eatdixx's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- mrs bristle and my new job. the old lady i work for in the evenings made me cry today. accidentally, again. it happens pretty much most days i work for her. i've started working for an agency doing personal care work. three nights per week i go to mrs bristles house. i pick up the key from the secret hidey spot, open the door and YOO HOO into the house. it's a fucking mansion. black and white tiles, large unused formal rooms with cavernous ceilings, everything is white. mrs bristle uses two rooms in the house, the sitting room and her bedroom. she stays in bed all day until 4pm when her son comes to visit, and helps her walk with a frame to the sitting room. i get there about 5.30. everyday when i go there, i have to monitor her mood. she drinks a bunch of whiskey n sodas everynight, and has three temazepam's when she goes to bed. i ask her what she'd like for dinner and hold her hand gently and smile at her, although it's always the same thing, fish and chips, with a fried banana for dessert, and an extra strong whiskey and soda. while i prepare her meal, i check the house for any accidents, if anything's caught fire, any mess, old cups, any signs of something wrong. after the potatoes are ready i go in and get her another drink and have a chat. she speaks very well, very old fashioned with old world views. 'my granddaughter wants to know why we have a chinese mayor of our city! what would you tell her? i don't know what to say'. by the time i've thought to say 'we live in a multicultural city and encourage multiculturalism, we are not a white nation. i think he represents our town and nation well.' she's already downing her whiskey and watching neighbours again. she has her dinner on a tray on her lap, with beautiful white napkins and silverware, on a white plate. little mini silver salt n pepper shakers. all from another time, another world. she tells me about her husband. how they had a lovely, brilliant marriage for forty years, how happy she was. he was a prisoner of war, in the second world war. he was held prisoner in japan, for three and a half years. he was allowed to write 20 words every two weeks, to the person he designated, and he wrote to her for the whole time. she's kept the letters, all this time. if i read that in a book, i'd think it was cheesey and throw it down in disgust. but in person, i can't help wondering how the fuck she copes without having him around, for the last fifteen years. she must be pining for him. i wonder if she still feels anything. she must, because after she's talked about it and eaten her dinner, i take out her medication and we start the long haul down the corrider to her bedroom, with me supporting her back and ready to catch her if she falls. she goes quiet after talking about her husband, and i know she's thinking about him. on a lucid day, i can talk with her frankly about how she feels - she says she doesn't really have any interest in being alive anymore. she doesn't have anything. if andy her son didn't come to visit, she'd lose her sanity, too. and he's got a sick wife and four daughters, he doesn't need her burdening him. i tell her with eyes filled with tears that we still need her around, that i learn from her even just by the way she conducts herself. tell her that her grandkids need her, this is their chance to get to know their grandmother, so that later on they understand themselves better, and their family. she smiles. in her room, she undoes the knot in her robe and i help it off her shoulders. i take out three temazepam and put them in the little bowl on her nightstand. take off her slippers [they're funny little space boots from the hospital] and help her fall into her bed, trying all the time to make everything as smooth and least traumatic as possible. also i like to make her giggle, brighten up her mood before she sleeps, i don't want her feeling lonely when i leave. i give her a kiss on the cheek and a cuddle, tuck her in, turn on the radio, turn off the light and make sure she's confident that nothing will burn down, and that i will definitely lock the doors. i do a quick round of the house, still in my office clothes from the day, heels clicking on the tiles. i listen on the intercom in the kitchen to make sure she's calm, and then go out through the back door. i'd like to make her a curry, take her out for the morning and spice things up a bit. but i have to stick to my scheduled times, i'm not allowed to visit them unless i'm booked in. i'd get too attached, anyway. i could talk to her for hours. i have to catch three trams to get home, even though it's a ten minute drive straight down the road. i don't have a fucking car. i end up getting a cab, which halves what i'd earn in the night, anyway. it's not financially beneficial at all, but i fucking love it. i thought it'd be hard to get along with the clients, but it's not at all. the hardest thing is keeping them positive. i like her idea of whiskey and temazzys. 10:25 p.m. - 2005-07-13 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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