I no longer have long hair or wear boots, but this was a pretty accurate drawing of myself back when I 18. 
This is not what the nursing home actually looked like. 
The man I depict in this comic was in his late 80s or early 90s, but still had full control of his mental faculties. He had a very strict schedule, and didn't like it when people deviated from it at all. He also pissed like a horse. We had to empty his catheter bag more than 3 or 4 times a day. Everyone predicted that he would hate me, simply because I was new and didn't know his schedule yet, but I remember him being quite fond of me. I made him laugh, and one time I made him cry by admiring how together he was. 
It was by far the most emotionally rewarding and draining job I've ever had. Some days, you'd make the residents laugh, and cheer them up. This was a huge deal, because they had utterly miserable lives - the other workers had been there for over 10 years, and they were so utterly sick of it. It was all just a job to them; the faster that you could get in and out of a room, the better. On the bad days, you'd piss off the few old people who liked you. But every day, you'd have to deal with the residents who just sobbed all day every day. And even though you know there's absolutely nothing you can do to cheer them up, you still feel partially responsible. Changing their sheets, feeding them, all the vital things that you had to do made them weep even more, so there was always this strong feeling of guilt, simply for doing your job. 
The lady in this picture was apparently an extremely beautiful woman until she turned about 20, when she was in a horrible accident. It left her with only half of her brain, and so she was as mad as a meataxe. She was such good fun though. She loved her TV, and would shout goodbye to it every time she was turned away from it. Of course, half the time she was an unbelieveable pest. 
"Greg" loved to grab things. If you wanted to change his sheets, you had to unclasp his hands from the side of the bed, which he would be grasping. We had to use talcum powder on most of the old folk's genitals; you had to use them on Greg's hands, as well, just so that he wouldn't rub them raw. Speaking of rubbing raw, you had to make sure his hands were outside of the blankets, and that the blankets were securely tucked in at all times. Otherwise, he'd get one hand down to his genitals, and scratch until he was bleeding. When changing his pad, you had to have one person just to hold his hands. It was tricky work, keeping him out of his own pants. 
Because I knew how much Greg loved to hold things, I always used to give him my hands to hold. I think he really liked that; he never gave me anywhere near as much trouble as he did everyone else. I used to chat to him, too, ask him questions, and make an effort to answer his. I have no idea how much of what I was saying he understood, or even how much of what he said he understood, but I tried. I realise that I only worked there for 3 months. Had I worked there for years, I probably would have treated them like everyone else who worked there did. I like to think that I wouldn't have; there was one lady who worked there called Robin who was absolutely lovely to everyone. 
I try not to think about the Nursing Home people that often, because in all likelihood, most of the residents that I was fond of are dead. 
"Lauren" was lovely, but she wouldn't let me shower her. When she was young, she was raped. I remember her telling me that her parents attitude towards it was essentially "We don't want to talk about it", with a touch of "You silly girl". I didn't realise this the first time I was sent to shower here, and she didn't want to tell me what happened, so I thought she was just being another typical difficult resident. It wasn't until she broke down crying that I went and got another worker. The other worker was very cross at me for interrupting me, until she remembered "Lauren"s past. I went in after the shower, to apologise, to find her profusely apologising to me. "Still friends?", she said. That's a phrase that I heard after every altercation I ever had with a resident. "Still friends?" 
This actually happened. She buzzed to be put in bed. She was, in fact, in bed at the time. I got in trouble more than once for talking to "Lauren" for longer than I should have. I genuinely enjoyed her company, she was a lovely lady. She remembered Casablanca first coming into the cinemas; she wasn't a huge fan. Dr Zhivago, however, was one of her favourite films from the first day it was released. 
This lady was incredibly obnoxious. The squeaking was obviously not her fault, but her requests were always this complicated. That's literally something she asked me to do once. It took me a full 10 minutes to work out what she wanted. 
I remember sneaking into the bathroom after listening to this lady, and trying to write some of her ramblings down. They were amazing; stories that went on and on and made no sense, but had little snippets of logic in them 
When I made this comic I hadn't even met another of my favourite residents, one who would flirt like mad with me, and refuse to eat anything until I gave her a kiss. (on the cheek) |