I had lots of little things to talk about, and I wasn't sure which things to discuss...
As they were all tiny, I tried to save them up into a half-decent post. Or an indecent post. Depends on what you think is half-decent. I'll leave the BDSM post for another time.
No, really. I'll be doing a short piece on bondage and dementia. It isn't even remotely what you think it is. Now I wonder what you think it is. And, seeing as you thought THAT, now you are wondering what it is, because I've told you that it isn't THAT.
Little episodes in the life of a dementia carer. Snow falls. Not for long. It's late-April. And any sudden grind in the weather is a distraction that consumes the concentration.
May comes around, and it is chilly for a few days. Then the weather shifts. Bright. Sunny. Warm.
My mother is drawn into the garden on those days. The chilly days are bright. She steps out, realises the wind is cold, and clambers back indoors.
Before she reaches the door, she's leaning on the sill and staring in through the window. I'm there, keeping an eye on her. She didn't read the sign on the back door telling her to tell me she's going outside. Or...if she did, it didn't register.
Cold does the trick. Wind blows her hair everywhere, and she laughs only because I am watching. In she comes. That's her adventure in the garden over, when it is chilly.
I don't worry for the first few days. But soon enough, the weather warms. And I must be watchful. She wants to sit in the garden. Okay. I put the chair out, and arrange a drink.
First, I offer a hat. No hat. Then I offer the shades. She takes those, and puts them on her glasses. Laughter. She removes the glasses, accepts the shades again, and I hand her the drink.
One of the few chewy things she'll take? Sponge cake. I have a coffee, and sit on the back step with a slice of sponge. She works her way through flavoured milk.
When I'm done, I can't go. I have to wait until she's done, and usher her back in. No wandering from the garden. The warmer the weather, the higher the chance of a wander IF SHE SEES A FAMILIAR FACE ACROSS THE ROAD.
But in her state, every face is a familiar face.
A crumb chokes her. She's done with sitting outside, and goes indoors to sit down on the couch and recover. I lock the door again, and take the key.
It's better, as much as possible, to leave that key in place - just in case there is a fire. Well, we had a fire...and leaving the key in place saved a world of trouble.
My problem is that warm weather encourages her to step outside. That the key is there for safety, but allows misadventure. And my sign on the door is as useful as is a chocolate lavatory seat.
Yes, as usual, my problem is that the cared-for has awesome fucking ninja skills, and I only have to turn my back to lose her completely.
To the warm weather, the back gate, the street. I guard against that as much as possible, without relying on ludicrously-priced alarm bracelets, TV cameras, motion-detectors, or pressure-pads.
I felt the cheapest option was to install a shop bell over the back door. But I'd rely heavily on that, wouldn't I...
Instead, if I am elsewhere in the house, I rely on sounds. Doors opening and creaking. Floorboards, singing. Nightingale floors in Japanese castles are meant to stop dementia patients from using their ferocious ninja skills to go for a wander...
You get the idea. Caring for someone is personal. Absorb the knowledge built into the house. Using my own ninja skills, I can walk downstairs without raising a squeak on a single step. She can't concentrate enough to replicate that feat.
I can reach her in silence if it's important to. Sometimes, yes, you have to approach quietly and observe, for safety.
Well. I use the house itself. No high-tech alarms. Balancing-acts are balanced, and acts, but you don't learn how to walk the high-wire until you cope with falling off a low one...
Babbling. I'll resume with a drink and some biscuits to hand.
We are all ninjas, but my ninja skills must outpace hers in the summer months. In the spring, she takes the time to ask about going to sit outside...
And that's because carrying the chair out is difficult for her. My job. I am there to watch, and fetch, and carry, and watch some more. Then we are indoors, and I decide if the key has to come away from the door for a little while.
My thoughts on little things, small incidents, moments of laughter, jokes, music, the odd movie, all part of the care-package...
These are blasted away. I receive a letter. CITATION. That much, I can make out. A citation is court business, and that only means one thing. Jury duty.
When my friends came up for jury duty, they went. My mother came up for jury duty at a time when she struggled with back-pain. She came to me and asked for advice.
As she was attending a clinic for the problem, I said she'd have a good chance of being made exempt. And so she was. She just could not sit in a court all day, in that state.
Later, she got over the trouble with the aid of the clinicians, and the jury duty simply rolled by. She was not called on again.
As I'd helped her organise the appeal, I remembered the initial letter she showed me. CITATION.
I opened the call to service. Yes. Jury duty. I went online, as directed, and printed out the EXCUSAL form. Scottish law is full of Scottish terms that feel bolted on from an earlier age. This has the appearance of making legal matters seem dusty.
No one says EXCUSAL.
There's a long list of people who are exempt from service. Judges, surgeons, police, members of this, that, and the next thing. My part of the form is left to the arse-end.
I am asked to give a special reason for my request to be left out of proceedings. And I have to write it in a space that's large enough for my needs and no more. So I write it. They ask for BLOCK CAPITALS...
I AM A DEMENTIA CARER.
Clearly, I am a writer and...try not to define myself solely through the caring that I perform. But in this instance, it's pretty much required if I am to be excused.
The rules state that I might not be excused at all, if there aren't enough people on the list. This means priorities are put into place. Should the list be low, I gain priority over someone who booked an expensive holiday for the date in question.
I am a dementia carer. This is my special reason. I wonder who I fall below, in the pecking-order of priorities...given that I am considered before people with holidays to go to, or jobs they must attend...
Whoever falls above me on the list of special reasons, their needs must far outweigh mine...and I wouldn't wish to be them. They'd not likely wish to be me.
If someone can't be excused, that poor bastard is the one who booked a holiday. I'm further inland, where that wave barely brushes my boots.
We'll see how the appeal goes. I say it'll be straightforward. But nothing is. Still waiting on word from that other incident. Yes, yes, the bondage. That tale must wait. Does that mean keeping you in suspense? We-ell...
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