Dear Diary - Week Two as a Care Giver in England

May 31st, 2011.

Ok, so I’m singing for Joan at the top of my voice and dancing around the lounge like a swirling Dervish.
Joan is entertained and there is nobody else in the room to insist on shooting me:
“You’re my lady; you’re my lady whooo,”
“I’m your lady, the lady who-oo, -
I’m your Cinderella,”
“I’m your Rockefeller,”
Woohoohoo…
And the doctor arrives at the door.
She’s large and looks like she may have been bred along with the cows on Jersey, but she does not have gentle soulful eyes like a cow’s, rather a pit-bull appearance about her.
I immediately notice the size of her hands and that she has no wedding ring on.
Gathering my composure from a somewhat undignified frozen statue stance I greet her and show her into the room.
Joan has been apathetic and not herself for a few days.
A barking cough has plagued her to the extent that her bowels cannot cope and the downstairs loo carpet is looking like a wet dog after all the extra hours of scrubbing I have been giving it.
To put it mildly it is less crappy than it was, has been and I pray on bended knee shall be for the rest of my stay!
The doctor challenges Joan, “Give me a urine sample…”
“Now? In what?” Asks Joan
The doctor looks askance at me, and I have the audacity to suggest she may have a sterile container,
She glowers and I scuttle off to the kitchen to find something for Joan to pee into.
Aha! A cheap pink plastic bowl, - I can toss that in the bin afterwards, I think to myself.
I produce the bowl and Joan starts to howl, then cough and just about wet herself…the doc backs down and tells Joan it’s OK, she can hear from her cough what is needed and rapidly writes out a prescription.
“Get off to Boots Pharmacy now before it closes”, she commands,
I grab the slip of paper and as I make a hasty retreat I hear Joan telling the doctor that I am one of the most helpful “slaves” she’s employed so far.
NICE…
Then I hear the doctor giving her a lecture about not saying such diabolical things about Care-givers.
Bloody Hell with brass bells on, now I’m a slave.
“Sorry about that,” the doctor says as she follows me out of the house.
I turn around and look at her,” For what?”
“Oh, you know, the slave thing,”
“No problem,” I reply, “I feel like one!”
Dammit, I have been shit-shovelling for four days, what does it matter that I’m referred to as a helpful slave?
So now, baptized by fire on my first assignment, my office has happily told me after a distressed phone call I made to their “Help Line” I can go into any job and face just about anything.
I am absolutely consoled and feel stronger for the imparted words of wisdom.
(Oh boy, watch this space!)
Yesterday I was rolling pastry for a steak and kidney pie and in walked Joan with the shoes she had been wearing.
They smelt a little horrid due to being the main receptacles of gravity fall-out when she was having her little “oopsie-daisies”.
She placed them on the counter right next to where I was working and demanded I clean them up as they where nasty and odorous.
Needless to say I was horrified, my beautiful, light, fluffy pastry was never to be baked, let alone eaten and I had to clean poop off Joan’s shoes.
Oh dear, what did I do in my past life to deserve this? I wondered to myself.
Then to top everything, I had done a pile of ironing for Joan and myself and left my favourite bra on top of the pile.
When I went back to put everything away, the bra had disappeared.
Joan had procured it and is now wearing it.
Most distressing as I really liked that bra, it was new and terribly comfy, - felt like I wasn’t wearing one at all.
Guess Joan is thinking the same thing at the moment!
On Sunday I opened the kitchen window and left a coffee cake to cool off on the counter before icing it for Joan’s afternoon tea.
I then went upstairs to make beds and vacuum the carpets.
When I came back I saw the fluffy tail belonging to a squirrel bobbing off out the window along with half the cake. It appears I am doomed to not be a creative cook in Joan’s home.
This morning I looked out the kitchen window and sitting on the lawn was a large marmalade cat, a black and white cat and a white and black cat, (he was more white than black) all staring up at me.
I have a sneaky suspicion the trio of felines were told by the squirrel where to get a free meal.