Scene 13
I’ve done a lot of jobs in my day, but nothing was more of a shock than becoming a caregiver. Besides the sad mental willingness of it, you endure long hours, minimal pay, shitty attitudes, and your patients express no happiness or gratitude. I imagine it’s a lot like being a nurse. You have to carry on with a smile followed by polite conversation, if capable, just to get by. Which is more exhausting for what it’s worth.
Austin and I finally had the apartment to ourselves. We spent much of our days relishing in the freedom from his two horrible roommates and were finally able to enjoy each other. I managed to travel back from California and was very eager to start working again. One morning, I was conversing with our next-door neighbor, and she was speaking on her new job. We exchanged information and she said, “The manager’s name is Beth.”
I knew what being a caregiver was, but never had made the reach to become one. I knew there were different levels of care with many different levels of certificates, but I didn’t have anything required. However, after completing the interview, I learned the agency gave you everything needed in order to be successful. I walked out of there with a brand-new job. My most favorite part about preparing for the job, was being able to shop for scrubs. For the first time in my life, I understood why there were so many colors. Mine? Gray.
I was sitting on the couch, a few days after my on-boarding paperwork, and I got a phone call. It’s Beth with my first client. She was very eager and excited over the phone, which made me feel more at ease. My very first client was a much older lady, bedridden, coarse, and on hospice—I knew what that meant. It was a few days a week and 6am-6pm. Despite the dread filling me after hearing, “12-hour shift,” I said yes anyway because having one constant client (even if it was for a short while) sounded way better to me than being sent all over town.
I start the new journey…
… by meeting with the overnight caregiver. The routine seemed simple enough, but with this client being on hospice, her death was inevitable which brought on a separate set of responsibilities that I wasn’t familiar with. The biggest obstacle was going to be changing all her sheets. “She also hasn’t expressed much emotion since falling into a decline over the last 5 months,” she said. “She used to get up and do all of this herself, but I guess something snapped within her.” For whatever reason, that line has stuck with me.
I said thank you and made my way to the very sad back room. It was dark, musty, and old. But nothing looked older than the frail woman lying in the middle. I sat down in the chair next to her and waited. Her eyes were closed, but her breathing was somewhat rapid. She didn’t notice me at first, but eventually she opened her eyes. “Hi, I am your new caregiver, Ali.” I introduced myself. She gave me an expression that seemed judgmental for no reason, rolled her eyes and turned her head.
A few days had gone by, she still hadn’t spoken a single word, but her gestures and grunts made her intentions very clear—bitter old woman. From lifting her to sitting in a chair for almost 12 hours straight; that was the moment I knew…. And even after everything said and done, she was still cynical in a way that was almost amusing; she was way too bitter to appreciate anything you did. Miss. Grayhair also took great pleasure in making sure I knew; I was nothing special. She would cast aside any food I made for her and fussed until I could guess on what she wanted. She ignored my presence for hours on end and refused the basic care I had planned. Except to take extra dosages on morphine. Which, can you blame her?
You could be the best in the business and still find yourself getting abused, and worse yet, by someone who is so bitter about how they are going out that you find yourself putting company values aside by saying, “excuse me,” to step away and smoke a cigarette. As the weeks went on, to my surprise one morning after preparing a bit of food I knew she wouldn’t eat, she spoke for the first time, “I hate this shit.” I almost spit out my drink. I couldn’t believe it—her voice sounded like it hadn’t been used since she was a child.
Miss. Grayhair got better at communicating and overtime, she felt comfortable opening up to me about her life: her husband, her daughter and her rebellious side; getting into trouble, breaking the law, her wicked taboo nature at the time of her prime and I was there for it. Despite her cynical attitude, she enjoyed reflecting on her life with me. I started to share some of my more daring life decisions and my disdain for the job slowly faded. I began to like her more for the person she was and like a little kid engrossed in a fantasy, she kept asking me to share more and I didn’t mind.
Everything we discussed, ate and napped together took me away from the reality of my job and her state of well-being. My body eventually made peace with the constant lifting of her, and all of my duties became routine to the point of being effortless. It wasn’t until she made a very bleak, but honest, comment about herself that got me thinking more about my death. I was surprised only for a moment; it was after I was all done changing her. This particular time took an extra ten minutes because of how much she hurt.
“I just want all of this to be over…. I want to just die already.”
Miss. Grayhair then stared out the right window with a blank stare.
I stood, allowing the sadness of what she just said settle within me. I slowly walked over and sat down next to her, indulging in the silence. If I were her, I’d be thinking the same way as well. Allowing yourself to be on hospice, bedridden and rotting from the inside out would not be my favored way either. And then, as if she didn’t just say what she did, her now chipper happy voice broke everything, “But not until after Sunday so I can see my daughter.” We both smiled and chuckled. “Good idea,” I said.
You have to have thick enough skin to smile through the pain, God knows I’ve had my fair share. But every once in a while, you will meet someone who is just as sassy, witty and disappointed with life as you are. They remind you to live in the moment and to take a good hard look at yourself; to make peace with your failures, to ensure the people in your life know how much you appreciate and respect them and then make peace with death as if it’s something to look forward to.
I will strive for her attitude if given the opportunity. In the meantime, I’ll be grateful for the moments I have now and indulge myself in daily gratitude. Because if I am unfortunate enough to be bedridden and to be taken care of by someone who is younger and dumber than I, I too will need some sort of outlet.
