Coronavirus and being isolated from a loved one

Last month I wrote about the coronavirus pandemic and answered two questions families supporting a loved one are grappling with: How do we hand-wash more and how do we self-isolate?

For families who aren’t in the same household, however, they are living through many weeks, which may potentially become months, without physically seeing their loved ones. If a family member is in a care home that isolation period may be the longest any of us experience, since care homes are - as we have seen - incredibly vulnerable to coronavirus outbreaks. 

Indeed, the impact of coronavirus on care homes and the devastation being wreaked in terms of illness and death amongst residents (as well as the huge risks many staff are taking if they don’t have adequate personal protective equipment) is on a scale that even on the current estimations is truly horrific.

Fears for a loved one in a care home

For numerous families, reading these stories will only magnify their own immense fears for the health of their loved ones in care homes, and many will feel utterly powerless and dreading every ring on their phone. Although we never lived through anything like this with my dad, there is no doubt that I know the fear of illness well, since dad was hospitalised numerous times in the last nine years of his life. 

For us, the dreaded phone calls would often come in the middle of the night and would usually be because dad had a worsening chest or bladder infection. Time after time dad pulled through until the last, catastrophic bout of pneumonia that eventually overwhelmed him.

With care homes currently in strict lockdowns, the ban on visiting has both emotional and practical ramifications. The longest I ever went without seeing my dad during his nine years in care homes would have been around three weeks when one of his care homes had a norovirus outbreak, and it was characterised by constant worry.

The pain of separation 

Fast forward to 2020, and most families are faced with being apart for far longer. The pain this separation will be causing many people was something I thought about whilst reflecting on my dad’s 93rd birthday earlier this month. We were lucky to be able to spend every birthday with my dad, but so many people will be unable to do that during this pandemic. 

The stark feeling facing many families will be the anxiety that it could be their loved one’s last birthday and they won’t have those memories of being together. Whilst this may sound trivial to some in the face of the threat of coronavirus, the loss of the celebration of these milestones together only enforces the painful separation. And of course if a loved one is approaching the end of their life and you aren’t able to see them, the effect on grieving families is immense. We can buy many things and do a huge amount as 21st century citizens, but we cannot buy time, nor replace the physical touch of hand in hand or cheek on cheek.

Ways to keep in touch with your loved one when you are apart

Much has been said about the power of the digital world to bridge the yawning chasm many families are feeling, and it is undoubtedly the best option for at least seeing each other’s faces and hearing each other’s voices through mediums like Skype, FaceTime and Zoom.

More traditional options like sending letters, cards and photographs might seem less appealing, but for the older generation and particularly if someone’s dementia is advancing, these might be more understandable and recognisable than digital options. 

Bear in mind too that as someone’s dementia progresses, a phone call may be incredibly difficult for them to contribute to as it contains none of the visual clues, like mouth movements and body language, that can help the person to understand what you are staying. And of course they cannot see you, so simply saying who you are may not be enough of a reminder.

Practical things you can do for your loved one

If you are wanting to do something more for your loved one than just keeping in touch, these would be my top three suggestions:

• Make a life story resource. It may be that one of your lockdown projects is to sort through old photographs or memorabilia at home, or do some family tree research. Commit to creating a life story resource from items you may have at home, or things you can find online about your loved one’s life. You could turn these items (using copies of any precious originals) into a life story book, box, collage for a wall or other resource. You could be more creative too, as this care worker was when she had a cushion created for a gentleman who was missing his late wife. And don’t wait until you see your loved one to give them your life story gifts - research an affordable door-to-door courier (examples here) and make it a lovely surprise for your relative to open during this lockdown.

• Make a playlist. If you know the music your loved one enjoys, begin a playlist for them. If you are unsure of some details, liaise with staff and make it a three-way remote project between yourself, your loved one and the care worker(s) supporting them.

• Send a food parcel, or package up favourite cosmetics, clothing, books, magazines, cd’s, dvd’s, hobby materials or other things your loved one will enjoy receiving. There are lots of things you can order online and have them delivered straight to your loved one, or get some extra items with your grocery shop, package them up and send them via a door-to-door courier. Again, this will make a lovely surprise.

All of these ideas, of course, won’t ever replace that personal contact, but in the face of the current restrictions I hope families will find comfort in being able to do something practical to feel more useful and to ease those long days until they meet again.

Next month I will continue to look at the issues raised by the coronavirus pandemic. Until then:

• Keep safe
• Stay at home
• Keep your distance from others
• Look after yourselves
• And stay well.

You can follow me on Twitter: @bethyb1886
Like D4Dementia on Facebook

Experiences of loss

With over 200 blogs on D4Dementia now, some of them approaching 7 years old next month, I've decided to spend my 2019 year of blogging by re-visiting some of the topics I’ve covered previously, throwing fresh light on why they remain relevant, and updating them with some of my more recent experiences. This month, I want to look at loss.

Losing my dad

One of my most popular and shared blogs on D4Dementia is ‘End-of-life care: A very personal story’. I wrote the blog less than two months after my dad had died, and with my emotions still very raw I began the blog by saying:

"Planting up my father’s grave recently, I found my mind wandering back to our last few days with him, painful in so many ways and yet hugely comforting as well. Nothing is more important to me than knowing that we spent all day every day with dad during that time, that we were with him at the very end, and that he had what I would describe as outstanding end-of-life care."

I’ve been back to plant up dad’s grave many times since I wrote that blog, most recently last week to give it some spring colour as we marked what would have been dad’s 92^nd birthday. That was the first time our daughter could really participate in the gardening, and my feelings watching her digging little holes and helping to arrange the plants are something I can’t quite find the words to describe. It’s the closest she will ever get to my dad, which is a huge sadness as I know my dad would have adored being a grandpa and he never got that chance. The emotions may not be as raw now, but dad’s physical absence from our lives means that there will always be a missing piece in our family jigsaw. 

Loss from a distance

Very sadly I’ve had further personal experience of loss recently as my father-in-law passed away in South Africa, just 15 days before the 7th anniversary of my own dad’s passing and having lived and died from the same type of dementia – vascular dementia. Experiencing bereavement from a distance, having not been there to support my in-laws, as well as supporting my other half as he comes to terms with the loss of his dad, is the strangest mix of emotions, and the timing in particular has brought back many memories of my own dad’s passing. 

Distant bereavement means that you don’t have all of the practicalities to attend to, and you don’t feel remotely useful. Life is expected to carry on, and yet it isn’t the same and won’t ever be. Our parents shape our lives and the people we are – losing a figure so influential in your life is like having the rug pulled out from under you, and seven years on from losing my dad I have realised that you can never replace that carpet of stability and wisdom. All you can do is celebrate all that person gave you, and how they’ve helped you to become the individual you are.

Losing a new life

In my work life I draw on the strengths my dad gave me a huge amount, especially when dealing with any topic that involves loss. There is no denying the need to talk about advanced care planning, palliative and end of life care, loss, grief and bereavement, but while my personal experiences positively influence me as a trainer and writer they can also be painful to revisit in many different ways. 

One particular example of recent work, albeit ghost-written so I can’t signpost you to it as the author, was around how life story work can bring up thoughts and the associated feelings of bereavement(s) an older person experienced when they were younger. One of the most powerful ways I illustrated this was by drawing on the experiences of a lady I knew in her 80’s, who had heartbreakingly recalled a miscarriage as a young 20-something woman. 

At the time I never imagined this would resonate with me, but having had a miscarriage at 10 weeks last month I now know that an experience like that changes you. Other women older than me have told me they’ve never forgotten how they felt at the loss of the life they’d had growing inside them, and all I can really say is that in terms of pregnancy it reminded me of the title of a blog I wrote in 2014, ‘A loss of innocence’.

A loss of innocence not because I didn’t know miscarriages can happen, indeed my own mother had one before having me and I know many other women who’ve had miscarriages amongst my circle of family and friends, but because I will never view pregnancy, should it ever happen for us again, in the same way. As I said in my ‘A loss of innocence’ blog:

“Life is not and will never be as it was, and unlike many aspects of our existence this is something that we have no control over.”

For that lady in her 80’s recalling a loss of new life 60 years ago, as real then as the day it happened, is proof that living with loss is a lifetime’s work. Despite dementia taking many of this lady’s memories, it had left that one perfectly intact and able to torment her if the right care and support wasn't in place to help her overcome reliving those experiences whenever she saw a pregnant lady or a baby, having never been able to have children herself.

I’ve come to realise that any loss changes you, and perhaps the most important message about loss is that you don’t forget, and that’s ok. You can’t erase loss from your life however it has touched you; all you can do is find ways to acknowledge your loss and to live with it.

Until next time...

You can follow me on Twitter: @bethyb1886
Like D4Dementia on Facebook

Finding love again

With over 200 blogs on D4Dementia now, some of them approaching 7 years old in May this year, I've decided to spend my 2019 year of blogging by re-visiting some of the topics I’ve covered previously, throwing fresh light on why they remain relevant, and updating them with some of my more recent experiences. This month, I want to look at love.

I finished my January 2019 blog with a quote that talked about how a person who is struggling to express themselves, perhaps because of their dementia, is:

“Ultimately looking for understanding, appreciation and love.”

Of course that could be said for all of us regardless of the circumstances surrounding our health, but a diagnosis of dementia brings the importance of love and expressing love into an even sharper focus, as I described in my 2014 blog, ‘Amour’:

“Dementia taught me to tell my dad I loved him every time I saw him. I say dementia taught me because a diagnosis of a terminal disease makes it imperative that you make the most of every moment. There isn't time to be bashful - you will have a long time to regret what you didn't have the courage to say or do.”

But that isn’t to say it’s always easy to express love or feel love when dementia is part of life. Last year I met a lady who very candidly spoke about her relationship with her mother, who is living with dementia, saying that she found it very hard to love her mother now.

Many people might harshly judge this lady for a comment like that, but on further exploration it was clear it was a remark that came from a place of immense love and a longing for that love to be reciprocated. The lady felt bereft because of her perception that her mother didn’t love her, but when we reflected on her time with her mother, it became clear that she was missing very subtle signs of her mother’s love, purely because they weren’t the obvious expressions of it that she’d been used to her whole life.

This lady viewed the changes in her mother only through a negative lens. She spoke about her mother’s repetitive speech, her lack of interest in previous hobbies, how she no longer wanted to eat foods she’d always enjoyed and how she constantly walked, making her daughter feel that she just wanted to get away from her.

But we found a flip side to this. The repetitive speech was an opportunity for the lady to reinforce the information her mother needed, and that could come from a place of love if she realised the trust her mother was placing in her to provide that information in a calm and consistent way.

The lack of enthusiasm for previous hobbies could be interpreted as an opportunity to try new things, finding common interests that they could enjoy together, and likewise with trying new foods. We also talked about walking, and the joy that could be found in walking together, exploring the environment and taking notice of the details around them, something that is known to be very good for improving wellbeing.

Like many people, this daughter saw her mother’s walking through the negative concept of wandering (not a phrase I like or agree with), which is a topic I wrote about in my 2012 blog ‘Going Places’:

“Wandering suggests aimless moving from place to place without any clear objective, but that is not the case in people with dementia. I have written previously about the need to appreciate, understand and connect with a person who has dementia within the world THEY are living in. It may be a world from their childhood or their years as a youthful adult, it may be a happy place or a sad and worrying place. Wherever it is and whatever the circumstances, the person with dementia may well feel compelled to do certain things, and have great purpose and direction in doing them, however fleeting that may be.” 

For this lady’s mother, walking was something she needed and wanted to do, not something to be in any way suppressed as her daughter thought it perhaps should be. Supporting someone you love to do something that they love is in itself an act of love. Not one with big declarations or fancy ribbons attached, but one that is far more meaningful when you consider that many people who are living with dementia and want to do things like walking are prevented, sometimes forcibly, from doing so.

I think, and hope, that I helped this lady to find a different perspective to the one of desolation and isolation that she was feeling. Accepting that dementia sometimes changes our perception of loving and being loved is a tough realisation, but it is one that provides a degree of peace, and sometimes even hope – hope that you can still have those moments of connection with the person you love, however fleeting those moments may be, and feel that surge of emotion that only love can give you.

As I said in my Amour blog:

“During those difficult moments, the sadness, the emptiness, the emotional rollercoaster of being a carer, it's the love you feel that gets you through.”

Until next time...

You can follow me on Twitter: @bethyb1886
Like D4Dementia on Facebook

What to do for 'the best'

Last year I wrote a popular blog post entitled ‘Five things I wish I'd known before my dad's dementia’. Point two was entitled ‘What to do for the best’ and said:

"The great problem when my dad was living with dementia is that I wasn't a researcher, or an observer of all things 'dementia'. I never Googled what other people's dad's who were living with dementia really enjoyed. Nor did I attend dementia groups, access social media extensively, or read dementia books or blogs (so the fact that you are reading this means you are one step ahead of where I was!). 

I learnt what worked for my dad eventually but it was often through trial and error, and when I think back so much time was wasted. For example, I would never have persevered with ensuring my dad had TV in his room: in hindsight I would have scrapped the TV on day one and replaced it with the CD player and music collection that brought infinitely more joy to his life. I’d have made the environmental changes that personalised dad’s room much quicker, and the life story work staff asked for my help with and I took ages to dig out photos and make the memory box, I’d have done that quicker too. 

We'd buy things, like CD's, for birthdays and Christmases thinking it was nice to space out the gifts. Big mistake. Dementia is terminal, you are 'on the clock' as it were. Get as many lovely things as you can afford and enjoy every single one of them as soon as possible so you have them for as long as possible. My dad was never into big birthday or Christmas celebrations, and looking back maybe he was onto something with that."

I often receive emails from family members outlining their situation and asking me what to do for 'the best', and my ‘Five things I wish I'd known before my dad's dementia’ post prompted a few more of those emails, so here are my thoughts on what to do for 'the best':

Don’t beat yourself up

Wanting to know what to do for ‘the best’ is a really common feeling that most of us have in relation to a variety of situations. A natural human instinct is to want to avoid getting things ‘wrong’, but when I was growing up my parents always said: “He who never made a mistake never made anything.” There is no such thing as the perfect way to support a loved one with dementia, so don’t beat yourself up.

'The best' in your situation is unique to your situation

Whenever anyone asks me what is for 'the best' in relation to their loved one with dementia my opening suggestion is always to remember that ‘the best’ in your situation will be unique to your situation. My best, your best and everyone else’s best is entirely individual to them. This phrase really underpins that: “When you’ve met one person with dementia, you’ve met one person with dementia.” Ultimately, there is no definitive rule book on what the best care and support looks like - I was guided more by instinct than knowledge, and sometimes that’s no bad thing.

Sometimes a desire to do our ‘best’ can lead to our worst

Reading the accounts of people living with dementia in the last few years has made me realise that as care partners we can unintentionally become very caught up in the desire to do our ‘best’, sometimes stifling the person with dementia, disabling or disempowering them, which is far from 'the best' for anyone but hard to recognise when we are living in the moment. I’ve only really learnt this lesson as a result of following the work of empowerment groups like DEEP and DAI, realising the 'I'm doing this for the best' trap is easy to fall into and one I fell into myself with my dad sometimes.

As Wendy Mitchell says in her book, 'Somebody I used to know':

"They were one of those typical couples, the ones where the wife takes the lead; she takes his coat from his arms, she folds it over, sits him down, checks on him - once, twice - then goes off to fetch a cup of tea. I see it a lot, wherever I go. I know they're only trying to help, so why does it always look to me as if these husbands - or wives - are so much more advanced in their disease than me, someone who has no one to fetch and carry for me, to finish my sentences, to decide that I can't even manage the small chores that are still very much physically and mentally possible."

Being the best YOU can be is enough

I was by my own admission far from perfect in supporting my dad, but I was the best I could be, and I’ve realised since dad's death that you can be no more than that. When dad was alive the decisions came thick and fast, from small things to big things and everything in-between. I would constantly wonder, “Is this for the best?” about everything from signing a consent form to deliberating about medication, or taking the ‘risk’ of supporting dad to eat when healthcare professionals questioned if he could cope with anything orally due to his dysphagia. Comparing yourself to others, as I’ve known some relatives to do, will only lead to feelings of failure, or the opposite - an exalted view of how great you are at supporting your loved one. Neither is helpful. This quote sums it up perfectly:

Coping with the feeling you haven’t done your 'best'

Sometimes I run information and knowledge session for the relatives of people who are supported by care providers. These often involve a lot of sharing of our individual stories, and sometimes become understandably very emotional for all of us. One of the biggest contributors to not feeling you are doing or have done 'the best' for your loved one is when professional care and support is needed. My view: asking for help doesn't mean you're a failure. We desperately need to move away from the rhetoric that being a family carer means doing everything for your loved one, alone, for the rest of their life, no matter what. Doing your 'best' should never be a byword for burning yourself out.

Until next time...

You can follow me on Twitter: @bethyb1886
Like D4Dementia on Facebook

Home sweet home

I seem to have found myself quoting a particular statistic so much in the last few weeks that it is now imprinted in my mind:

Alzheimer’s Society: Fix Dementia Care Homecare report 

I include this stat in my dementia training for health and social care professionals, which might seem strange since many social care staff that I train and mentor are working in care home environments, but this one statistical sentence opens up so many extremely interesting discussions about the role of ‘home’ in our lives, the links to independence, choice and control, and the feelings and emotions evoked by ‘home’.

The role of ‘home’ in our lives

Why such an overwhelming number of people would want to remain at home is unsurprising. Our homes are meant to be our place of safety and security, places we personalise, feel comfortable, where we can truly be ourselves and do as we want.

So what about the 15% of people who don’t necessarily want to remain at home - do they not have all of those feelings about their home? They may well do, but those feelings are possibly tempered by concerns about family members providing care and support, or the person is living alone and considering a communal home due to fears about isolation and loneliness.

‘Home’ is a really interesting concept in dementia care. As a person’s dementia develops, the role of the person’s home can change: The person may form an attachment to their home that becomes overwhelming to the point that they won’t venture out, if the person does venture out they may not be able to find their way home again (even if they’ve lived in the same neighbourhood for many years), and sometimes home can become an alien place that the person no longer recognises, even though nothing has changed in numerous years.

Home, in the person’s mind, may become somewhere they lived in their childhood or earlier life, which could lead the person to go out to try and find that home again. “Please take me home,” may also be a frequently used phrase if the person is somewhere they don’t recognise, like a hospital, care home, or their own home that simply doesn’t feel like theirs any longer.

When ‘home’ is the problem

Often we assume that so long as the person remains at home, being part of that 85%, they will cope fairly well with their dementia. Yet the person’s home, for all its perceived familiarity and comfort, can sometimes unwittingly contribute to symptoms like disorientation and frustration.

Environmental changes are rarely high on the priority list when families are caught up in thinking about the person’s immediate care and support needs. Sadly, the knock-on effect of this lack of environmental awareness is family members, friends or neighbours gradually doing more and more for the person (and/or a crisis occurring), which can negatively impact upon those providing unpaid care and is even worse for the person with dementia.

In that utopian world where everyone has good post-diagnostic support - which I would argue is a human right - the person and their support network would be assisted to look at how the home is working for the person, with the end result being the creation of a more enabling environment (using the world-leading research from the University of Stirling as a benchmark), where the person’s independence could be preserved for as long as possible and their need for care and support reduced.

The home might be modified to include:

•   Word and picture signage to help the person navigate around their home, and instructions to enable the person to operate household items (or even just to be able to make THEIR guests a cup of tea rather than the guests taking over and doing it themselves).

•   Clear door and drawer fronts so that the person can see what is inside a cupboard or drawer.

•   Colour contrasts across the home but particularly in the bathroom so everything isn’t white.

•   A layout that reflects how the person currently moves around their home, and changes as the person’s needs change - for example, you might remove internal doors to avoid the appearance of barriers or the fear of what is behind a door when it's shut.

•   Lighting that supports understanding of daytime (especially when it’s really dull outside) and nighttime.

•   Technology that helps to support the person’s independence - a dementia clock, for example, could help the person know what the day/time is so that they can orientate themselves.

•   Accessible and enjoyable outside space - for many people, this aspect of ‘home’ is more important than the building.

When ‘home’ moves

So what happens if there is no option and ‘home’ has to change? Care homes are often seen as prisons, but your own home can equally become a place of confinement, which has led me firmly to the belief that what imprisons people with dementia isn’t necessarily buildings, but the attitudes of those around them.

That really gets to the heart of why I talk about that Alzheimer’s Society statistic so much. I want staff to be challenged to think about what home really means for each person they are supporting, and to think about anything and everything that we can do to make the person’s current circumstances, which may not be of their choosing (my dad certainly wouldn’t have chosen to go into a care home) the very best they can be.

This can happen in a variety of different ways, but broadly speaking it’s about maximising the person’s choice and control all day every day, promoting and nurturing their independence, understanding and really embracing the person’s life story in a myriad of guises, and perhaps most significantly of all, validating the person’s sense of what their home is, why it’s important to them, and getting as close as possible to providing the happy feelings they associate with their concept of home.

The ultimate interpretation of ‘home’

That last point is vital, because for everything that I’ve said about the building and contents that we call ‘home’, it’s the feelings and emotions that come from the people a home is shared with (a childhood with parents and maybe siblings, a young adult life as a newlywed, or the home where a person brought up their children) that make up the ‘sweetness’ in the title of this blog.

In those bygone days the building itself wasn’t necessarily the safety and security, that came from the person’s mum and dad, husband or wife. The comfort came from the cuddles and love that was shared. The fun came from the laughter and mess of a young family. The personalisation came from choosing furnishings and decorating as a young couple, and the freedom to be ourselves came from being completely at ease with those the home was shared with.

Whilst that ‘sweetness’ may be associated with many years ago, we can ensure it is never airbrushed out of the person’s life today. After all, would you want your ‘home’ lost forever?

Until next time...

You can follow me on Twitter: @bethyb1886

LIKE D4Dementia on Facebook

Why are you a carer?

On the face of it this is a really simple question, yet it is one that can generate so much discussion. It's something I've been asked a lot in the last few years in the context of, "Why did you care for your dad?"

People are often surprised that as a teenager, twenty-something and thirty-something I would have put my life on hold to care for my dad. Yet consider this: when people begin a family they are rarely asked, “Why would you want to have children?” despite the massive life-change and life-long commitment parenthood entails.

Although the motivation for becoming a carer, the reasons people continue with caring (often against a backdrop of significant difficulties), and the way in which many carers struggle to move on with their life after their caring role ends are very individual, there are some common themes that often surface when you talk to carers, and I want to explore those commonalities in this Carers Week 2017 blog.

Why become a carer?

Many people who’ve never been a carer often approach the topic under the premise that people who are carers have made a lifestyle choice to be so. Big mistake. I have never met anyone who woke up one morning and actively decided to become a carer for a relative or friend. Every carer I have met fell into caring for someone they love due to various circumstances, largely beyond their control, and generally never realised they were becoming a carer.

It is a well-worn phrase, but worth repeating: I never considered myself a carer for my dad, just a daughter looking after her dad.

My G8 Dementia Summit film

Do labels matter? In essence no, if you realise that you have taken on a responsibility that has consequences for your life and your health and are proactive in ensuring that you look after yourself as well as the person that you are caring for. In reality, however, the 'carer' label will - in theory - give you access to services (if they exist!) that without that label you wouldn't be able to access. If those services are fit for purpose, they can help to prevent carer ill-health and carer breakdown.

Why do you continue to be a carer?

Again, this question suggests most people make an active choice. They don't. Carers remain as carers often through a lack of choice, and as much as it may be very un-politically-correct to admit it, often through a sense of duty, obligation or necessity.

However, that isn't to underestimate the human emotions that accompany caring. They are potentially the biggest driving factor towards carers remaining as carers once you remove the 'circumstances beyond your control' element. Moreover, it's emotional ties that often keep a carer caring for longer than is perhaps good for them or the person they are caring for.

As much as caring is immensely difficult, there is something in the depths of the human psyche that wires us to prevent suffering in those we love and give comfort and support. The rawness of this emotional pull isn't the same for everyone though, which may explain why in a large family it's often one person who is the primary carer with other family members very much on the peripheries. And that is no one's fault - again, it's often a mix of circumstances with a good helping of emotions.

Why is it so hard to move on when your caring role ends?

Again, it's those emotional factors biting us in the depths of our hearts and souls. You don't spend that much time with a person, and potentially nurse them through the end of their life, only for your life to return to your pre-caring days afterwards.

For a start, the bereavement experience is very different - you aren't just grieving the loss of the person, but a loss of the purpose and routine you had. Caring, for all its challenges, is something many people become exceptionally adept at, and the feeling of doing something so important so well is a huge source of pride which can be lost when you are no longer caring for the person.

Why is capturing carer knowledge and experiences so important?

One way of combatting the loss of skills and purpose is to go into a social care role professionally, and some of the very best care workers I've met in my consultancy work have a strong background of being family carers. For other people, caring for 'strangers' is just too difficult after caring for a loved one, no matter how much we might say that 'Strangers are just friends you haven't met yet', or indeed the former carer's own health or age make such a career choice prohibitive.

My interview with Havas Lynx where I talk about the wealth of knowledge and experience carers have and the importance of capturing that

The challenge for all of us, however, is to find ways of capturing carer knowledge - at every juncture of a carer's life - to benefit others, be they family carers or professionals. And if you are a health or social care professional, NEVER consider yourself more learned or accomplished than a family carer, be they a current or former family carer. That unique pull of circumstances and emotions creates a rarefied learning experience that really is - both positively and sometimes negatively - second to none.

 

Until next time...

You can follow me on Twitter: @bethyb1886

LIKE D4Dementia on Facebook