There are many absurd moments
in the life of a carer. Writing about absurd moments is, itself, an absurd
moment. But we really don’t have time to dig deep into the many and varied
layers of that cake. Here’s a snapshot for you.
Daycare came back from out of the Covid void,
and, after a metric shitload of work to make that dream possible…it stopped
before we even reached three visits. Mobility was the issue. One of the main problems
was slippage. Over time, sitting in the wheelchair, you risk slipping, sliding,
slithering, slumping, and many other words starting with the letter s.
Not skiing.
We don’t have the equipment for skiing.
(Scours memory.) Wait. That’s not true. We
do have the equipment. Zimmer frame? That’s gone back to stores. I’m sure they
took the name label off. However, I bought in special equipment to make it
easier to use that frame on carpets. Ski feet. Yes, the ski feet are still
here. So, damn it, we do have the equipment.
I’ll send those ski feet somewhere they can
be damned useful. Damn equipment, with its limited shelf-life.
Equipment is on the agenda. By roundabout ways
and devious means, the people at the centre bring in the Occupational
Therapist. Normally I’d be the one requesting a consultation with the O.T. But
this request came from outside the normal channels.
I marked the visit down on the calendar
under the heading 12th of
Never.
Last time I consulted the O.T. a letter came
out saying we’ll get to you eventually,
when hell itself freezeth over and the sea serpent doth rise from the Loch of
Ness. Along those lines. And, sure enough, that parlayed into a seven-month
wait for an appointment that normally would happen within a month to two months
at most.
This time around, extreme pressure pushes us
almost immediately into the visit. On a Saturday, no less. The O.T. was handed
O.T. Yes, the Occupational Therapist was handed overtime. Saturdays and Sundays
are far less busy than weekdays are – all the usual clinics are shut and even
the pharmacy limits hours severely.
There are no calls over the phone on
Saturday or Sunday. It’s the quiet time followed by the quieter time on the
Sunday. But here we are on Saturday with two daily carers and the O.T. walking
in at the same time, so we’ve all got our stories to tell. The upshot is that
we are looking at a lot of equipment, arranged by many departments from now
until the heat-death of all existence.
Alternatively, everything will arrive over a
frantic five-minute period. Happens. And that’s always the best of the best of
fun. Truly.
The daily carers disappear back into the
system. Our O.T. stays on. We’re in the market for a new chair that reduces the
chance of slipping, and possibly a new wheelchair that reduces the chance of
slipping. A few other options are covered. I think we’ll wait and see what
various experts say when they turn up.
Let the dust settle. Talk about action when
the time comes. No timetable on this one. Autumn. Which we are sliding into,
night by lengthening night. Winter. Let’s hope not. Hurry up and wait.
I receive the usual compliment that my
mother is very lucky to have me here. Everyone in the system is aware that
there are people being “looked after” who don’t have anyone to look after them
at all. In that case, it’s the daily carers who come in and burn up the
allotted time. (Which is never enough for everyone on the caseload.)
One time-slot fits all. And is exhausted by
delays at the first place. Knock-on delays end up toppling loads of dominoes as
the day runs dry. Perhaps a social worker looks in, now and again. Someone
miraculously handles the shopping and other affairs of state.
(Pauses typing to check the fire alarms.
Those fire alarms don’t check themselves.)
Lucky to have me. And I am organised. I am
also surprised to see the O.T. so soon. Needs must, when the devil drives.
She’s lost…and lost sounds awkward…workers died or were misplaced or vanished into
the desert? No. She’s lost staff. One therapist disappears to maternity leave.
Another retires. New troops are headed to the front line, but they must be
cleared for insurance purposes.
We all laugh at the insurance-based delays
inside the system. Across many systems and departments. The hold up is Human Resources rubber-stamping the
helmets and letting these Occupational Therapeutic Warriors loose on the
crumbling battlefield.
Human Resources is, no doubt, starved of
resources, too.
And after much soul-searching, someone
offered everyone overtime to clear the backlog and reach the regular
waiting-list before Flu Season deprives all departments of workers. Covid has
much to answer for. If only Covid ran out of Covid thanks to Covid, we’d be in
a much better place – by an order of magnitude.
Yes, we cover the usual things. Isn’t it
great that I am so organised? Well, after eight years of this…I’d like to
fucking think so. Yes, there are spare parts for spare parts. But, really, it’s
about staying flexible as much as it is about having the right equipment.
I await the arrival of more equipment,
typing away. Some of it is handed out by the government. And the rest is bought
in, personally. Today’s delivery is personal, niche, useful, will clear away a
load of clutter, and should arrive within the hour.
So what about that mugshot? How does that
fit into this story?
The O.T. decided to take some vital measurements.
She commended me on the (recent) addition of logs to the bed. Yes, they are
called logs. Big blue logs. Wipe-clean blue surfaces. Long blue zips. Foam
interiors.
Their use? Keeping someone straight at
night, lying there in the bed. Avoid, at all costs, letting the cared-for curl
up like a banana, or – far worse – a foetus. If the wind changes direction, you
are liable to stick in that shape forever. Yes, I joke about the truth. These big
blue logs worked in keeping the body straight. Also, they stop elbows and knees
clashing with the cage-effect created by the bed’s side-bars.
The O.T. required measurements, and made
rough guesstimates of leg-length. Did I know how tall my mother was? For that,
I invited the O.T. out into the hall, explaining that this might seem a bit
absurd, true, but it would help out considerably.
There, on the wall in the hall, as part of
the memory gallery I created when my mother was still highly mobile, were
photographs of my mother against various backdrops. One backdrop was snapped in
a police museum…
And there, on the wall in the hall,
full-face and in profile, was the lady in question – with height markers
telling us exactly what we needed to know. She was found guilty of being in the
police museum and acting the tourist. Loitering with intent to pose in a
photograph, you might say. The light-bulb went off in the O.T.’s eyes, just
above her mask, and this photo was declared brilliant.
It was a feat of memory. And organisation.
Of care for someone. People came into the house, and there’d be a talking-point
or three about places she’d been. This was especially useful when we still
paraded along the halls and up the stairs to the bathroom. She’d stop to point
out this place or that moment, and the carers laughed at the way she told
stories.
We’d pass many photographs of places that
stuck in the memory thanks to landmarks, landscapes, or meals in very
interesting places. It should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway, that
caring is personal. You tailor the care to the needs of the familiar. Whatever
is left after dementia that stays familiar – that is gold. Use it.
I used the photo galleries for a long time.
And here I am again, using a photo in the gallery once more. For an unintended
use, to be sure. But it gave us a positive result, and that’s what we’re after.
Every single time.
Now? We have measurements for a chair. That
chair will take over from the recliner. And the recliner will go to some random person in need of assistance, where the equipment will be of use to someone struggling with mobility.
I said the O.T. would be busy doing a lot of
work. And once the equipment arrived, I, too, would be doing a lot of work. The
TV is at the end of the bed, placed for an easy watch. It used to be in the
corner of the room, angled to face the recliner.
Yes, I’ll have to move all that furniture
all over the place all over again…AGAIN.
But that’s what I do. Every week it feels as
though I am moving house. If I don’t adjust, move, replace, assemble,
dismantle, or buy in furniture that week, well, there’s something wrong with
the world.
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