Everything in life is made up of steps. Before dementia, I never looked at it that way. But now I break everything down into steps. It makes life easier.

Getting dressed is one example. For Jack, this process takes at least an hour. I have to name each item as he holds it up and tell him where it has to go. I have to tell him how to put it on. I have to tell him the right order to put things on. Otherwise he ends up in underwear and shoes and we have to start over.

Jack has six articles of clothing (socks, underwear, undershirt, tee-shirt, pants and shoes). Each one has its own list of steps. I talk him through getting dressed every morning, one step at a time, while I’m feeding the cat, making breakfast, and eating breakfast. We have some really strange conversations.

Sometimes, though, I just dress him. Some mornings no amount of talking gets through.

But this is second nature. I’ve been doing it for months. Now Jack is having bathroom issues. And I’ve started to learn the steps for that.

Have you ever thought about how many steps it takes to use the toilet? I didn’t either. Now I not only have to remind Jack to use the bathroom; I have to tell him what to do (and how to do it) once he gets there. I have to do this every time. If I forget, or I’m not paying attention, the results can be, well, messy.

This week, the sh*t hit the fan. Literally. It was a steep learning curve, but I was saved by one thing: my practice of breaking things into steps. That kept me from pulling out my hair. It kept me patient.

What happened was, Jack had the stomach bug. He had the runs for three days. But he kept saying he had to pee. When I realized that first day he actually had to do something else, it was too late. The bathroom looked like it had been trashed by a herd of cows on ExLax.

As I surveyed the mess, I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. Then without realizing it, I asked myself what the first step was. My mind automatically broke the cleanup into steps. It was the first time I had done that.

So I put gloves on. I put pads on the bed and floor. I undressed Jack. I wiped him down. I sat him on the bed. I filled a bucket and scrubbed the bathroom, one section at a time: toilet, cupboard, floor. Then I got soap and towels. Refilled buckets and scrubbed Jack. Dressed him in clean clothes. Did laundry.

I repeated all of the above steps twice. I hadn’t learned—yet—to pay attention when he said he had to pee.

But steps saved me. When I broke that massive cleanup into tiny steps, I got through it without stress. I stayed calm and patient. I  reassured and comforted Jack. I told him every single thing I was doing as I was doing it, so he would know what was happening. Steps made those hard days doable.

My next step is adjusting, once again, to the new normals of Jack’s dementia. Right now it feels overwhelming. But I know that as I break this massive task into steps, I can do what must be done. I can do it calmly, patiently, without stress. Steps will help me do it. And I will get it done.