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Dad's vascular dementia, mixed with his fear of the hospital, frustration and stubbornness, could exacerbate a situation, especially if he'd had a fall.

In hindsight, I realise the first year caring for Dad was more torturous because we were trying to find our footing. At the time, in my old corporate speak- my language at the time- it felt like the old storming, forming, norming ...but the reality was much deeper than just group dynamics. My mother had to take on what Dad usually did, Dad had to let go of being able to reason or control the situation, and I had to apply a lot of comms skills to de-escalate or navigate us through.

That period of recalibration was especially tough. But I'd never want them to just do what I say. Even when he was in pain trying to walk around the house, trying to move his arms and legs during rheumatoid arthritis flare-ups, he kept saying that if he didn't move, he'd seize up. Wrapping him up safely in his recliner would've bubble-wrapped my heart, given me a selfish comfort, but not helped his spirit. So, we silently aligned on his need to move around, and I'd be thereif something happened. (Downstairs, on the stairs, upstairs, with canes, despite grab handles etc etc.) We did our best, in a kind of painful agreement. Other times were harder.

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