DEMENTIA CARE: LIGHTS.

Being a carer means caring gradually...allowing you to care rapidly when required. After years of caring, I look around and see different lives, altered routines, and new things in this house.
   Change was, mostly, gradual...much like dementia itself. Adapting to gradual change, what happened? I found things blended into the background. Except...

The clocks rolled back and we welcomed hints of winter in autumn. It's darker, earlier. Heading into the kitchen, I turned to stare around the room, in the darkness.
   There was no darkness.
   Lights.

One of the strangest indicators of change is the arrival of so many tiny lights in the kitchen. Without dementia, my mother would make her own decisions about replacing electrical goods. But with dementia, she no longer even operates electrical devices.
   I placed motion-sensing lights in the hall, in case she forgot to hit the lights as she moved from here to there. So I'm not sure she's even activating a basic light, now.
   There's nothing electrical she tries to manipulate.
   That's for the best. Suddenly mucking around with electrical devices is a bad idea, at this stage.

To avoid increasing risk of electrical fires, I gradually replaced machines that were past their best. Given the early choice of introducing automatic meter reading for gas and electricity, I jumped at the chance.

Stepping into the kitchen, I saw lights...

The computerised washing machine, with its red displays, shimmering.
   That computerised tumble dryer, with its red displays, glimmering.
   The computerised fridge/freezer, with its cool white glow.
   And the gas/electricity display, calculating how much it costs to power all those lights that weren't in the kitchen before.

I walk into the kitchen, in the dark, and it isn't dark. Lights twinkle, showing the gradual changes I made. This is a glowing chronicle of a carer's actions.
   Caring light in dementia's world of darkness.