Memoir of a Carer.

Bill Langworth

Stress was an emotion I'd never been personally accustomed to until I took up a resentful, albeit short-lived career in caring. I worked for a residence-caring agency, which meant I was required to visit patients at their household, rather than work inside a cold, almost-lifeless care home. I looked after clients with varied illnesses, and for a person who has little to no long term memory, remembering all the different medications and procedures was nigh on impossible. I struggle to picture all the different medications now, only three years after quitting. There was diazepam, codeine, paroxetine, and the acursed oxycodone, for which patients would hightail from GP to Accident and Emergency to procure. Nasty, addictive little buggers.
Not that it was all bad... occasionally a patient would make me laugh with their facetious comments on their ill health, or maybe told me an amusing story of times gone by, but the majority of it was devastating. I couldn't drive, so I had to either cycle or walk to each clients household, subsequently meaning that by the time I'd reached the patient, principally during the winter months, I was as frozen as a pre-Christmas turkey. I'd had no experience in caring prior to being put on the front line. The agency neglected me like shit on the sidewalk. And to top it all off, I was on minimum wage. And yes, that is the worst part; minimum wage sucks.
My next visit was Bill. That was a relief, as I'd just visited Mr. Desai and he was about as stress-free as a kitchen overflowing with orders. I'll get to his visit later.
I remember wondering if the doorbell had actually worked, as not for the first time, once I'd pushed the black button inwards, no chime sounded from inside the building. There was only the squall of crusted paintwork as the disk grazed against the doorbell transformer. After a short moment it was clear that there would be no reaction from inside. Nothing unusual. Most patients never answered their doorbells, even if they were aware of an upcoming visit. Some were too petrified that it might be a burglar, others, the less sane ones, that it may be demons or secret agents or evil doctors. In this Bill was different; he just couldn't remember what the sound of a doorbell was. I can imagine him now, as I write this short memoire, jumping in startlement at the sound of the ding dong, then looking about himself for a moment, before going to inspect the cause of the sudden chime.
I delved one hand into my deep pocket in search of the arched ring for which my clients keys were attached. When I had the correct key located (an archaic stainless steel key with a long, narrow neck and three chimney-shaped ledges for a head), I stuck it into the keyhole, twisted it anti-clockwise, and opened the door. Stood staring at me wide eyed, jaw hung loose, was Bill, his creased dressing gown cascading down to the floor and trailing behind him like an overgrown beavers tail. He had in his hand a cold cup of tea.
"Oh... Hello. That's amazin', that is." He stated almost incredulously as I walked through the doors threshold.
"What is, Bill?" I asked.
"The door. You've just walked through t' door, and it's been locked all day."
"Well that's because I've just used the key, Bill." I stated, stifling a laugh.
"A key?"
"Aye, a key."
There was a brief pause for rumination, and then: "Oh. A key. That's lovely that." And with that, Bill ambled on into the living room, his feet taking it one centimetre step at a time, sat himself down in the puffy russet armchair that rested against the back wall, and stared out the window as the clouds strolled by. With how withered his face looked, I wouldn't blame someone for proposing he was in a moribund state. His skin sagged at his chins; his jugular was thin and dangled and flailed as he walked; his body emaciated; his arms, that rested desperately on the walls as he pondered around his bungalow, were thinner than plant stalks. He could barely walk the length of his hall without stopping to catch his breath. Sometimes I even queried whether he had any breath at all, and that his heart was not merely working on shreds of octogenarian willpower.
"Are you wanting another tea, Bill?" I shouted from the hallway as I hung up my coat. There was no answer.
"Bill?" No answer. I crept towards the living room, peaking my head around the door frame before entering. Slouched in his armchair was Bill, fast asleep, his tea tippled over in his hand and blemishing his trouser leg, and the tips of his fingers doused in oily liquid. I tittered to myself, walked over to his chair, placed his precarious mug on the table, and went to work organising his medication.
Carers are like parents with multiple children; you shouldn't have favourites. Nevertheless, I did, and that favourite was Bill. His cordial attitude and gormless appearance and abiding forgetfulness struck a sympathetic chord in all visitors. In fact, if it weren't for Bill, I don't think I'd have stuck at the job for quite so long as I did. Nope, Bill was well worth the rapid accumulation of stress.
It was the ghosts that drove me to resignation.