NOTES ON A CARER

A dispatch

Dear Readers,

We are thrilled and proud to announce that Shattered, my account of my year in hospital after my accident, will be published by Hamish Hamilton at the end of October. If you would like to pre-order the book, you can on Amazon here.

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To lunch in cool Queens Park with friends. It’s a relief to be invited somewhere – anywhere - leaving the neighbourhood, going in a taxi, looking at the world after a year, noticing what’s changed. But I can’t just take off on my own. My carer will have to accompany me, as she does at all times, with my water, meds, wipes, phone, sweater, and a bottle for me to pee in.

Readying to leave the house, I look up. I am agitated by her appearance.  Wearing skin-tight see-through latex leggings, she has on sliders with no socks, and a bulging T-shirt that announces her devotion to God.

Feeling like my father regarding my sister preparing for a party, I persuade her to change her leggings, telling her that the friends we are visiting, though very liberal, are acquaintances of the Royal Family. We then have a discussion, led by her, where she insists that the Royal Family are, as she puts it, ‘only human beings like us.’

That being so, I still tell her to change, the taxi is waiting. She comes down wearing a pair of ripped jeans, with the same T-shirt and shoes.

The lunch passes without incident, my carer fraternises with my friends and family. Her previous client had refused to allow to her to socialise, or even talk to his associates, and insisted she remain in her room when she wasn’t working. I wonder why that was and what went on between them. There is no doubt that these relationships can get fraught, and it is not always clear what the boundaries are.

My carer is Nigerian, in her early-thirties and with braids. She is short, squat and strong, and lives at the top of the house. When she is not working for me or her other ‘clients’, she works in a male prison, where she is an expert on restraint. Sometimes she demonstrates how to pin down an angry murderer on one of my sons.

Indispensable to my survival, she wakes me up at 7am every morning, washes me, flushes my catheter, empties my bowels, takes my blood pressure and temperature, gets me dressed, makes my breakfast and coffee, and hoists me into my wheelchair. “I really don’t like penises,” she said the other morning when she was cleaning my naked body.

Then she deals with my medication, organises doctor and hospital visits, and in the afternoon, takes me out for a walk to the Urban Coffeecafé, where she feeds me. In the evening, she gets me into bed, changes me, gives me my supper, and then goes up stairs to her room. It is specialised work; she is well-trained and professional.

I spend more time with her than I do with anyone else, apart from Isabella, and yet we barely know one another, and only have my body in common. We can’t discuss books, politics or sport, yet we are together all day, from seven in the morning until eight in the evening. She is available if there is an emergency during the night. On one occasion, she had to come down every two hours to ensure my catheter was flowing well. She knows my family, and everyone likes her.

Mostly, since she is working, her history, family and friendships are erased. She knows a lot about me – she overhears my private conversations, and even comments on them - and I know little about her, I maintain a distance. What I do know is that she seems to survive on a diet of coca cola and chips. She speaks several languages, including French. And she has five brothers. Her accent is often incomprehensible to me, but she is now a British citizen. I only found out recently that she has two children.

I have three carers on rotation, they each do three weeks on, three weeks off. Each time one leaves and another arrives, the dynamic in the house changes. They are each their own person, with their own sense of humour, foibles and characteristics. They have know how to look after me, but in turn I have know how live with them. They are all invested in my recovery, and talk about my progress, such as it is.

Now, in the early evenings, when I like to sit and talk with Isabella, there will be a third person present, someone who will inhibit us. We can’t be frank in ways we were before. The other day, my carer and I were bantering in the living room, and Isabella was sitting alone in the kitchen. I had the feeling that she was being excluded – with three people, there is always the danger than one will be left out. Other times it is I who is omitted as Isabella and the carer discuss family matters I am not involved in. When you are forced to live with someone else, you are reluctantly enclosed in an unfolding drama, replete with characters, conflicts and turns of events.

The etiquette is not clear, there is no practical guidance as how to live with a stranger, except to be polite and tolerant, which is a strain, at least for me.

All of this brings back memories of an earlier dependency and vulnerability, being a baby and then a child, with wishful thoughts of throwing off the caregiver and finally becoming sovereign.  Having been independent once, it is depressing to be flung back into this previous state. This is of course most people’s fate, unless you were lucky enough to have never been born.   

There was one carer I disliked. We are vegetarians and she liked to cook lamb. Isabella was constantly opening and closing the windows. On one occasion, when this carer and I were arguing, she announced she wasn’t working for me, but was in the service of God. It was acrimonious at times, living with someone you are dependant on, while you dislike them and don’t want them touching you. I said things I regret.

When you have a spinal injury, you are necessarily inserted into a nest of new relationships, none of which you’ve chosen. You have to negotiate and work out how you want to live. These strangers make my life possible everyday. The work I am doing right now, writing these words, addressing you, is only achievable because of them.

Today, I have some discomfort in my genitals. I may have an infection. The carer will have to take a sample and deliver it to the doctor. But first, she will make my lunch, fish soup and toast.