The Karma of Care: Strange Places
Lately, I've been feeling like a human Care Engine. My June flew by with days spent attending to dad and nights at work. Dad is, to borrow an adjective from an unfortunate context, a "flaming" extrovert. Asking him to sit alone at mom's condo all day is akin to asking George W. Bush to pull off a convincing Hamlet. It's just not in his nature.
So for much of the last week or two, I've been chauffer and companion and gofer. Making thirty-odd trips a day between kitchen and recliner for iced tea, SunChips, insulin, or anti-androgen pills. Driving to Abbot for an IV infusion in the chemotherapy room (and that's a whole 'nother post), to Office Max for mailing labels, to SuperTarget for summer sausage. You'd be surprised how tiring it can get. I used to stay up for an hour or so after the boys went to bed at work, but now I crash like a bandicoot.
To top it off, my job has been frustrating. The Down Syndrome guys I care for have been unusually needy, and due to short staffing, I've been working four nights a week instead of my usual three. Those fantasies of not having to work are back with a vengeance, but along with them come the Practicality Gnomes to remind me of medical insurance and the perils of student loan payments.
Those damned Practicality Gnomes are a total buzzkill.
Then the other night I was at work, and one of my clients (we'll call him Jared) was supposed to be in bed a half hour earlier. I opted not to make an issue of it since he had the next day off work. I just packed up, undressed, and went to bed as usual.
Long about 11:30, I hear some motion. Sure enough, here comes Jared out of his room. I know it won't do any good to crack down and tell him to go to bed, so I try to lead by example and fake sleep. Jared turns on the hall light and I hear him creeping over to me, whispering my name. I don't respond. I sense him looming over me, bracing myself for whatever joke he wants to play, and instead I feel his blunt fingers gently tucking the blanket beneath my shoulder.
A few seconds later I'm still not hearing footsteps, so I crack my eyelids to see what's going on. Jared's at the armrest of the couch, where I've tossed my clothes. He picks up my pants and quietly folds them into neat thirds, setting them pocket-up on an empty stretch of bookshelf. He lifts my button-up shirt and hangs it over his arm about three different ways, trying to keep it from wrinkling. I'm about to laugh at his good-hearted frustration when he starts buttoning up the shirt. My chuckle catches in my throat as he gets to his knees, smooths the cotton flat on the beige carpet, and folds it carefully, Banana Republic style. He finds a place next to the pants for it to spend the night in wrinkle-free peace, sets it down, and pats it into place.
He turns back to me, and I quickly shutter my eyes. I smell rapsberry Jell-O on his breath and feel his whiskers scratching my eyebrows as he plants a quick kiss on my forehead.
"G'night, Jeffy" he whispers.
Tears come to my sleep-faking eyes as the hall light cuts out and Jared's door utters a creak made louder and longer by his effort to be quiet.
"G'night, Jared" I reply to the blackness in gratitude.
Care is a two-way street. Sometimes it comes back to you in the ways and places you least expect it.
So for much of the last week or two, I've been chauffer and companion and gofer. Making thirty-odd trips a day between kitchen and recliner for iced tea, SunChips, insulin, or anti-androgen pills. Driving to Abbot for an IV infusion in the chemotherapy room (and that's a whole 'nother post), to Office Max for mailing labels, to SuperTarget for summer sausage. You'd be surprised how tiring it can get. I used to stay up for an hour or so after the boys went to bed at work, but now I crash like a bandicoot.
To top it off, my job has been frustrating. The Down Syndrome guys I care for have been unusually needy, and due to short staffing, I've been working four nights a week instead of my usual three. Those fantasies of not having to work are back with a vengeance, but along with them come the Practicality Gnomes to remind me of medical insurance and the perils of student loan payments.
Those damned Practicality Gnomes are a total buzzkill.
Then the other night I was at work, and one of my clients (we'll call him Jared) was supposed to be in bed a half hour earlier. I opted not to make an issue of it since he had the next day off work. I just packed up, undressed, and went to bed as usual.
Long about 11:30, I hear some motion. Sure enough, here comes Jared out of his room. I know it won't do any good to crack down and tell him to go to bed, so I try to lead by example and fake sleep. Jared turns on the hall light and I hear him creeping over to me, whispering my name. I don't respond. I sense him looming over me, bracing myself for whatever joke he wants to play, and instead I feel his blunt fingers gently tucking the blanket beneath my shoulder.
A few seconds later I'm still not hearing footsteps, so I crack my eyelids to see what's going on. Jared's at the armrest of the couch, where I've tossed my clothes. He picks up my pants and quietly folds them into neat thirds, setting them pocket-up on an empty stretch of bookshelf. He lifts my button-up shirt and hangs it over his arm about three different ways, trying to keep it from wrinkling. I'm about to laugh at his good-hearted frustration when he starts buttoning up the shirt. My chuckle catches in my throat as he gets to his knees, smooths the cotton flat on the beige carpet, and folds it carefully, Banana Republic style. He finds a place next to the pants for it to spend the night in wrinkle-free peace, sets it down, and pats it into place.
He turns back to me, and I quickly shutter my eyes. I smell rapsberry Jell-O on his breath and feel his whiskers scratching my eyebrows as he plants a quick kiss on my forehead.
"G'night, Jeffy" he whispers.
Tears come to my sleep-faking eyes as the hall light cuts out and Jared's door utters a creak made louder and longer by his effort to be quiet.
"G'night, Jared" I reply to the blackness in gratitude.
Care is a two-way street. Sometimes it comes back to you in the ways and places you least expect it.
posted by jeffmacsimus @ 11:57 PM
7 comments
