. Yes, even when overused.
There is a book to carve out of my sweary caring experience. As ever, I await hospital results. They won't tell me anything brilliant or cheery. But they are sure to add solidity to any book lingering inside my keyboard.
And so...to bed. I might just have eaten too much chocolate. Remedy? Fix the imaginary clockwork machine under my bed, and, well, go to bed.
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