DEMENTIA CARE: GIVING BLOOD ALL OVER AGAIN.

It felt as though it was ages since the nurse turned up to collect blood samples. All the needles came out at once. First there was a call asking if it was okay to come out and administer a Covid booster. Spring is in the air. So, obviously, the weather veered between autumn and summer with hazy shades of winter.
   That would be fine. The nurses would handle that, very precisely, in the arm. But not so precisely, on the day. Any old time from 9.00 through to 5.00. Before that even got started up, another phone call came in about annual maintenance and a request for blood samples.
   And that would also be fine. The nurse would handle the samples, very precisely, in the arm. But no so precisely, on the day. Any old time from 9.00 to 5.00. At least the needles came out on different days. So that was something.
   Booster first. On a busy day. Shopping was coming in. And a few parcels. The care team, obviously. There’s no way to line them all up conveniently. You just hope they don’t all arrive at once. The care team swished in and swept out. I took delivery of a parcel. Then I dealt swiftly with the shopping.
   Hell, I even found time to rustle up a batch of home-made soup. Really, that last item was just giving me something to do while I waited for the nurses. Everything was ready, free and clear. And the nursing team came in. I was prepared.
   New jumpers were soft jumpers, and they were appreciated. But I’d set out the short-sleeved T-shirt the night before, just to make access to the arm easier. The business of the booster itself was quick. As usual, there’s the preamble and post-chat that we all need to get out of the way.
   We just cover possible setbacks and potential problems. Any allergies? No, but they must always ask. Side-effects I should look for and courses of action. The thermometer gun will warn me of unusually high temperatures, and staying hydrated is standard operating procedure anyway.
   I am accused of being organised. This is always against the backdrop of nurses having to go into all sorts of houses…where people aren’t so organised. So I seem more organised than I am, from where I am standing. There are always hints from healthcare professionals that some houses are empty of organisation.
   But they can’t get specific.
   The quick bite from the needle creates a cry of surprise more than of pain, and the job is done for another while. Over the next few days, nothing dramatic happens on that score. I make a comment about the changing of the seasons bringing more boosters. But then we all remember that morning was like late autumn or early winter, rather than spring with summer around the corner.
   And so, I returned to my routine. Time for a meal. An unexpected parcel arrived, and I ended the day by having spoken to around eleven people. Delivery types, nurses, or people phoning about nurses. There was a day of rest between visits.
   Then it was time for the blood sample. The care team came in and marched out. As the carers left, the nurse arrived. We were back to the short-sleeved T-shirt arrangement. This was a bit more complex. We settled on the arm that hadn’t been jabbed yet.
   Before we dealt with the difficulties, there was a test for blood pressure. The usual routine was for nothing to happen until the collar really inflated. Then there was the standard cry of surprise. The nurse wrote numbers on her hand, as nurses tend to do. Pressure was fine.
   Then we handled the difficulties. Everything is for your safety. This normally involves something that the cared-for doesn’t feel like participating in. Dementia makes an enemy of every injection, all the nurses, and any statement involving safety.
   We wrestle into position. It’ll be the unjabbed arm. And it’ll be the nurse, in the main room, with the bloody syringe. But we must wrestle, really wrestle, into position. I hold the hand on the arm to be jabbed. But then I must hold the other hand which will move in defensively to protect the jabbed arm.
   I have to do this on the floor, on my knees, so I am out of the nurse’s way. The nurse closes in, and retreats, and circles a bit, and makes all the right choices. She isn’t going to fly in for a crash-landing. No. This is a cautious approach in the fog.
   That’s the fog that closes off experiences. If you remembered anything, would you remember you were always good at giving blood samples? Maybe. This used to be a hell of a lot easier. The nurse’s cautious approach works, and she sticks the needle in.
   There’s the sharp cry, more of surprise than anything else. I am now staring at the tube. The nurse makes a slight adjustment. I’m holding hands that flinched. But there is no struggle. Good job I am not squeamish at the sight of blood, as I catch a perfect view of the red stuff in full flow.
   We’ve struck oil, all right. In no time at all, the nurse has all the samples she needs. Those, she lists off. If there’s nothing much wrong, there’ll be no follow-up. But if blood levels are off, there’ll be a telephone call to adjust the strength of the pills and a change in the next prescription.
   Dementia makes the whole process a hell of a lot more complicated than I’ve made it sound. The nurse does need two pairs of hands to steady someone who is bound to flinch and retreat. I was prepared. We were all organised. But, honestly, we got lucky.
   We got lucky with someone it was always easy to get blood out of. In all that time, one nurse had a spot of bother. And we haven’t had a return to that poor form. Everyone has an off-day. With the nurse out the door, I return to check on the cared-for.
   She is quite chatty, and aware. Seems to know that she did very well. Any pain she had will fade. She can rest. I dish out a drink. And I go and have a coffee myself. That night the carers must be informed that she might still have a patch on that arm.
   They go into detail about how hard it is to give blood. The red stuff doesn’t seem to flow readily into syringes. They were glad to hear that everything went well. There are shift-changes. So I relay the recent jabby stabby news to the next batch of carers.
   You are always explaining developments, major or minor, in case carers need to make adjustments. This was our action-packed week, when loads of people turned up. But not all at once. They arrived in the right order, did what they had to do, and left the place as they found it.
   And I call that a massive win. I go around the house, fixing a few things that need sorted. But nothing truly breaks, except a rainstorm. There are changes to routine, imposed by the local authority. You always expect something after moving from one financial year to the next.
   Somewhere along the line, I received a leaflet offering recruitment to the care team. Technically, I am on it as a user of the service. So I couldn’t leave caring for one person to care for many. And there was a performance pamphlet that told me how many visits the carers made in the previous year.
   These paper messages just reinforced the changes since Covid. In the Times Before the Disease, that warning about blood samples would have been a letter asking to make an appointment to come in and see the nurse. Even after Covid, there were still a few letters.
   But the bulk of care-related contact is now by telephone. And so, the follow-up on the blood will be in about a week. Maybe. I have to perch, poised, next to the phone, ready to answer the call. That’s easy enough. The phone is attached to my belt when not charging. And when it is charging, I stay attached to this chair right next to that phone charger.
   The best hope is that the blood sample was for nothing. No change. Regular pills in standard doses. It’s a fiddly loose end that needs tying off. But at least it is done, for a good while. I think of other houses, where there is just the person in the chair. Or the bed. Maybe even on the floor, having slipped and ended there.
   Being an extra pair of hands, and eyes, and ears, and knees…I helped get the job done. Now. No phone call in the next week. Just another repeat prescription. Standard strength. No fuss. And no need for the nurse for months, if we can avoid that.
   These are small victories. But we get by on those, every single day.