Fifty First Days

"Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,
The glorious Sun uprist:
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist."
- John Cook

Did you ever see the film "Fifty First Dates"? It starred Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore. Sandler's character tries desperately to make Barrymore's fall in love with him but, here's the twist, Barrymore has short term memory loss and forgets him every day. The only way to make her remember him is to make her fall in love with him every day for fifty days. Every day he is faced with the frustration of re-doing all the work he did yesterday and, seemingly, never making any ground. Stuck in square one. At least, that is how I think it went. I've never actually seen it. There are two points that I want to make here. The first is that Barrymore is a really strange name. It's almost like, back when people were making their names, one guy called himself Barry and his neighbour was one of those people who always has to be a bit better than the Jones's (or Barry's in this case). The other point is that I am facing a very similar predicament to the good Mr. Sandler except mine is about work, rather than women.

My desire to finally pull my own weight in this world, combined with an impending end to my pile of cash (money in the bank, to be more accurate), recently forced me to seek employment (oh yes, and centrelink helped). Being mostly qualified as a nurse I am automatically completely qualified as a carer. I applied for a number of positions and finally, after interviews and such, have secured employ from two employers. Both are staffing agencies that provide nurses and carers to places that need a shift filled. For those who know the lingo, I am an agency carer.

Over this last two and a half weeks in my new role I have been sent to seven nursing homes and hostels. Each time is a new first day at work, and each carries its own set of unique, yet somehow familiar, complications. "Where is the facility?" "Where is the linen/skip/sluce/resident?" and one of my personal favourites "why has this resident only got the sort of pads that require undies over top, and yet no underwear?" (I encountered that one whilst caring for eleven residents on my own for the first time). A good example of a complication is finding the darn place. The other day I had an early shift (starting at 7.00am) at a place. I turned down the road that I thought I had to and turned off at the first lights as I knew I should and stopped at number 55A as I had been instructed. I got out of the car with five minutes to spare and went up to the place. There was no sign in front of it, and no sign is not a good sign, but it was a very big house so there was a good chance that it was the place. I went to the front door, noting on the way that there was a bucket of fire wood on the veranda. "Odd", I thought, "surely fires are a safety hazard for old people".

Getting closer to what could only be described as the most intimidating door I have ever seen (big, hard wood monster with an enormous brass knocker (so it turns out there is more than one way to describe it)) my fears were partially assuaged by the discovery of a fairly standard nursing home door bell (a white block with a larger-than-average grey button). Filled with the kind of confidence that one has when facing a grizzly bear with a small knife, I rang the bell. For a few minutes there was nothing and, owing to the fact that I was rapidly getting towards believing that I was very late, rather than just late, I rang a few more times and eventually used the brass knocker. A few more minutes passed and then, finally, a poor (although, considering the house, also rich) man wearing a dressing gown and looking a mite disgruntled answered the door.

Filled with the kind of confidence that one has when facing a grizzly bear and having just discovered that the knife is actually plastic and a spoon, I said,
"Is this number fifty five?"
"Yes."
"and it's not a nursing home?"
"no."
"you're quite sure?"
"yes."

I panicked, I drove up and down the street, cursing my own stupidity at not putting the emergency numbers for my boss into my phone. I checked 155 and 355 but neither was anything more than a house. Finally I passed the Bible College of South Australia and, with a sinking sort of relief, I realised my mistake. I had turned onto the wrong road, meaning that I had also turned at the wrong set of lights and, though I had stopped at 55A, it was not the 55A I was looking for.

But here's the thing, I am approaching this whole business from the wrong angle. You see I am not just a carer who has a lot of first days. I am an agency carer, and as such I am learning a set of skills that other carers never need. Every shift I get more flexible, more capable in a wider variety of environments. Each day I get better at getting to know residents and co-workers quickly and efficiently. Every morning shift I get acquainted with a whole new set of shower complications and every evening forces me to create a new way to get a new person to believe me when I say that it is eight thirty and time for bed. I am uncomfortable, but I am changing.

That's all my thoughts (sort of) for now,

John

P.S. I think this might be becoming a themed blog. Every time I write a new and interesting blog (well, new anyway) I seem to write another one which follows the theme. For instance, this blog and the one preceding it both draw their names from movie titles. And my first two blogs were both about advertising. Just making an observation.