Breathe First
I still have my fingernails
I went to my first client’s home a few days ago. I’m trying to find efficient ways to curb the frustration I’ve been feeling the past few months; pet that annoyance like it’s a nervous little puppy. Maybe it’s anger—it feels menacing when it twitches you awake at night. I freelance as a proofreader and editor, but I’ve got to leave the house and work with people. I’m looking for my authentic side.
I drove up to the house and pushed the brakes, and the car scraped to a halt. Another task: change the brake pads. I walked into the house and saw a woman sitting on a couch. She didn’t act startled, greeted me politely, introduced herself as the Mom, and waved me in. She was pleasant. “I haven’t touched the dishes yet, so don’t mind those.” The plates and cups were stacked, one on the other, next to the sink. It was no different than my own house. I entered his room—he was lying on his bed with a television on.
He had a Hoyer lift beside him. He wasn’t able to use either his legs or his right arm. He told me he worked as a welder, and the location was kitty-corner to a bar. He’d grab a fifth of vodka every night before he collapsed on his bed. “It’s from my lifestyle,” he said. “It gave me these five strokes.” He showed me his hand—at one point, it was clenched so tight he lost two of his fingernails. He quit drinking when he was in rehab after his final stroke. “I haven’t had a drink for two years.”
I cleaned him up, moved his bed with my knees to put the Hoyer straps under his back, and lifted him to his wheelchair. I positioned him, put the pillows where he asked me to, and made up his bed.
“Hold on,” he said. “I used to drive a hi-lo.” He pushed the bed until it was square with the wall. “Perfect. Looks good, right?”
I smiled and nodded, “Absolutely.”
I only had a two-hour shift with him. I ticked off all of the tasks through the app on my iPhone. I signed off, and I needed his signature. As I scrolled through the prompts, I noticed the aides before me: Teisha, Jenna, Emily—I wonder how much money they’ve made doing this. I know there aren’t any internships for a job like this; you wouldn’t find anyone willing to volunteer to do this work.
Maslow’s hierarchy of needs—right at the bottom: physiological needs and safety. Without fulfilling these, a human will never find their esteem and self-actualization—their basic need to be admired, respected, and authentic. I wonder if Teisha is paid a living wage for doing this—I could start comparing apples to oranges with jobs and education, but what do I know?
“I can’t sign for shit since I lost the use of my right arm,” he initialed it. “Looks awful.”
I showed him my signature. “That doesn’t look too good either.”
We said goodbye. I walked to my car, admiring my fingernails.
The publication I started a few months ago will go on. I had to set it aside to regain perspective. I had fun writing it. I’ll inject some humor because the entirety of the program I took was quite absurd—it’s a nonfiction memoir I want to read like a tell-all novel. All of the names will be changed, and the places too. The non-profit organization will be called Wellcore Health. The subsidiary hospitals where I learned to become a surgical technologist will be Markworth, Brookby, and Loch Lane Surgery Center. I’m still imagining the names of the colleges and workforce partners. These writings will be rough drafts—the very beginnings of a book.
I’ve pitched it to a publication, which I feel hopeful for. Subscribe, enjoy, and have fun with me on this bizarre journey.