You got admitted into the care home the just after Halloween. It took 6 of the men to move your special bed into your new room because the wheels were broken and while the ladies were capable, they just didn't want to embarrass us. After a day you said you hated the view but Rob hurt his shoulder on the last bed placement so there were only 5 of us that time to change your room.
You asked me where I lived. You called me a liar when I told you I lived on [confidential] Street. You lived there from 1962 to 1985 just a few doors down from where I was. You were Catholic. I was Protestant. You told me not to be too upset by that since it wasn't my fault. Thats when I found out you were funny. That's when you found out I was the only member of staff who laughed at your jokes. I'd make sure to put your Rosaries to one side before we changed you, and you reminded me to put them back on after we had finished. We played charades. I was never able to get what you were trying to do with your hands. You'd call me stupid. Though, right before I had to leave to tend to other residents, you'd remind me that I wasn't.
The photos you showed me we all clearly from a few lifetimes ago. They were in black and white, you had hair, you were fat. The extra weight helped you in your rugby days in school. You didn't need to tell me you got rich - I could just tell - but you told me anyway. You were nice to your workers. You didn't want them calling you sir or Mr Last Name. Just the name I called you. You regretted not being nicer to your son. Your daughters loved you. They never visited but they were always busy. They had their own businesses that they were proud of but you were prouder. They were your girls. Christmas came round and all your friends, business associates, and family got you a present. Most of your family at least. It looked like a cartoon. I had t traverse these presents like a maze to change your catheters. You laughed at me that one time I spilled it on myself. I didn't laugh. All those presents but all you really wanted was to see everyone who gave them to you
On the 25th of December 2020 arrived these chocolate liqueurs from your eldest daughter. It was a busy day. I had a new resident came in, somebody called in sick, and they needed me to serve dinner. You wanted to stay in your room. You always stayed in your room. Why would you change just for Christmas? I helped you with your care needs and I had to leave to do my job. You begged me to stay. To eat those chocolate liqueurs with you. I promised you I would after my shift was over.
"you won't"
that's what you said as I had a foot out your door. I was meant to hear it. I had so many residents to help and care for. But you don't want to hear any excuses. The fact of the matter is I didn't stay after work. I left as soon as the big hand reached 7. I don't know why I was in such a rush. I had an empty house. On Christmas. I wasn't with my family. I chose to be alone.
"You won't" was the last thing you said to me. You're condition got worse. You could sort of recognise my face when I would come in, even behind my face mask, but pretty soon your eyes would drift past me and you'd gently end up staring at the ceiling. I would readjust you because laying on your back gave you pains. I would pray by your side hoping you understood what I said. I didn't pray for you to get better. I prayed for our forgiveness. You were Catholic. You were used to guilty prayers. I had finally met your daughter. She told me to keep praying and that you were dreadful at attending Mass. She was finally allowed to see you under end of life conditions.
then I got sick. It was just appendicitis. But my appendix got taken out of my torso and I got taken out of work for a little while. When I returned, your name wasn't on your door anymore. I didn't have to open it to see what was inside. I knew there weren't any presents, no catheters, no special little pillows to keep between your knees, no Las Vegas blankets, no old rugby photos, no chocolate liqueurs, and no you. All there that I saw when I finally opened the door was scratch marks on the wood (from what I presume were the efforts of 4 people trying to shift your broken bed) and a window with a marginally bette view than your last one.
I don't hate Christmas. I just hate myself. I abandoned the rest of the care home. The rest of the residents who needed me when I got sent to the psych ward in March. And I can't bear the thought of going back. I don't want to find out who doesn't have their name on their doors anymore.
I'm sorry
You asked me where I lived. You called me a liar when I told you I lived on [confidential] Street. You lived there from 1962 to 1985 just a few doors down from where I was. You were Catholic. I was Protestant. You told me not to be too upset by that since it wasn't my fault. Thats when I found out you were funny. That's when you found out I was the only member of staff who laughed at your jokes. I'd make sure to put your Rosaries to one side before we changed you, and you reminded me to put them back on after we had finished. We played charades. I was never able to get what you were trying to do with your hands. You'd call me stupid. Though, right before I had to leave to tend to other residents, you'd remind me that I wasn't.
The photos you showed me we all clearly from a few lifetimes ago. They were in black and white, you had hair, you were fat. The extra weight helped you in your rugby days in school. You didn't need to tell me you got rich - I could just tell - but you told me anyway. You were nice to your workers. You didn't want them calling you sir or Mr Last Name. Just the name I called you. You regretted not being nicer to your son. Your daughters loved you. They never visited but they were always busy. They had their own businesses that they were proud of but you were prouder. They were your girls. Christmas came round and all your friends, business associates, and family got you a present. Most of your family at least. It looked like a cartoon. I had t traverse these presents like a maze to change your catheters. You laughed at me that one time I spilled it on myself. I didn't laugh. All those presents but all you really wanted was to see everyone who gave them to you
On the 25th of December 2020 arrived these chocolate liqueurs from your eldest daughter. It was a busy day. I had a new resident came in, somebody called in sick, and they needed me to serve dinner. You wanted to stay in your room. You always stayed in your room. Why would you change just for Christmas? I helped you with your care needs and I had to leave to do my job. You begged me to stay. To eat those chocolate liqueurs with you. I promised you I would after my shift was over.
"you won't"
that's what you said as I had a foot out your door. I was meant to hear it. I had so many residents to help and care for. But you don't want to hear any excuses. The fact of the matter is I didn't stay after work. I left as soon as the big hand reached 7. I don't know why I was in such a rush. I had an empty house. On Christmas. I wasn't with my family. I chose to be alone.
"You won't" was the last thing you said to me. You're condition got worse. You could sort of recognise my face when I would come in, even behind my face mask, but pretty soon your eyes would drift past me and you'd gently end up staring at the ceiling. I would readjust you because laying on your back gave you pains. I would pray by your side hoping you understood what I said. I didn't pray for you to get better. I prayed for our forgiveness. You were Catholic. You were used to guilty prayers. I had finally met your daughter. She told me to keep praying and that you were dreadful at attending Mass. She was finally allowed to see you under end of life conditions.
then I got sick. It was just appendicitis. But my appendix got taken out of my torso and I got taken out of work for a little while. When I returned, your name wasn't on your door anymore. I didn't have to open it to see what was inside. I knew there weren't any presents, no catheters, no special little pillows to keep between your knees, no Las Vegas blankets, no old rugby photos, no chocolate liqueurs, and no you. All there that I saw when I finally opened the door was scratch marks on the wood (from what I presume were the efforts of 4 people trying to shift your broken bed) and a window with a marginally bette view than your last one.
I don't hate Christmas. I just hate myself. I abandoned the rest of the care home. The rest of the residents who needed me when I got sent to the psych ward in March. And I can't bear the thought of going back. I don't want to find out who doesn't have their name on their doors anymore.
I'm sorry
