A recent report found that
personal care and service workers have the highest rate of major
depressive episodes among all professions. While to some this data
might back up preconceived notions regarding the stress and occasional
heartache associated with care giving, the reality remains too complex
for easy answers. Because as anyone who has worked as or with a personal
care giver knows, just as there are moments of pain and loss, there
can also be many more moments of friendship and fulfillment. The
fact that the more negative aspects of these positions are inextricably
tied in with the greatest parts perhaps makes the job of care giver
that much more enriching.
A former housekeeper/companion
anonymously discussed perhaps the toughest emotional challenge
caregivers face. He recalled an eighty-nine-year-old client with
Alzheimer’s: “He’d forget what he’d
just said, but he had a fresh pot of coffee waiting every morning,” said
the caregiver. “The man’s house hadn’t had a good
cleaning since his wife died thirteen years before, but he wanted
a companion more than a housekeeper.
“He just wanted to talk. He’d tell the same stories over
and over, but that didn’t matter because he didn’t remember,” said
the caregiver. “We’d sit in the living room drinking coffee,
with the client’s black and white collie mix named Timba at their
feet, and the old man would say: ‘It’s a good life, unless
you weaken.’ Then he’d smile at me like I was his best
friend.”
In the living room there
was a portrait-sized photo of the old guy in uniform. It had been
taken sixty years before, when he’d been
an army cook during the war. He’d been a big strong young man.
He was still over six feet tall, but now he walked with two canes.
“My title was housekeeper/companion, but there was no sense
cleaning the man’s house while he died of loneliness, so I had
to pull off a balancing act,” said the caregiver. “I told
him my supervisor wouldn’t be happy if she found the house dirty,
so I had to clean.” They agreed an unhappy supervisor wouldn’t
be good. They’d have coffee, then it was cleaning time, then
lunch and TV news together, then the caregiver would do the dishes
and let Timba out before he left. “That was our winter routine,
and the house slowly began shaping up,” he said.
With spring came a big
change. A friend of the old widower’s
deceased wife had heard his Alzheimer’s was getting worse, and
thirteen years before she’d promised her dying friend she’d
look after him if he ever needed it. She’d been handling his
finances, but now he needed more help, and she’d promised. She
announced that in two weeks she’d be moving in.
The caregiver panicked.
The house wasn’t a health hazard anymore—the
guys could talk, drink coffee, and watch TV. A little dust and dog
hair never hurt anyone. But now he had two weeks to turn this guys’ hangout
into grandma’s house! He got authorization for extra hours making
the house grandma-friendly while still being a companion. He didn’t
want the woman to think he hadn’t been working.
“I know, dear,” she said with an approving smile. She
understood perfectly. “She was fussy, like old ladies should
be—hadn’t lowered her standards,” said the caregiver.
The sidewalks were swept after the lawn was mowed. She used a walker
inside, and directed flower gardening through window screens. She understood
the old man too. “He was never close to any woman except his
wife,” she said. “When us girls came over he’d be
in the yard or garage.” She’d known him for forty years;
he needed a guy friend.
The woman caused some
major disruptions; she thought carpets needed shampooing every
couple of decades, for instance. The old man would grumble, “Why can’t you leave things be?” and the
caregiver played peacemaker, “Oh, just let her—you know
how women are.” “Yeah—a pain in the butt!” the
old man bellowed, then smiled as if to say, guess I told her! The
caregiver caught a radiant smile from the old woman who understood
everything.
She also thought the
old man needed a check-up, and that seeing a doctor required a
shave and a button-down shirt. “After that
ordeal we drove around the neighborhood where he’d lived all
his life,” said the caregiver. “He showed me the park where
he’d played ball as a kid.”
Then one night he fell
and broke his shoulder. “The hospital
says he’s not eating,” said the woman. I’ll fix that,
the caregiver thought. After taking care of the woman, Timba and the
house, he made the old man’s favorite, chicken corn chowder,
that always got an “Oh, boy!” “But when I got to
the hospital he didn’t even recognize me,” said the caregiver. “The
nurse said he was too old and frail for the shoulder to heal. They’d
given him painkillers and sedatives.”
“I stayed on for a while
working for the woman who’d come
to help take care of him,” said the former caregiver. “She
didn’t let me get depressed. She eventually moved in with her
son and his wife,” he said. “The last time I saw her
she just glowed—that’s how I remember her.” He
hasn’t
taken on another client, but wouldn’t rule it out. “I
couldn’t
work in a hospital or nursing home though,” he said, “You’d
have to be a strong person.” Then he had a question: “Does
this study mention job satisfaction?” he asked. “Caring
for people isn’t assembly work. Spend fifteen or twenty hours
a week with someone for months—even years; you become part
of each other’s lives,” he said. ”On your worst
day you lose a friend, but on good days their face lights up just
because you came to work. I was that old man’s last best friend,” he
said, “and I’m glad I was.” ![]()
