DEMENTIA CARE: CLOTHES, MARCHING OUT OF THE HOUSE.

Clothing piles up. It’s a rule of clothing. And it piles up everywhere. That’s also a rule of clothing. I kept meaning to deal with this vague problem. Yes, I could’ve piled up clothing in the bin for the easiest disposal. But that felt wasteful.
   Instead, clothing lurked, lingered, lounged, and just plain lay there. Here and there. And everywhere. Yes, in drawers. The main caring room houses a small stand of open-plan drawers so that I never quite lose track of what’s in there.
   Most clothes are on hooks, over the doors. I see what’s there. And I see the wear and tear. These are double hook constructions. I raise one garment on the upper row of hooks. That’s the next one worn. It’s a system. Keeps the clothes rotating through.
   One of the carers took a long time to realise that’s what I was doing. This is why, on her four-day stint, she never saw the same item worn twice. My advice is to find an over-the-door hook arrangement that fits in the available space and doesn’t jam the door. Then go to town with that model, and use as many doors as you can.
   Space is important in the main room. As more and more mobility aids come in, you have less and less room for conventional chests of drawers, wardrobes, and other bulky items. You need the floorspace. So use the doorspace.
   There are alternatives to throwing good clothes away. Wear the clothes. That only takes you so far. Clothes that don’t quite wear out are now in reserve as more clothes march into the house.
   Seasons change. Clothing requirements change with them. You come round to the right season again, and you’ve updated the collection in bits and pieces since last time. The modest piles of yesterday’s clothes…pile a little higher.
   What to do? Problem. But it’s a gradual problem, and, you hope, containable. Manageable. When storage fills to capacity, go beyond capacity for as short a time as possible. The ins and outs of daily caring routine lead to casualties…
   You find a T-shirt with a rip in it. Fluffy socks slowly strangle each other in their ever-widening weave. So you cull the stray threads. Then you cull the garments as they slowly lose shape.
   But there comes a time when gradually kicking and replacing clothing isn’t enough. I wasn’t putting this problem off. Instead, I was waiting for the solution to come to me. This week, the solution appeared and disappeared.
   I placed a small table at the letterbox, to catch letters and tiny parcels. There’s almost always been a table to catch letters. The letterbox doesn’t make a noise every single time. But the falling letters landing on the table definitely make loud slapping noises.
   And you know when a parcel has landed.
   This special delivery alarm doesn’t work on the carpet if there’s no table. Carpet steals noise. Carers need to see to incoming letters as soon as possible. Replying to them may take a hell of a lot longer, as you prioritise. But see to them fast.
   Need an alarm system for letters. And so…the table. It is placed as close to the letterbox as possible. Practically every arrival lands on the flat surface. The odds are in that direction.
   Rarely, something light and flimsy floats and flitters and flies down into that tiny gap between the porch and the table. This is why I crouch and check for posted things regularly. I crouched and checked, and there was the solution to my clothing problem.
   I’d been waiting for this arrival for a long time. These offerings used to be charity bags with labels on them. You unfolded these airy constructions and dumped clothes in the charity bag. An unseen pixie-ish person or fairy-type whisked the bag away, and all was tidier as a result.
   Times change. Now there’s a gossamer-thin label and no bag. Supply your own bags. Slap the label on one of them. Leave the bags in the street. Pixies and fairies whisk the bags away. Job done. Well, I crouched to check for flimsy postal arrivals and there was the label.
   Okay. Time to go to work. As a carer in the never-ending time of Covid, this is the least intrusive solution. The local authority set up collection points throughout the area, true. These are for people with cars. I’d have to make many trips with stuff I can manage on a walk. Or I’d struggle on a bus on a one-time run.
   The disadvantages are…carers must manage time away from the caring location. And a bus isn’t exactly a Covid incubator, but I shouldn’t take the risk if there’s a clear alternative. The alternative is to use the charity label. So I do.
   Finally, the charity label arrives. I check the items the charity will take. The local authority is a little more selective when filling those dumping stations. This is an advantage with the charity label. I also research the charity to establish it is a real one.
   Clothes go marching out of the house.
   I took a break just now to deal with kitchen stuff. Just as I did so, one of the mystical elves stopped at the gate to pick up everyone’s bags. That’s the van, doing the roads. After, there’ll be a sweep of the other sides of houses, where people put bags out the front instead.
   The mystical elf wore a hi-visibility jacket. Understandable. We’ve had gloomy weather, and we’ll have more as the nights darken and darken earlier in leafy October. Soon, the late-pick-ups will be in dark afternoons under wavering streetlights as leafless November takes hold.
   For once, exactly as the van arrived, the clouds parted and the sun came out. Savour the moment. We’ll not see the shiny orb all that often.
   What left the house? Loads of bags. I wandered from place to place, drawer to drawer, making decisions. What stayed, and why. Routine changes. Often, caring routine changes rapidly and irreversibly. Mobility is a factor. Arthritis takes its toll.
   For a long time, the clothing was loose. Easy to slip on and remove. Makes the job of the care team easier. Less traumatic. Minimise the fuss and the awkwardness. Loose stretchy clothing is all I’ll buy.
   T-shirts are important for the warmer months. They need to be short-sleeved, along with nightwear, in case the nurse comes in the morning for those routine injections. Never roll up a sleeve when you can display an arm from a short-sleeved T-shirt. Keep the problems as near to minimum as possible. As I’m always informed in advance of injections, I set the short-sleeved garments out on a fixed timetable that saves a load of bother.
   Light jumpers for the cooler days in the warmer months. Still loose. Everything is stretchy. So a garment losing its shape…not much of a problem. Bit of a bonus, over time, to be honest.
   Heavy jumpers and fleeces for the chill summer days and, obviously, autumn/winter. In recent months, I arranged new nightclothes, more T-shirts, light jumpers, heavy jumpers, fresh socks…the list goes on.
   Certain items are straight-up for the bin, when the time comes. I buy in before I dispose. That’s standard. There is a Twilight Zone, though. And that’s what I went looking for. Items that aren’t worn as much these days. Types of clothes that are less likely to get used. Cardigans, though loose, are a bit of a faff to get into if you have no concentration and arthritis to deal with.
   Much easier for the carers to slip a T-shirt or a jumper on, for you. Twilight clothing. Useful. Wearable. Slid to one side, into a drawer that I see on a daily basis. I waited for a label, that’s all. Someone else will gain the use out of this still-usable apparel.
   How much did I gather? A tonne of the stuff. No. I searched cardigan pockets. And I removed the last of the outdoor coats from the cupboard. Searched more pockets. The charity took handbags. There were four remaining. Two are going to be useful for stays away from home, if called on.
   I folded and folded and folded cardigans, jumpers, non-stretchy pyjamas I’d somehow overlooked, you name it. The outdoor coats, fleeces, are irrelevant now. For outdoor excursions, there’s wheelchair clothing. No need for a coat.
   The only outdoor trip of moderate length is a trip to the memory clinic by wheelchair. And the wheelchair fleece and wheelchair poncho cover all weather possibilities. Everything else is going to be Patient Transport, ambulance, or private hire. No more coats. Just big woolly jumpers and loose trousers, wrapped in a cocoon of fleecery.
   I fill large white bags. And then I pile those bags inside larger black bags. Three of them. Heavy, now, with fabric. I peel the label and slap it onto the one bag that is the best prospect for a flimsy sticker.
  And, late at night, I march the clothes out of the house, out of the garden, into the street. The easiest method of giving purpose to clothes that served their time in the trenches of dementia care.
   What am I really putting out there? My mother’s second skin? Phases of caring that came and went, replaced by more phases of caring but in a different way. A more complex way. Here’s the autumn collection from last year. I replaced that, gradually, over the non-summer. There’s an easy jumper to get into, but there are jumpers now easier-still.
   I am saying goodbye to aspects of my mother’s dressing…but not quite her dress-sense. The clothes I give away are all clothes I bought in. She didn’t shop for any of them. Not a single garment.
   And the clothes I give away…all arrived by post. Bought online. I didn’t shop for them in person, either. We’re past that stage. But in an attempt to preserve the familiar, I did try to match her dress-sense. Her style.
   Loads of jumpers and cardigans would’ve been items she’d have bought if she’d seen them on sale in shops. You try to keep old memories going, even if the old clothes are long-gone. I’ve held back a handful of items from this large cull, on that basis. There’s still use out of them, memory of the familiar in them, yet.
   The elf arrives, heaves the bags into the van, and rides off into the charity sunset. I guess almost all of the things I gave away will be of great use, good use, or some use. Maybe I slipped one or two rogue items in there that’ll be no use…but that’s for the charity to judge and not for me.
   I also ditched a bunch of my own clothes. One pick-up. Double-duty. It was that or throw clothing in the bin. And I haven’t thrown clothing in the bin since yesterday. I noticed one loose stretchy item of hers had developed a hole that was small…but would only grow larger with each wash. Beyond repair, it went to the great circular storage bin in the sky.
   The drawers are tidier. Clutter is down. The cycle begins afresh. A charity gained quite a haul. And the last of the new clothes arrived by post. Well, for this season, anyway.