Untrained

We’ve been doing a lot of thinking recently about the realities of working life for paid carers. It’s not an easy job and it’s not well paid, and yet we expect the very best of attention, professionalism, even love for our elderly loved ones. Time and time again, carers deliver on this. Occasionally they don’t.

A new home carer, daunted by the responsibilities of her job, recently reflected on how scary her first days and weeks were, and gave us two poems which describe the process. She wants to remain anonymous so as to protect the identities of those receiving care. Here is the first, and we thank her most sincerely for her insights:

Untrained

Carer picks up wrong pj’s.

            I hope these are the right ones.

I take carer’s hand.

            Where are the cloths?

I stand, wait, cry, hug.

            How to clean properly?

Trousers in bath.

            More and more loo roll.

My eyes fill the sky.

            How to clean catheter?

Hand carer pyjamas.

            Swap to new pj's.

On with the new top.

            Book says, 'attach night bag.'

'What are you going to do with that?’

            There’s an extra tube loop.  We look at each other.

Carer tucks me in, trembling.

            My eyes fill the sky.