DEMENTIA CARE: YES, SHE STILL HAS DEMENTIA.

That's not what I say, of course.
   When I bundle all the town business into one very busy parcel of activity, and I leave early to deal with that while someone lies peacefully in bed, I bump into people who want to know how my mother is.
   She still has dementia. In the same sense that an amputee still hasn't regenerated that missing leg. Something is gone, it's not quite the same, and it's never going to be the way it was before. But you carry on.

Carrying on means carrying on while being looked after. It means telling me that she doesn't need help when clearly she does, and the help is there for her a second or two later when she can't get by without assistance.
   I have a few catch-all phrases for people I meet in town. They might not know about the dementia. And I am in no mood to explain it.
   But I can say that she's just the same. It's difficult for her to get out and about, with the arthritis, and that leads to balance-problems. I needn't mention dementia at all.
   When she is in my company, we're on the way to the doctor for a few tests. Blood, usually. And she's chatty with people who say hello.
   Yes, dementia is sometimes mentioned. So-and-so has it. That's a shame. Aye, it is. I stand in silence, waiting for the conversation to take another turn. And I am the clock, ready to spring into action as a reminder of appointments we must keep.

But this blog entry wasn't about any of that town stuff. I meant to write about domestic matters. Last night I flew through the place, making minor adjustments to everything.
   Maintenance doesn't fucking take care of itself.

I faced death from a thousand cuts. Well, from one cut. A massive slash. This terrifying wound. Blood everywhere. I exaggerate slightly. There was blood somewhere, for a split-second, and then nothing.
   Pills are dangerous. They come in plastic trays, sealed by a thin layer of metal foil. Foil is another word for a sword. I took pills from their trays and popped them into a box marked with the days of the week.
   One pill attacked me, trying to stay in its burrow. The thin metal reared up and a razor's edge met my helpful finger. That finger helped move pills to the right place.
   But I was in the wrong place. A few times in recent weeks, I've taken awkward cuts and slashes from things that shouldn't even be classed as dangerous.
   How can that battered piece of cardboard slash my fingers? Oh.

This, though. The pill slashing. It was the worst cut I've had in the history of cuts. In the World History of cuts, it ranks highly. Not much blood. A hazy line of it, along the wound. Then nothing but excess pain.
   I stubbed a toe last week and took less pain than I endured from this pin-prick of a slash. What the fuck?!

Yes, it helps so much that the cut came at the fingertip. I don't use fingertips for any reason, and the cut quickly healed without further ado. Okay, that was a lie. Fingertips, it turns out, are pretty handy...being on the hands...and they are useful for all kinds of fingery reasons that I won't list here.

Fucking pain.

From this tiny inconsequential nothing of a cut. No, I am not using that finger to type on. And I only just noticed that. It would be insane to type on this wounded stump.

So. Yes. She still has dementia. This means I am in charge of the pills. Except when the pills strike back, and they are in charge of me. Pills should be stored in giant sponge boxes. But then, those would be classed as a hazard anyway.
   They'd have to be water-repellent for a start. And too large to fit in your mouth, in case of choking accidentally on one when you stub your toe and trip up and land mouth-first on the fuckers.
   I take safety seriously. It's important to take lack of safety seriously, too. The most dangerous part of the house is still at the top of the stairs. And that's where I keep the pills.
   Fortunately, I took the pain and didn't stumble back down the flight in a painless flight that would've resulted in a painful landing. Even if I'd fallen, I know this painful truth...
   The painful landing could only ever act as a momentary distraction from the fucking painful cut. Drive carefully when dishing out pills, folks.
   Don't actually dish out pills while driving. Officials disapprove of that, on the golf course.