DEMENTIA CARE. BEEPING BUSY.

No, I don't feel busy.
   Yet I am busy, busy, busy.
   This comes to me today, as the phone beeps like an absolute frothing fucker.
   First, there's the beep to tell me the shopping is on its way. That usually means the delivery driver is parking his arse outside. I head downstairs.
   There's food to arrange, and the cared-for is sorted for drink and drink. The food is mostly liquid, these days. Food and drink is in the long-ago of yesteryear.
   As I'm waiting for the next beep, another beep goes off. Would I be so kind as to traipse along to the chemist and pick up those essential pills?
   Then the next beep goes off. Household goods are on the way.
   I'm also waiting for the washing machine to end. It's down to the last minute. True to the occasion, the machine beeps as well.
   I think about beeping machines. Yes, the dryer beeps as it ends. And the fridge beeps if you leave it open too long. Only the kettle doesn't beep. It gurgles readiness instead.

First, I tackle the washing machine, transferring the load from one beeping contraption to the next beeping device. I tested the beeping fire alarms the day before.
   Those remain stately in their silence.
   Thank fuck.
   The delivery driver appears. He reverses to bring himself in, with a beeping van.
   As I pick up loads of food and semi-random supplies, the driver swipes his reader across crates. Even those beep. I don't choose supplies at semi-random. The people who load those supplies thrown them together at semi-random.
   They always keep soap products in that one bag, though. The soap never beeps.
   With the delivery out of my way, it's time to race over and pick up pills. I dress for the weather. Leaves are turning. The scarf is in business, as an extra layer of warmth, tucked inside the coat.
   I like the walk in autumnal browns under wintry greys.
   Back I go, and wait for the next delivery. There's the inevitable scan and beep when that arrives.

And I only think I am busy later, as I look back on all those beeps converging on HQ. Caring is about not doing anything. Waiting for action that could pop up at any time...
   The telephone goes to tell me a carer wants to come around early, or that another health-related professional would like to make an appointment.
   I can't fill those working hours with music on headphones, blocking out the sound of the phone. And I can't charge the phone then, either...as I leave the room to see to business while the phone charges.
   So I arrange nothing moments in anticipation of the something moments...and I conserve energy for those everything moments when caring consumes the sky and the space beyond.
   Today, I noticed a lot of beeping. Perhaps it's reality's way of trying to censor all the fucking swearing.