Work & care weeks

Copy, paste, send, done. No apologies, no backstory. The shorter the no, the less negotiable it sounds.

Notice what none of these contain: the word “sorry,” your health status, or an explanation. Options and deadlines read as competence, not refusal.

Fill this in once, share it with the sibling, partner, or friend who covers for you. The goal: anyone can run a day without calling you six times.

• Who: name, birthday, allergies, insurance card location.
• Meds: what, dose, when, and what happens if one is missed (usually: nothing dramatic, say so, it prevents panic calls).
• People: doctor, pharmacy, one neighbor, one backup. Numbers written out, not “in my phone.”
• The routines that actually matter: the two or three rituals that keep the day calm. Skip the aspirational ones.
• What calms them: the show, the snack, the topic, the music. This line saves entire afternoons.
• If X happens: the two most likely problems and exactly what to do, one sentence each.
• Where things live: keys, documents, spare glasses, the good blanket.

Print two copies. One goes on the fridge. Update it when meds change, not on a schedule.

Decisions are the expensive part, so make these five once, on a good day, and stop paying for them on the bad ones.

• Default dinners: three meals you can make asleep. Care weeks rotate those three. Nobody’s grading the menu.
• Default grocery order: saved in the app, one tap. Same order is a feature, not a rut.
• Default appointment day: pick one weekday and batch every appointment you control onto it. One disrupted day beats four.
• Default answer to new requests: “Let me check and get back to you Friday.” Buys time, sounds responsible, costs nothing.
• Default ride plan: who or what moves people when you can’t. Decided now, not at 7:40am.