Not my homeschool job...although I love that, too. No, I'm talking about my job as an in-home caregiver. I love it. I feel like I've found my perfect niche in life. I mean, don't get me wrong, sometimes it's really hard. Sometimes clients are rude and demanding, or even worse, sometimes I grow to truly care about them and they get sick. Or they get well. Or they die. In other words, plans change, I'm not needed anymore, and it's hard to say good-bye. But there's something so beautiful about working with the elderly that no matter what happens I find myself content to go back day after day.
Yesterday I visited one of my favorite clients in her little room in a big retirement home. I go there for a couple hours several times a week to keep her company. I talk with her, help her organize her things, paint her nails, take her for walks, listen to her frustrations, make her smile. She always tells me she looks forward to my visits, and I always tell her I look forward to coming. Last night, though, we had a little change of pace. I wasn't her only guest. Another elderly woman, a friend from the home, had also stopped by to chat.
There the three of us sat, one on the easy chair, one on the straight-backed chair, and one on the bed. The conversation turned to the olden days:
"Remember what it was like to be busy?"
"Yes."
"We used to work all day, then the kids would come home from school and we'd have to drive them all over, then we'd come back home and make supper, and then we'd go out to evening meetings at church and such."
"Yes. We were busy back then."
"Sometimes we wouldn't get to bed until eleven o'clock!"
"I know. Nowadays I can only stay up until nine."
"You can make it until nine?"
"Well...that's an outside limit."
"If I make plans to go eat dinner, I call that a full day now."
"Yes."
Then my client's guest turned to me. "You should remember this. Someday this will happen to you. It'll happen to your parents, too, and they're going to need you to understand."
"Okay," I said. "What should I understand?"
"Patience," my client said. "You'll need to understand patience." And she and her guest nodded knowingly.
Sue
Yesterday I visited one of my favorite clients in her little room in a big retirement home. I go there for a couple hours several times a week to keep her company. I talk with her, help her organize her things, paint her nails, take her for walks, listen to her frustrations, make her smile. She always tells me she looks forward to my visits, and I always tell her I look forward to coming. Last night, though, we had a little change of pace. I wasn't her only guest. Another elderly woman, a friend from the home, had also stopped by to chat.
There the three of us sat, one on the easy chair, one on the straight-backed chair, and one on the bed. The conversation turned to the olden days:
"Remember what it was like to be busy?"
"Yes."
"We used to work all day, then the kids would come home from school and we'd have to drive them all over, then we'd come back home and make supper, and then we'd go out to evening meetings at church and such."
"Yes. We were busy back then."
"Sometimes we wouldn't get to bed until eleven o'clock!"
"I know. Nowadays I can only stay up until nine."
"You can make it until nine?"
"Well...that's an outside limit."
"If I make plans to go eat dinner, I call that a full day now."
"Yes."
Then my client's guest turned to me. "You should remember this. Someday this will happen to you. It'll happen to your parents, too, and they're going to need you to understand."
"Okay," I said. "What should I understand?"
"Patience," my client said. "You'll need to understand patience." And she and her guest nodded knowingly.
Sue
