DEMENTIA CARE: THE POLICE RAID.

So many items to talk about that happened in the past month. Things are more official with each passing day. What to talk about, then, if I am utterly ruined for choice...

The police raid. Someone's awkward handwriting. I'M BEHIND YOU, JUST LIKE THE KILLER IN A SLASHER FILM. Details, details, I wish they'd pin down the details.

It was time to add a bit of home help to the help. The week before, I was told I was doing so well that the person who told me this wondered if I might be after her job.

But extra help is helpful, and it was time for that.
   The bathroom is a trap for the unsteady. Do you throw privacy away and ensure safety? Or do you preserve privacy with the aid of impenetrable shower curtains, and hope for the best that your cared-for doesn't fall over out of sight?
   I went with the privacy option as long as I could. But the inability to concentrate leads to unsteadiness. Someone has to be there, to cover the awkward moments.

So. In comes the home help. She'll handle the bath details without the privacy.

I start to shift things around to make it easier for this new visitor. And, come the appointed time, I keep an eye on the window, looking to the street opposite.
   Why? That's where they always park their cars.

Glancing in that direction, I see a car in the bay. A woman is walking away. She's dressed like a nurse or a carer. I think that's the new visitor, and I suspect she is heading to the wrong house.
   She chooses the local drug dealer's house, and makes a persistent effort to gain access. Looks through the windows, all that.
   I am at the door by this time, and I take out my phone. She takes out her phone, with her back to me. Now I am a serial killer in a slasher movie, thanks to someone's awkward handwriting.
   The house number was scribbled on a pad and transferred to an electronic file. And when that was done, it was done in the wrong way. That's a new thing they are trying out, and I don't see it lasting.

I wait for the number to work through. Sure enough, my phone rings. I answer. It's our new visitor. She's at the property, and she can't gain access.
   That's when I start waving. I tell her to turn around. Keep turning. I am waving now. She sees me, and walks across. Then she tells me the number she's been handed.
   No. This is the place. Details, details, I wish they'd pin down the details.
   We go through the procedure and it's a change. Before, I'd escort my mother to the bathroom, help her in the chair with her dress on, throw the curtains across, and then ask for the dress.
   With the dress in my possession, I'd lower the chair into the water and leave her to the bath.

But getting that dress might take twenty minutes of prompting. And that was utterly killing me. With the home help handling that, the dress was no longer a problem.
   Half an hour after the home help left, the police raided the drug dealer. No wonder our new visitor couldn't get an answer out of them.

Then I had a call about the paperwork that we weren't given. Someone would be out to the house to deliver that inside half an hour. I thanked the caller and reminded her that the number was wrong. She'd add the right number to the file.
   When she turned up, she didn't have to hassle the drug dealer. But the paperwork was still a bit off, and she would return another day.

With all the visitors gone, I pottered around at the top of the stairs - and made the next visit easier for all concerned by seeing to the details. Wish I could pin those down.