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.
*
My first time meeting Bill wasn't one to remember; nobody had told me he suffered from dementia. It was my first ever job, and I don't mean as a carer, although it stands to truth that this had also been my first visit, no I mean in general; up until then I'd never been employed. As it was my first call out I was being shadowed by a senior employee, Joseph, who also served as the gentleman who managed to get me the job. I knew Joseph through family ties. He was a close friend of my uncle, and when he heard I was looking for, nay, desperate for employment, he practically leaped at the opportunity of signing me up for a 'fresh and exciting start in caring.' Who knew that 'fresh' and 'exciting' could be so hyperbolic?
"Ok Cameron," said Joseph in his raspy smokers voice, "You're a lucky Get, you. First visit being Bill, that is. Lovely man. Most of the time you'd draw the whiners and wacko's," he said that rather sotto voce, "but Bill's a gooden."
He pressed the doorbell inwards. The buttons paintwork screeched unhappily as it was pushed. No answer. Not even a chime from inside. As silent as a horror house on a murky winter hill, only not as thrilling. Joseph searched his pockets and produced a key.
"Never answers does our Bill," he said, shaking his head as he fitted the key inside the keyhole.
When Joseph opened the door a faint, damp smell billowed from inside. The smell had permeated within the walls of the hall, and forced a couple involuntary gags from myself and my senior advisor. It had a smell replicant to that of being trapped in a small car with a wet dog on one's lap. Joseph promptly articulated to me that the smell would linger, but that I would get used to it eventually. The source of the fetidity was, as far as he's concerned, cabalistic. I can hereby claim with the potency of retrospect; oh, how close to the mark he was.
We walked in, hung up our coats, and stepped through to the lounge. Much like it always had been and always would be, the room was dainty and old-world, with a great Grandfather's clock nattering away in the corner, a dusty coffee table with a dustier mug mat, oak laminate flooring, and various other antiquated furniture's ubiquitous in most living rooms. Bill was resting on his armchair, head lolled onto his shoulder, snoring as if it was midnight, creating a whiffle on every in breath redolent to that of strong wind against a windowpane.
"Sleeping heavier than a tranquilised sloth," said Joseph warily, taking heed of his surroundings as to not wake Bill up. "Careful, Bill has a tendency to put plates on the floor and then forget about it." Joseph bent down, his stout frame cracking on the way, and picked up a mislaid plate. He flashed it my way as if to say: 'see what I mean'. I nodded, searched along the floor, and found one more plate.
"Hey Joe," I said quizzically, realising that the plate was not circular, but square, "what's with this strange plate?"
Joe looked up from his own search of the floor and snickered. "That's not a plate Cameron," he was still whispering, "that's a canvas of Maria, Bill's wife."
I turned the miscellaneous item around. Printed onto the canvas was a young, attractive lady, with chestnut brown hair cascading below her shoulders, and a mirthless yet peculiarly endearing smile.
"This was Bill's wife?" I asked, taken somewhat aback.
"Yup. Quite the catch. They both were back in the day." Replied Joseph.
"I'll say. She's stunning."
"And her looks only complimented her character. Lovely lady; heart of roses."
Joseph made his way over to myself, and plucked the canvas from my grip. "And far too important to be misplaced on the floor," he said between grit teeth, shifting his vision askance towards Bill, who remained motionless in his rustic armchair. He placed the picture on the shelf and motioned me on the way to the kitchen, where he unlimbered a small prescription bag, arranged the medication, and took me through Bills health routine. He informed me on how to administer the medication, what dose of said pills should be taken at what time, how best to feed him his pills (with Bill, it was with a cup of tea,) and finally, how to handle any refusal to take the medication. This was, he stated, just a precautionary teaching, as in our profession patients seldom refused mediation, but it's worth knowing just in case. It took me a while to get my head around all the different types of pills, what each playful colour had what effect on the body, but after a few visits I'd memorised it.
We gathered up his lunch time medication, brewed him a tea (drop of milk, no sugar) and took it through to the living room. Bill was pondering around in his dressing gown, picking up odd ornaments, as if he hadn't just awoken from a deep sleep.
"Afternoon, Bill." Said Joseph cheerily. "Are you ready for your medication?"
Bill looked at Joseph, one eye closed, his mouth scrunched up into his dipping nose.
"Medication? That's for my wife." He said, a croak camping somewhere within his throat.
"No, Bill, this is your medication." Replied Joseph.
"Can't be." Said Bill incredulously.
"Why not?"
"I don't take medication."
"Yes you do. What about the diazepam for your back pain?"
Bill shifted his one eye onto me and gazed for a few seconds. There was something missing in those eyes, lost and distant and calm, not at all unlike pure serenity. The look of a man in his last moments as he watches the clouds part and the light beckon him towards eternal peace. He snapped out of his reverie, looked back at Joseph, turned around, and tottered to his armchair, resting into the pillow with the grace and patience of a mother laying her child into a cot. It became quickly apparent to me that, in the few seconds he'd locked eyes with me, he'd completely forgotten the conversation with Joseph. Quite why I didn't come to the conclusion that he may have had dementia still bewilders me.
"Tea, Bill?" Asked Joseph, to which Bill replied with his customary 'aye.' "This is Cameron, Bill." Continued Joe, stretching one arm out in my regard, and placing the premade tea on top of the coffee table with his other. "He's going to be your new carer from now on. Have a chat whilst I go and sort out your meal. I think you'll like him; I do. He's a good kid. Bit slow, but good." I crept forward, not too impressed with Joseph's "slow" comment, and acquainted myself with Bill. He didn't exactly take an instant liking to me, but there was a negligible connection, a glisten in his eye perhaps. I spoke to him about my high school days, or at least there lack off, as I was a dropout. We chatted about his garden and how pretty it was, with the attractive stone bird bath, cut lawn, fruitless apple tree, and a wall of 2 metre high wattle, which Bill said was for his pet hamsters, however when I checked a day later the cage was uninhabited, and had been for some time. We also spoke about Maria. She was an ex-nurse, and they had met in Greece whilst she was touring the Parthenon. He reminisced on the way she smirked a cold, sardonic countenance when he first encountered her underneath the looming pillars, and had asked her out for a date on the spot. Her friends had giggled and tittered around her, but were seemingly impressed with the boldness of this rather debonair looking beau. She reluctantly agreed, but not without lecturing him on her resolute defiance and disposition vis-à-vis relationships, and that it was more likely Athena would hail from above with a patronage of gold than anything developing from this chivalrous act. And then, over the next week and a half of the holiday, they had met up everyday touring Greece's markets and famous landmarks and bathing quarters, and Bill had languished from all the strain to impress this new companion, and Maria had lamented the fact that maybe, just maybe, this puerile man might be worth a shot. The winsome man had won over the bitter women, and their eventual seep into love was engrained within their minds, like the sweetness of sugar into coffee. This was, however, only two months of what sounded to me like begging, though Bill put it as 'persuading', for further dates in England. They were official; in love.
"She should be back from shopping any time now, actually." Said Bill, his lips forming small curves at the side.
"Oh? I wasn't aware she was still... living with you." I replied.
"Of course she is!" He said with an aura of offense, "been with me since I met her that day, nineteen thirty... oh-eight? Nine? Well either way, she's over there, by the curtains."
"I'm sorry?" I asked. My confused glance around the room amounted to nothing.
"Poppy. She's over there." Said Bill.
"Who's Poppy, Bill? I thought we were talking about Maria."
"No, no, Poppy." He said, his countenance distant and less active than when we were palavering about his wife. I searched the room once more and noticed that, underneath a tattered curtain and aside reflections of shadows that formed together to make a dark diadem on the floorboards, there was a stagnant paw and muzzle with a black pin nose poking out. Barely noticeable under the shade of the curtain was the dog, yet I was astounded I hadn't noticed its presence earlier.
"Joe never mentioned you had a dog, Bill!"
"Ay? Oh yes. Poppy is her name."
"Can I go say hello?" I asked.
"Doesn't bother me." Replied Bill indifferently.
As I made my way towards the curtain the dog made no sign of movement. Must be conked out to the World, I had thought. Once I'd reached the dilapidated curtains and pulled them apart, the gleaming winter sun blazed through the window and lit up the squalid room, bringing to light the small motes of dust that invaded the lounge. It also shone upon what was most unmistakably, and quite miserably, a stuffed animal. The taxidermic dog had its short snout resting upon its paw, its body lying prone, and its tail curled up into the bony hind legs. I can bring to memory gasping rather indiscreetly, and pivoting on the spot with a grimace. Bill took no notice, only asked how she was doing.
"She looks... same old." I replied.
"Good, good, good. Say, when's my wife getting back from the shops then?" He asked.
"I really don't know Bill." I answered meekly whilst drawing the curtains to. My heart was still throbbing after the recent dilemma of witnessing a long-dead dog, for which I presumed was alive, so that even closing the curtains was proving to be a struggle, when fortuitously Joseph returned from the kitchen.
"What are you doing over by the curtains? Hassling Poppy?' He asked, placing a new hot tea, ham sandwich and a few caramel chocolates on the mug mat in front of Bill, and took the cold untouched tea away. I looked at his direction, my grimace unfaded, and made it apparent I was not amused. Joseph laughed heartily. "Aye, Bill and Poppy are quite unseperable. One of the only things he remembers now a days, I'm sure."
"It's inseparable." I replied under my breath. Though I don't think Joseph had noticed my pedantic reply. He was too busy staring oblivious-faced at Bill.
"Bill, what are you doing mate?" I asked, also wide-eyed and befuddled. Please bear in mind, I still had no idea he had dementia...Bill had picked up his sandwich and started mashing the chocolate between the two thick layers of white bread, pushing the ham out of the end and half-drooping down the crust like a wet tongue would droop from a sweating dog.
"I'm just trying to feed my friend a chocolate." He said plaintively.
"You're trying to feed the sandwich?"
"Yeh, my mate."
"Oh... ok," I shifted a look to Joseph as if to ask, 'is this usual', but we failed to meet eyes. He was preoccupied watching on, with a pleasant grin, as Bill drove the chocolate into the gullet of his friend.
"Ok Bill," said Joseph finally, "that's enough of that. How about it, let me look after your friend for a little while, ay?"
Bill made no complaint. Joseph shimmied the plate from Bills grasp and placed it on the mantlepiece, next to old photos and rusted medals. For the remainder of the afternoon we made sure Bill finished his tea along with his medicine, tidied up his living quarters, made sure he didn't perform any further idiosyncrasies, and tucked him under his blanket as the news blared out from the TV screen. As we left I'd queried why his wife had not returned from the shops.
"His wife?" Said Joseph. "You mean Maria?" Yes, I had said. "She's been dead for a long time now, Cam. Ten years, maybe? Did Bill give you the notion she was alive?" I told him that Bill informed me she was at the shops, not for anything in particular, but would be back imminently. I'd completely forgotten until it came time for us to leave. "Ah," replied Joseph, "Yes. Well dementia patients have a proclivity to do that. You know; forget the crucial things."
That was when I had learned Bill had dementia. Sure, as previously stated, I could have connected the dots. But who's to say I'm that astute? The walk home consisted of me chastising Joe over not informing me sooner. Would have made the whole experience; the shopping wife; the stuffed dog; feeding the sandwich, a trifle more explainable.
*
I'm sure now that it will come to no bemusement for you, my reader, as to why Bill was my favourite. He was pitiful, but pitiful in the sense of a lost pup on a rainy night. You couldn't help feeling sorry for him. I have read copious publishing's of those suffering mental torment themselves whilst caring for dementia patients. I must convey; I was not one of those people. Bill was my only dementia stricken victim that I undertook, and he was a joy to be around. His wife, too, was a blast. His wife? I hear you ask. Yes, his wife. But I thought she was dead... you even stated that yourself earlier. Again, yes, his wife is dead. That didn't stop her from being with him though. And I don't mean that in the figurative sense; she really was 'at the shops' when Bill had mentioned her.
For now, lets move on to Mr. Desai. Don't worry, I'll get to the ghosts soon.