When I saw this tile in a ceramics museum in Seville its tension jumped centuries like a cat deciding to sit in my lap. And so it was this morning, attempting to communicate with a hospital about lamentable experiences involving Mum, then speaking to a lovely Welsh woman in a call centre whose sister and mother were both going through dementia at the same time, then speaking to a community respiratory service about COPD, and a GP about treatment for a UTI, then a personal assistant about how Mum was this morning, then about picking up medication from the pharmacy, then the medication not being all there, then rushing over to the pharmacy when it was there, but it still wasn't all there, then going into the GP to explain that the amount specified by the GP on the prescription wouldn't last even a week, then dropping what there was off at Mum's, so at least there was something, with tomatoes I picked in between on the allotment, and two bags of beans, plums, cucumbers for two of her PAs because it's the least I can do...and there are people who think at 70 I have all the time in the world to fill in the gaps between the arrows because what else would I be doing and I'm thinking what if I get ill, what happens in those gaps between the arrows...there are so many questions that are not answered by anyone and so much help that is not given, offered, suggested, available because dementia isn't a medical issue, is it, it's for charities to deal with, for daughters and sometimes sons, but it's not for anyone I come into contact with, not a single one of them, but the Welsh woman in the call centre, who's dealing with it herself, and I had to cut her off in mid sentence, apologetically, because a private number was ringing and that's always medical and always withheld, so I can never ring back, nor can you.
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