DEMENTIA CARE: THROWING THINGS AWAY.

Massive amounts of emptiness ambushed me. I threw things away. Responsibly. Recycle what you can. If you can’t, steer things to the rubbish-tip. But you also throw lots of things away without having to send items to the dump. I mean….you throw things away without recycling or dumping at all.
   Covid has an influence. Delay. I wanted to give furniture to a place that would re-use it. Instead, I could’ve set the chests of drawers out in the street for a trip to the merciless crusher. What’s the difference? Time features heavily in this story.
   The decent furniture going to a good home sat in the kitchen for months, waiting on the backlog going away. Once it finally went, I moved broken furniture into the kitchen.
   Again, I go through the process of arranging removal of material.
   This time, though, the pick-up is happening within the week. Backlogs eventually clear. Furniture that goes to re-sale must sit in a warehouse or stock-room. And furniture that goes to the merciless crusher…is mercilessly crushed.
   As a result of moving all this furniture to the outside world, I was ambushed by massive amounts of emptiness. At night when I find myself in the front half of the kitchen with the lights on there, with no lights in the rear half of the room, and a plan to leave through the back end of the space…
   Then there are two options. Switch the lights off and navigate in the dark. Or switch the lights off and navigate in the dark. I could march back and forth, arranging lighting. Depends what I’m doing. If I am carrying hot food or drink, lighting is important. With hands free, it’s easier to handle the difficulties of darkness.
   For months, I navigated the galley I’d created when I passed the fridge. I walked by a humming cooling machine on one side and wooden furniture on the other. This galley arrangement becomes familiar to an almost supernatural level after many weeks.
   I don’t bump into anything in the dark. The kitchen has blinds, not curtains, and plenty of lighting pours in from the streets. Once the furniture is gone, though, I’ve gained space and lost my sense of how to navigate a confined area that’s no longer confined.
   The space ambushed me. Passing through there in the daylight, I am surprised at how much space there is. Oh, I’ll fill it, gradually. Word has come down from the mountain-top. New kitchen.
   So the plan is to throw away the old kitchen and then rearrange storage once the new kitchen is settled in place. Anyway. At night, in the dark, all this space is suddenly baffling.
   I’ll rinse and I’ll repeat, and one day the new layout will be the Layout™, oh, and I’ll have cleared the loft in the process. Need to clear the loft so I can fill the loft back up again, LOL.
   What do we throw away, as carers? I had my conversation with the people at STORES. (Not so much throwing away as returning.) You hold out hope that mobility bounces back. It bounced back, once before. This time around, not so lucky. I held out hope over the course of a year, with additional mobility equipment brought in.
   Yes, we gained a great deal from the equipment. It improved quality of life and safety for all concerned. But handing back that Zimmer frame in exchange for a better one…
   Reminded me of what we throw away as carers.
   I’ve said it several times in front of the daily carers. Dignity and privacy are all fine and well. But we cast those aside in the sake of safety first. They agree with me. It’s nice to live in a world that’s full of dignified approaches to a chair or a bed.
   But sometimes you dish out a literal bum’s rush to drop a little old lady into her chair in front of the TV. Complaints are made by the little old lady. You’d think murder is being committed. But lack of concentration leads to unsafe moments.
   We throw away dignity to secure safety. Always. Slapping you into a chair is undignified. The alternative is lifting you off the floor. In a very undignified way, of course. So we throw safety at the cared-for in the same sweeping move that kicks dignity in the face.
   There is a literal throwing away to this story. Guiding someone to a chair in a moment of crisis and finding the Zimmer frame behind me, I had no option. I grabbed the Zimmer and threw it out of my rearward path. Didn’t matter to me if I smashed the TV. (We have a spare.)
   That Zimmer was behind me, my fault, but I was out of time and in need of a safe swift path. Grab the Zimmer. Throw it away. Path is clear. Reach that chair safely. Job done.
   It’s the Zimmer moment that reminds me of all the other times I’ve thrown things away. Small object in hand while assisting with mobility? The small object is thrown far off down the hallway. That object is clearly visible, and I will pick it up later.
   Drop a sturdy shatterproof plastic mug – empty – why, no problem. Throw a towel into the distance. Drop a pillow behind a piece of furniture. And so on. You might think caring means being careful…
   This is true.
   And caring is carefully slow.
   It is.
   Sometimes, though, you must act fast. A blanket is ripped through the air and collides with itself, turning into a clump that is cast into a far corner. Towels are wielded in front of imaginary bulls. Pillows crash into surfaces and act as their own air-bags.
   Usually, limbs are cradled gently. When the time comes to grab a hand in an emergency, you hope to minimise the harm. Better a red mark than a broken wrist.
   Paperwork. Incoming letters gain priority in your head, and the one that seems important to non-carers is thrown down first. Bottom of the pile. Respond to that one last of all. What’s reasonable in regular life is unreasonable in the irregular life of a carer.
   I throw away regular routine in favour of the irregular. When did I last post a letter in daylight? I threw the routine away. It’s still easier to go out after midnight and post letters when I won’t be interrupted by phone calls, text messages, e-mails, appointments, parcels, and random people going door-to-door.
   The old routine of posting letters in daylight…I threw far away. My current routine of posting letters after midnight…avoids clashing with so many daylight routines. And there’s minimising exposure to Covid, of course.
   I don’t throw away blogging. Though, again, there are priorities. The first week of the month can be extraordinarily busy, and blogging takes a temporary hit. Delay. I also blog more than once each month, if an extra item comes along.
   What don’t I throw away? Food. I’ve thrown away regular mealtimes. That routine is a non-starter. For food to be caring-friendly, it must be available whenever I am available. I take a risk whenever I cook food in the oven.
   Food that doesn’t need cooking. Meals that call for little preparation. Cold food. Microwaved food. These are the food-friends to a carer. Somehow, I still keep my own Christmas Dinner™ going. You need a boost to morale. Might as well eat it and savour all the flavours. Not a weekly occurrence.
   I’ve temporarily thrown away daycare routine. There’s a breeze stirring in that direction, and the source is strong – but this is still little more than a rumour. Don’t get your hopes up, just yet.
   Have I thrown away my life to look after someone else’s? No, of course not. A conversation with a daily carer who was new-ish to the caring run asked if I were here 24/7. Yes. I have to be.
   She said there were those who just couldn’t do it. If you can’t do it, that’s a good thing. Don’t feel you have to. I had to, and I took to this with a degree of ease that would surprise people. If doing what’s right means not doing a thing…don’t commit to something harsh that you believe you are unsuited to.
   Am I suited to this? I am aware of my reputation with the regular carer team. They all say I am so organised. I sense that they all share this information with each other, so that newcomers know what to expect if they come along here.
   No, I didn’t throw away a life. I just modified a lot. Yes, I threw away old routines. And that costs you a bit when you are a carer…and a lot when you are a carer under Covid.
   It is dangerous to throw away your sense of humour. I haven’t thrown that away. But I can’t easily share it with you. Really funny things happen during dementia care. And we shouldn’t laugh at those. But we must retain sanity.
   If the cared-for cracks a joke at the carer’s expense, yes, of course…laugh. What else are you going to do? Fight to keep the sense of humour. I have no interest in someone else coming along and being strangely offended on my own behalf if I have a moment that would drop jaws in polite company. Or even in rude company.
   I throw unexpected things away when necessary. But laughter, I cling to.