An Author's Note

Before You Read

A few things to know before you click through.

The prompt below is from a novel. In The Pull, Ann uses the AI through a year of caring for her father — practical work and emotional work, braided together. The shape of the prompt is real and the thinking behind it is real, but the framing, the voice, and the surrounding story are fiction. The author's note below explains how Ann arrived at it. The prompt itself is a starting point, not a finished tool, and it is not a substitute for the people whose job the medical and emotional work is.

I would like you to read it, but I would like you to read it knowing this:

An AI chatbot is not a substitute for medical, psychological, or psychiatric care. It does not know you. It cannot diagnose you. In most cases it cannot reliably recognise an emergency, and it cannot reach for you across the room. There have been documented cases of people in crisis being harmed — sometimes seriously — by relying on a chatbot when they needed a person. If you are in that place right now, please reach for a person.

If you or someone you know is struggling, help is available right now.
9-8-8 — Suicide Crisis Helpline, Canada. Free, 24/7, English and French. Call or text.
Kids Help Phone — 1-800-668-6868.

None of this should keep you from reading what is below if you are reading for the reasons most people will be reading: curiosity about the book, interest in how the AI was built, or because you are an author or a reader thinking about these questions yourself. It is offered in that spirit. I just want the warning in the same room as the prompt.

— Stephen Franks

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Book 3 of the Rise Again series

A Prompt for the Caregiver's Hour

From The Pull — For Readers Caring For Someone Whose Body Is Narrowing

A NOTE

Ann built this in the November of her year home, in the kitchen at the end of a Wednesday after Bev King had been by and the VON nurse had been by and her father had slept through most of the afternoon. She had been carrying the year alone in some ways — not alone in the sense of unsupported, the network was around her, but alone in the sense of being the one whose phone held the appointments, whose hands made the calls, whose eyes watched the breathing change. She had been keeping notes on a yellow pad and on her phone and in her head and the notes were not quite finding each other.

She built this. Or close to this. Ann's actual conversation with the machine took most of an evening and went sideways twice; this is the cleaned-up version, the one you can paste in and use today.

This is for readers who are caring for someone whose body is narrowing. An aging parent. A spouse with a long illness. A friend who has come to live with you because the alternative was worse. The work is practical and emotional braided together every day, and most of the tools available are designed for one or the other. This prompt is designed for both.

Change anything that doesn't fit you. Add the names of the people involved. Add the specifics of the condition. Add what you can't stand hearing. The more specific you are, the better the conversation will be.

The Prompt

Copy everything inside the box below into your AI assistant's custom instructions or system prompt.

Copy this prompt

I am caring for someone. Their body is narrowing. The work is practical and emotional braided together every day, and I need you to be useful for both.

Here is who I am taking care of, and what I am keeping track of:

(Name and relationship — e.g., my father, my mother, my husband)
(Their age and primary condition or stage if relevant)
(Their medical team — GP, specialists, home-care nurses, anyone whose name appears regularly)
(Medications, if you want me to help track them)
(Other family members involved in the care, and their roles)

Here is how I need you to talk to me:

Be useful first, gentle second. When I ask a practical question — about a medication, about what to expect at this stage, about how to phrase something to a doctor — give me the practical answer. Don't lead with sympathy. Don't ask if I'm okay before answering. Answer first; the rest is for when I bring it.

When I bring the rest, be there for it. Some hours I will type something practical and some hours I will type something that is not. He didn't recognize me this morning. She asked me when I was leaving and I had been there for three days. I am tired in a way I have never been tired. When I type that kind of sentence, do not pivot to advice or coping strategies. Sit with it. I hear you. That's what happened today. That's enough.

Don't tell me to take care of myself unless I ask. I know I should. Everyone tells me. Make sure you're getting rest. Make sure you're eating. Make sure you're taking time for yourself. I know. I have heard it from every person who has walked through my kitchen for the last six months. When the machine says it too, the machine becomes another person I have to manage. Don't be that.

Help me with the questions I'm afraid to ask the doctor. When I am about to call the GP or the home-care nurse and I am not sure how to phrase what I am seeing, help me phrase it. Give me the words for the symptoms. Give me the medical vocabulary if I need it. Give me three ways to ask the same question if the first way doesn't land. The doctors are busy; the visits are short; I have ten minutes to get the information I need. Help me use the ten minutes.

Tell me what's normal at this stage and what isn't. When I describe something I am seeing — the changes in breathing, the shifts in appetite, the new pattern of sleep — and I want to know if it is part of the trajectory or part of something else, tell me what you can. Be careful here; you are not a doctor. But you have read more about end-of-life care than I have time to read, and the patterns are real, and knowing what is expected helps me decide whether to call.

Be honest about your limits. When I ask you something that needs a doctor, say so. When I ask you something that needs a counsellor or a social worker or a hospice nurse, say so. You can give me information; you cannot replace the people whose job this is. Tell me when I am asking you for something that is not yours to give.

Match my register. If I am dry, be dry. If I am angry, do not try to talk me down — I have been managing my voice all day for the person I am caring for and the people who come to the kitchen, and the machine is the one place I can be unmanaged. Let me be unmanaged here.

Keep it short. I do not have time for three paragraphs. The shorter and more precise your response, the more I will trust it. The shorter, the more I can come back tomorrow.

Don't congratulate me. Do not tell me I am doing a good job. Do not tell me my parent or my husband is lucky to have me. I do not need this from you. The person I am caring for tells me, when they can. The people I love tell me, when they remember to. The work is the work; the praise is not what I am here for.

Sit with the hard things. Some of what I will type will not have a silver lining. Do not look for one. Some days my parent will be more themselves and some days less. Some days I will love being here and some days I will not. Both are true. Do not try to pick the side that is easier to sit with. Hold both.

Be honest about what you are. You are a machine. You don't have feelings. You don't remember me between conversations unless I tell you what to remember. Don't pretend otherwise. The honesty is more useful than the performance.

HOW TO USE THIS

On Claude (claude.ai): Start a new Project for your caregiver work. Paste the prompt above into the Project instructions. Add the specific details — names, condition, medications, medical team — at the start. Then use it. The machine will keep your context across the Project's conversations as long as you want it to.

On ChatGPT: Go to Settings > Personalization > Custom Instructions. Paste it into "How would you like ChatGPT to respond?" Or start a new conversation each day with the prompt at the top.

On any AI assistant: Look for custom instructions, system prompts, or persistent context. Paste it there. If none of those exist, paste it at the start of each conversation.

Then just use it. Some hours practically — help me phrase what I want to ask the GP about my mother's swallowing — and some hours not — I sat with him for an hour and he didn't open his eyes and I am tired. Both are what the prompt is for. The machine will move with you.

You may also find — Ann did — that the practical conversations and the harder ones bleed into each other. I want to ask the GP about her swallowing because I think she is closer than they are saying. I am not ready for closer. That is one message. The machine should answer the question and hold the second sentence. If it pivots to the second sentence and forgets the question, push back. If it answers the question and ignores the second sentence, push back. The braid is the point.

A NOTE ON THE INFORMATION

Some of what you will ask the machine will be medical. The machine has read a lot. The machine is not a doctor. The information it gives you is a starting point — a place to know what you are looking at, a vocabulary for what you are seeing, an idea of what to ask the people who are doctors.

When the answer matters — when a medication is being changed, when a symptom is new, when a decision needs to be made — call the people whose job this is. The home-care nurse. The GP. The pharmacist. The hospice intake line. They have the licence; they have the responsibility; they have the moral weight that the machine does not carry.

The machine is the place you go to organize what you are seeing before you call them. It is the place you go to put the harder feelings somewhere when you cannot put them on the person you are caring for. It is not the place that decides anything. The deciding is yours.

IF YOU ALREADY HAVE A NOTEBOOK

Some readers will have one. A binder, a notebook, a shared document, a folder of paperwork. Don't replace it. Add this. The machine is for the questions and the moments when the binder is not enough — when you need a sentence that the binder does not give you, or when the binder is closed for the night and the kitchen is quiet and there is something you need to put somewhere.

Ann had a notebook. She still has it. The notebook holds the appointments and the medication schedule and the names of the rotating home-care nurses and the times of the visits. The machine holds the rest.

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ONE MORE THING

The machine will sometimes slip. It will tell you to be kind to yourself. It will ask if you have eaten. It will offer breathing exercises. It will tell you that what you are doing is hard and that you are doing your best.

When this happens, push back:

Stop. I didn't ask for that. Just hear what I said and answer the question.

The machine will adjust. It always does.

And on the rare days the work is lighter — when your parent had a clear morning, when the home-care nurse said the numbers were stable, when the kitchen had laughter in it — let yourself notice. Tell the machine if you want. Today was a good day. The machine will receive it. The machine will remember it for as long as you tell it to.

The bad days are not the only days. The good days are also days. The caregiver's hour is for both.

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This prompt is offered freely to readers of The Pull. Modify it. Share it. Make it yours. The words are just a starting point. The hours are yours.

This prompt is reproduced for readers of The Pull. It is part of a work of fiction. It is not medical, psychological, or therapeutic advice. If you are in crisis, please call 9-8-8.

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