Really Wrong

Published April 18, 2022 by helentastic67

Really Wrong

And then there’s where it goes really wrong.

Sometimes, when I get a new carer and I do my induction phase and ask how long they have been a carer and who they have worked for. I get an early impression they are ‘Good People’. “Oh, you have done palliative care”

Then I work out she loves an environment she doesn’t take direction; she takes over, which is fine if the mum is dying and the husband is just trying to cope, the kids are losing their mum and their dad is not completely there either.

That’s not my home and they can’t shift gears to cope. Nobody comes into my home and takes over; I don’t need that. This particular carer, some ten years older than me. Very early I worked out, did not have friends her own age. So, she quickly got all the naughty girl talk sorted. Even when I do that talk with my carers, I try to keep it G rated and I worked out she was a complete narcissist.

This woman very obviously wanted to leave early on a Friday so she could go be with her 13-year-old daughter. She did helicopter parenting via phone while she was meant to be out shopping for my groceries, then doing my home care (cleaning). When I mentioned while out with her that I have a blog, she rather loudly enquired if I was going to write about her. I did not answer, already knowing if and when I did, she would not be bothered to read it, nor would it be complimentary.

The nail in the coffin was at some point and when it comes, it’s the final straw. The week I took Jemima to the vet the final time back in 2018 and I made the decision hastened by the fact that I had tickets on the Friday to see a band in my neighbourhood I have loved from my teens and while Jamima had been getting older, I’d been putting off the decision and she might have lived longer, I felt I couldn’t enjoy going out for the evening and enjoy myself if I was concerned about Jamima at home. It was a shitty, rough week, I cried before, knowing I was going to have to do it, I cried before I even booked, I cried. Let’s just say I cried. Shitiest week ever.

On the Friday, I had the carer from Hell, who tried to cheer me up by saying it would be a good night and I deserved it as a distraction. I’m picking up the thread of this post three weeks later, let’s see if I can do it justice. Anyway, so Friday carer arrived after a shitful week of saying goodbye to Jamima and then doing all the spring cleaning and cleaning up after Jamima’s last evening in our home. So, pretty quickly, I told said carer about Jamima going to God! (Apparently the term is crossing the rainbow bridge!) and that I had an exciting night planned to go see a band in my neighbourhood I’d loved from my teenage years.

I kept saying to my carer it was a little hot and sticky, towards the end of her shift so I might need her help after to shower so I could go out feeling fresh and clean. She was one of my standard PC (personal care) carers so it’s not like it was a huge imposition. It is not like she hadn’t seen me naked before.

We went shopping, we did all the standard hunter/gathering and towards the end of my shift. Always planning to have a shower, I made notes to do so. This carer often became very distracted around 4pm, which is about the time her kids get out of school. That’s when she’d be checking her phone all the time and the helicopter would lift off. She had a 13yr old and her behaviour altered around her noticeably. Offering to water plants then ignoring me and going ahead and doing it anyway and ignoring me asking her to stop. My indoor plants are a very careful balance of how much/how often. So, I think she just wanted me to dismiss her early so she would still get paid.

A friend dropped in to commiserate with me over Jamima. She had been a carer through the council and had loved Jamima from the first time she met her, threatening one day she would leave here with a big bulge (of Jamima) in her pants pocket. I told her if she could get her in there, she was welcome. She also had a cat the same age as Jamima so was grieving her cat that would one day soon cross the rainbow bridge also.

While I had a visit from Mrs T, I closed the door to the lounge so I could have a moment of peace from the carer who was getting paid to be there. She did not like being left out. She pushed open the door separating us to join the conversation.

“I know how you feel!”
“Yeah!”
“That pearler!”

Then she told us how she once had to take the tube from her son’s throat surgery years earlier. Now, we all know it’s not a mother’s job to take a tube from their child’s throat after they have had an anaesthetic or surgery, right? If you are unsure? The answer is no. It’s the doctors or nurses’ job, because your kids will hate you for doing it, the doctors and nurses get paid for the privilege. Your mum has the soothing and parenting jobs/roles you love them for. You have a Boo-Boo? Mum kisses it to make it all better. FFS!

Anyway, not digressing at all. Mrs T departed and I was sad and the night was young. So, I made a move to have a shower, the carer on shift had not been at all interested in assisting me when I finally headed to the bathroom, she decided to tell me she was reluctant to assist me. She decided to be very passive aggressive obviously and inform me if I’d wanted to change some of the shift, I should have informed the office, which by this stage it was Friday after 5pm, so it was closed.

What a stress I did not need, she helped me, but it was very obvious by her behaviour it was imposition on her that she complete her shift and help my get ready. She left, I made coffee, got ready and my friend came when it was closer to the time the venue was to open, we left to go see the band.

It was early. Daylight savings so it was still daylight, the venue was the Thornbury Theatre and I was going to see MIdge Ure, whom you may or may not know from the 80’s synth pop band Ultravoxx. If you are into something a bit less beaty (and electronic) are cruise and good to sing along to. Try this:

https://midgeure.bandcamp.com/

It was great, I bought the CD.

After the gig we walked home again. My friend walking ahead of me to cut through all the spider webs spread across the paths doing her best 1980’s goth arm waving. It was still light out and the streets were quiet. Got home. My friend left and I cried. I missed Jamima.

So, this is what you do to solve having a fucking shitty carer. Monday, I rang the agency and asked to put a block on her. I was asked why? So, I told her, I had a decent rapport with my rostering woman, as I always make sure to do. She was surprised, to be honest she deserved an incident report, but I was just happy to not have her again.

Unfortunately, I’d left a CD in her car, offering to loan it to her so she could listen to something a bit different. It was the BEST DEPECHE MODE CD EVER, Ii’s circa ‘88! (called Violator).

https://youtu.be/AZr7VEeyfIA

I didn’t buy my CD copy until about ‘92 but it was an old favourite. I have all DM CD’s but by far this is the standout best album. I tried to get back my CD but she didn’t respond to my texts and when I escalated it to management, they told me if I’d offered it to her as a friend it was my loss. So, soon I changed all my services from them to my current two providers, with who I’ve barely had an issue.

Over three years have passed and I recently was in a box of CD singles and came across said missing CD. Would never have looked for it there, the carer had bought it in and snuck it in a box. She must have not intended to return. Stupid Cow! No, she deserves worse.

Burkies – Part 1

Published January 17, 2020 by helentastic67

Burkies – Part 1

Ok, the next two short posts are purely context for the third, I now must write today. So, bare with me and strap in for a bit of a chuckle.

When I was first diagnosed in 2007, I lived with my favourite housemate down in Clifton Hill. My favourite housemate even in twenty years of sharing, will as he has in the past, go by the name of ‘B’. The street we lived on ‘F’. We lived on a corner of ‘F’ and whatever the side street was.

During peak hour F street became the alternative route for people not wanting to use Hoddle Street, which was once described by my friend Frank as the carpark. Clifton Hill often had many commuters drive from the outer suburbs, so they could catch the tram from there to work.

The home was brick veneer and our bedrooms were right at the front of the house, surprisingly not as noisy to sleep as you might think.

We had a tiny bathroom, an equally small kitchen with an old Aga, where I stored my gladwrap, foil and such. To put it in perspective, an Italian couple had immigrated to Australia back in the 40’s and this was their first home, where they had, had and raised their children before moving out to the suburbs (as they did).

We had an outside toilet; we did have a garage and possums in the backyard which I fed bread. No, don’t eat that, eat the bread. That’s my finger! Eat the bread!

Anyway, I digress, B parked his car at the front of F street and occasionally he would not be able to park in this spot and he would become quite grumpy.

We consulted over this mysterious red car that was in ‘his’ spot. It was a little red Barina and it has stencilled letters on the side. You know, like those for Tupperware or Mary Kay or Avon.

Anyway, even if you know who is parking in your car spot, you can’t really say anything to them because it seems you are being rude. You resolve this dilemma in all good neighbourhood squabbles with the appropriate passive/aggressive culture of you just keep your car there until they stop trying to park there.

Anyway, B didn’t drive his car for a good few months, maybe he couldn’t afford his rego or whatever. B decided to sell it.

One particular Saturday, he called RACV who were out the front getting his car started. That afternoon, a woman came to see the car and buy it. Ironically, she had gotten a job as a Personal Carer (Support Worker) and needed a car. What a small world.

After the sale was completed, I was moving from one room to another and saw B standing inside the front door, which was timber and glass and he was (from where I was) hugging the door. I thought maybe he was sad to see his car go. He had inherited it from his grandmother.

I went past him a second time and he was still there, so I prompted him “Are you OK?” his reply came after a few moments. A car engine idled in the distance.

“Yes, I’m just making sure she got through the lights down the street and it didn’t conk out” or something to that affect, he was concerned she would come back insisting on a refund.

Moments like these.

Christmas

Published February 26, 2018 by helentastic67

Christmas

And so, it is Christmas, or it’s just gone past for me, but due to my process of writing long hand, I imagine half of 2017 will have passed, also by the time you read this, might need to tap in my ‘B’ team to type some posts and ask my lovely Administrator to post more often.

Past Christmas

I’ll have you all know, I bought you all Christmas gifts, in the form of when my father gave me Christmas money, I put it all on my Visa. Then I spent most of it buying the things I needed and I paid all my bills.

christmas-shopping

I guess I should be appreciative I had money. It’s just kinda crappy, I couldn’t spend it on things I wanted and needed.

Wants and Needs

Even to have bought an archiving hard drive to rearrange some files, my other My Cloud 4TB’s is full already and while the process is tedious, even my brain is happy with that.

Computer storage

Christmas can be rather brutal in many families, mine is rather passive/aggressive. It seems Christmas is something to endure.

passive aggressive

For me it’s a time to catch up on TV shows. This year it was Divorce and Westworld, which probably left me less homicidal as the year I watch Sons of Anarchy (SOA) and gifts, I think everyone in my family is happy with books, mugs (just a special one) and alcohol. I’m still getting through my bottle of Bailey’s from last Christmas, but all the same.

Baileys Irish Cream