The Caregiving Gene

My family tree has deep roots in caregiving. My great-grandmother prayed over the sick; my grandmother gave every moment of their fifty year marriage to my grandfather; and my mom was absorbed in the collection and livelihood of her cats. I gravitated towards the elderly.

Like it or not, my caregiving career began as a child because I was the result of a blind date that united, very literally, two visually-impaired people. Someone must have thought bringing my parents together would provide a partner who would be empathetic to the struggles of every day life. Still, it was an odd and uphill pairing.

As a child I kept a sharp eye on the pathways in my home. I’d pick up my toys so my parents wouldn’t trip over them, crush them, or worse — throw them in the trash in their frustration. I learned to keep the dishwasher door up at all times. My Dad’s black and blue shins and the dumpster full of Lego blocks told me my brother didn’t share the same inherent sense.

At nineteen my resumé consisted of two jobs typically held by teenagers — neither of which thrilled me.

One required me to place chicken nuggets, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and a biscuit at just the right angle to securely close the red and white cardboard box; and return home after each shift reeking of the greasy poultry of Kentucky.

The other was selling clothes at the mall. In this job I was forced to talk to strangers, suggestive-sell a second item if they were only purchasing one, and repeatedly ask the uncomfortable question, “What are we shopping for today?” I hated the use of “we,” but I was too nervous to go off script.

After six months in the mall I asked the Universe to please place me in a job where I was doing some good for humanity — not just enhancing their cholesterol or helping them save money on graphic T’s. I longed for a sense of purpose, something I assumed was possible, even at nineteen years old.

When I became aware that the local nursing home was hiring, I threw my hat in the ring. My experience working with the elderly was zero but the shortage of caregivers had me hired by the end of the interview.

I began my training on the south wing — assisted living, and learned the 7am to 3pm routines of the ladies in those ten rooms.

It’s interesting what idiosyncrasies you remember…

Mrs. H. let me pick out her outfit each morning. Her sliding closet doors strained against the bulk of colorful blouses and elastic pants hanging inside. My outfits were rarely vetoed. She had had a stroke leaving her left side close to useless and requiring you to read her face carefully to get the gist of each communication.

Miss P. was completely blind and slept until 11am. She was an author and a biblical scholar, giving her privileges others didn’t seem to have. Each day she ordered 8–10 tiny creamers to accompany her noon breakfast. She’d pull back the top and toss them back straight from their small pods, then spend the rest of the day coughing up phlegm into tissues. I didn’t understand this routine then or now, 30 years later.

Roma was bent at such an angle that my six foot frame had to stoop half of my height to talk to her. She was allowed to fill her room with all her personal furnishings which meant remaking her sofa bed every morning and placing all of her decorative pillows just right. I can’t imagine the pullout mattress did her twisted spine any good.

Irene was a hoarder. Every paper cup, napkin, rubber band — you name it — was placed under the shawl on her lap and wheeled back to her room after each meal. I was on the evening shift when someone above my pay grade said it was time to do a sweep of her room. With Irene occupied at dinner we quickly removed the treasures disguised as trash before she returned to her room after dessert.

Each evening at 8:30pm the hall lights were dimmed to settle the atmosphere for bedtime. On this night it only added to the eeriness of Irene silently patrolling the halls looking to spit fire at whoever stole her property. I peeked around corners and managed to dodge her the rest of the shift.

During the daytime lulls, I’d venture to the east wing — residential, to visit Betty. The residential rooms were slightly larger and had a small entryway — these were the only additional amenities for shoving your entire life into a single room.

Betty enjoyed our visits as much as I — hanging onto each update in the life of a young woman who could roam free. In turn, I loved her stories. She had eighty-two years worth of life and knowledge to share.

While we were instructed not to give personal information to the patients, Betty was a resident so I dared to stray far outside that rule by telling her everything about me.

Betty was old school — she wore skirts and pumps every day. She also wore high collared blouses that closed with big loopy bows covered by a cardigan. All of this was working hard to hide the large dressing on the right side of her chest. The multiple layers of padding made her womanly curves look obviously lopsided. Twice each day she’d visit the west wing — skilled nursing — and there they did whatever was needed to her bandage.

After two months on the job, the supervisor on the south wing quit. No one blinked when I took over the daily paperwork, likely because the remaining staff on the south wing was a few years shy of checking in themselves. I’d never witnessed so many standing jobs attempted while sitting down.

Though untrained in any official capacity, I joined the west wing after six months because they needed more hands and figured if I could handle ten mobile women, I could surely care for three immobile ones. I was taught how to do exactly what was needed in rooms two, ten, and eleven — as long as their care needs didn’t change.

They didn’t, so I cared for those three ladies for the next four months.

I was feeding Clara in room number two when the realization hit. My folding chair was angled to keep my long legs from tangling with hers which gave me a direct view of the sun setting outside her window. It was that moment that brought it all home — I had been placed in a job that checked every box I’d begged of the Universe.

Clara didn’t seem aware of much going on around her and likely didn’t know her caregiver was wiping away tears before scooping meatloaf into her mouth.

The west wing became a familiar place but some rooms still remained a mystery. I learned where I could answer call buzzers and which rooms I was not allowed to enter. I knew what it meant if the card hanging on the doorframe was set to the red side that read “Do Not Disturb” — either a higher ranking staff member was bandaging something or something much sadder had occurred.

The pace of the west wing was much faster and I no longer had lulls to sneak away and visit Betty at the other end of the expansive building. The day I found her in room twelve on the west wing was bittersweet. I was grateful to see her again and be able to stop in easily but I also worried what this heightened care actually meant.

The change was quick and I was so innocently unaware. It was only days later that I reported for work and saw room number twelve had a red-tagged door. The nurse who relayed the news to me, nonchalantly said that Betty had passed.

A clear indication of my age, maturity, and tender heart was displayed in the way I turned heel and ran to the east wing where all her belongings still remained. There I collapsed in sobs on her favorite chair.

Anyone engaged in caregiving knows the agony of separation from those we’ve invested our hearts, souls, and calf-strength to aid. Betty was the first in a long line of men and women that cratered my chest and salted my scrubs. But I have to hand it to the Universe, it got it right, regardless.

Maybe I knew my calling much earlier than I thought. One of the things I remember so vividly from my time at KFC was the slightly odd and eccentric elderly man who navigated his walker into KFC each Saturday afternoon. He would seek me out, hand me a fistful of Werther’s butterscotch candies, and we’d sit and chat for as long as the manager allowed.