just the dog and I.  All is quiet as the man is out at choir.  I love Monday evenings.  We have an early supper and he is gone by just after 7. Looking back on the day I feel I haven’t really done very much.  I’ve made a sourdough loaf, played around with pieces of paper on a graph trying to get the easiest and most economical way to lay slabs to make a greenhouse floor.  None of today’s tasks too taxing until I got to the hospital for my voluntary shift. For some strange reason today I struggled with the demands that dementia puts on people.  One patient in particular has become more anxious since last I saw her.
‘Don’t leave me, I have so much still to do, the menu hasn’t been agreed!’  Another lady who has been there for months was due to go home today only for it to be cancelled due to flood water across her drive.  One patient I thought I would never see again is brighter, talking, eating.  Dying is a strange thing, you go when your time has come, she lives to see another day.
I felt drained as I walked up to himself waiting in the car to take me to the builder’s merchant to choose paving.  Usually as I walk home I  use it as a time of reflection, each footstep helping me to carefully shake off the pain of feeling helpless in the face of the gradual deterioration of others lives.