DEMENTIA CARE: AUTUMN RAIN IN DARKNESS.

After the storm, more rain.
   The storm lingered for an extra day, bringing sharp gusts and making autumn sounds around the house as the place rattled. But I didn’t delay a few days after the storm to write this piece.
   Instead, I delayed for a nurse visit. And that was a story of delays. For once, I delayed things. You are used to a clinician being late to the appointment. Especially an appointment over the telephone.
   But it was the nurse on the phone who made me decide to delay. She called to ask if she could visit the house ahead of time. But she’d chosen the exact wrong time of the morning to call as the carers were on their way in.
   No worries. In that case, she’d see to the visit at the appointed time. Delay. Then the carers delayed slightly. They need never explain why. And often, they don’t. There are no details. Just…
   We’ve had a hell of a morning.
   One eye on the clock…and the other on a different clock, to see if the times match up. If they don’t, that clock on the wall needs a new battery. Always have back-ups. Now it grew difficult to manage all the tasks. The carers were cutting it fine for the nurse visit.
   Just queue there, and someone will get to you.
   With the carers out of the way, I was glad I’d cleaned the carpets the night before. No time now. This is a holdover from my mother’s household routines. She’d clean the carpets. Vacuuming away. And then, with clean carpets and a visitor on the way…
   She’d clean the carpets again. I often think, if we had a murder victim on the floor, she’d vacuum around the corpse so that investigators wouldn’t think she had dreadful carpets. Anyway. No matter when the carpets are cleaned, they are cleaned ahead of a special visitor’s arrival.
   To my mother, every visitor was special. I’m shocked she didn’t clean the carpet, empty the cleaner into the bin outside, return to the house, decide she was also a special visitor, and, then, clean the carpets all over again.
   Well, I cleaned the carpets the night before. I knew there wouldn’t be time next day. There was barely time that night. With the carers out of sight, I sprang into action. It was time for breakfast, and pills.
   There are many small adjustments to make once the carers are away. Check the hoist is back in its charging station. See if the door rack needs to be replenished. Not all socks vanish into the washing machine.
   Towels are sorted. I check under the bed to ensure the inflatable mattress is being inflated. The glow of the light tells me so, even if the unit isn’t growling. It rests between grumpy episodes.
   Every action was a few seconds. And every few actions I faced a mountain of an action that consumed a minute. I whirled through the place testing the fire alarms, the carbon monoxide alarms, the combination alarms, the temperature alarm, the last fire alarm furthest from the door…
   That’s when I heard the knock. I’d rattled through toothpaste, brushing teeth, drinking milk, consuming pills, arranging the washing, hitting the detonator on the washing machine, and all the rest of that stuff I haven’t even mentioned here.
   And just as I reached the last switch on that final fire alarm, the nurse appeared. Routine inspection. Did we have any trouble with pill supplies? No, but the pill in question changed size and composition for one delivery.
   Other people had a shortage, and switched to another alternative. Everything was routine. There was a long struggle to check my mother’s pulse, but we had a thorough go of that. And a reading is a reading. So all was well.
   These meetings are partly about being informed by the nurse and partly about informing the nurse. We’re both looking for the same things, the changing things, the changing things that change for the better, and…
   Luckily for us, we didn’t have anything truly negative to go over. You have to gloss over the fact that dementia is one of the most negative things you can encounter. And we glossed over that. My mother laughed quite a bit.
   Laughing is better than the alternative.
   The day is suspended in mid-air until the nurse’s visit is done. If you can’t get anything done, then do everything. It’s amazing the stuff you get tidied while you are waiting. That’s a whole thing by itself…
   When the carers are in and I can’t be there, I am elsewhere doing the tidying I left there for that exact purpose…filling the slack time.
   With the nurse gone, I treat myself to a coffee. The shopping is done. I arrange supplies on top of the regular stuff. It’s time to stock up. With two large fridges, I’ll split the load. All of these things tumble in and I deal with them.
   Next. There’s a very late post. I suspect it is on the way, as I spot the postie struggling through rain. Don’t tell me he hasn’t been, yet. Okay, I won’t tell you. He makes his delivery around 3.00 in the afternoon. Delay.
   A bill. Carer stuff. I deal with that. If I’m not engaged in household maintenance or direct caring, then there’s always admin. At least it is easy to sign off as done. I’m e-mailed a receipt.
   I lose track of the coffee cups I drain. Normally, yes, I’ll accept an early delivery, visit, or event. But I had to delay the nurse…to the regular time she was meant to arrive at. There is no delay for coffee. It happens when it happens.
   What’s delayed, now? Everything. A routine visit that goes perfectly…that still consumes your day. I move a few things around. There’s stuff to throw out. And there I am, unable to delay the night…
   It’s dark. The lights in the street don’t seem adequate. Summer nights are illusory. Extra-long sunsets that are vaguely classed as night. Not now. Autumn night is velvet black. I moved around the garden, arranging the bins.
   Throwing stuff out. Regular rubbish, and always a little bit extra. Gradually, I am clearing the garden hut. Just as I am clearing the house, room by room. It all goes to the hut, and then to the bins.
   There’s a busybody in the neighbourhood, who, twice, has taken a passive-aggressive interest in shit that isn’t anyone’s business but mine. The disposal of the rubbish. It’s all done safely, and securely, and is legit.
   But the Bin Police like to keep themselves busy, it seems. Well. Anyway. I was there in torrential rain, wrapped in waterproofs, decked in layers, swinging a torch around on the end of a cord, moving stuff from the hut to the bin.
   Gradual process. Tonight, in the dark, leaving the rain at the hut door, I brought my portable light into action, and found carpet nailed to an oblong of wood. So I ripped that carpet away and threw it into the bin with other small bits of carpet. The last bits of carpet.
   Now there’s a countertop to my left that’s clear. And there is room to see the rear of the hut. Piece by piece, I’ll dispose of tools that are used for no purpose. I keep all of the proper tools indoors. What will I do with the hut when it is clear?
   Easy. I’ll use it to store rubbish, as now, but I won’t have to struggle from one side of the hut to the other. That’s it. The goal.
   I couldn’t list all the small things I tackled today, so that I could empty the hut that little bit more. All the small things added up to the delay. That’s why I was in the hut after dark. The night squad came and went. I made sure I had supper first. Then I tackled the bins.
   Autumn rain in darkness. Not quite. I had my (new) trusty torch. Made sure I was updating electrical items. That never ends. And right now? I’d taken a huge tub of papers down from an almost unreachable location.
   Wish I’d left it there. But the tub is on the landing. It’s one of those piles of papers. You know that to go through it is to go through centuries of records. I removed all the obvious items that had to go to the bin, whether thrown out completely or for recycling.
   Delay. At least I tidied what was in there. I’ll have to keep tackling it. Like some sort of endless iceberg that won’t thaw, won’t go away, and can’t be ignored. I’ve done what I could, tonight. Rather than tackle the infinite tub, I’d prefer to be back out there, in autumn rain, in darkness. With the occasional flash of light, warning me of cobwebs and rusty nails, while droplets patter on the low roof just above.