Baptism of fire

It’s a good job I’m a ‘cup half full’ kind of girl and can stay positive most of the time.  I’m sitting on the number 31 with feet that look like twin haggis and a face to match. Purple, swollen and blotchy is quite a unique look but at least it means that the seat next to me is likely to stay free; it means my work bag which is full of knitting, uneaten sandwiches and the latest Marian Keyes blockbuster gets to sit down too.

I look at that bag with disdain. The traitor. Lulling me into a false belief that I would have a quiet night for my first shift at the Sunshine Retirement Village.

I mean, how unreasonable was it to think that fifty two elderly people would sleep all night? That four care staff would just do as they were told so that I could get on with being the nurse and fit in a quick drink and the odd egg mayo in between med rounds?

Nothing, I am telling you nothing could be further removed from reality.

I rang the bell at exactly 7.45pm. Charisma (as I have aptly named her) at the agency had barked at me not to be late. So there I was standing tall and waiting to be let in. I had managed to zip myself into my size ten uniform so the standing tall wasn’t really voluntary, it was spinal brace and magic knickers all rolled into one with breathing being optional.

Just when I was about to give up hope, someone finally let me in and with a silent nod directed me to the office. My nose twitched at the odour of ‘eau de hope’, that unique nursing home scent that instantly transfers itself and clings to every inch of your being. (I can see noses twitching on the bus and know my fellow passengers are also experiencing their first encounter with the ominous odour along with my own twelve hour shift special).

I knocked on the office door and entered when I heard a noise from within. My eyes must have widened at that point and I’m sure my chins (yes plural) rested on my fob watch as I came face to face with what can only be described as a mountain of a woman. God only knows how she had morphed herself into that chair and more than that, how someone so tall managed on such small feet.

I told her who I was in a stuttering kind of way and she instantly threw her arms around me and launched into a garbled handover. I’m not sure I got it all but the gist of it was that she’d had the worst day ever and it was all the fault of the chef who had got her lunch order wrong and she’d ended up with a pureed roast. At that, she gave me the keys, wiped the crusted puree from her chin and disappeared.

That was probably at the point where panic started to set in. Talk about being chucked in at the deep end! I figured I had two choices; hide under the desk all night ( a bit of a challenge given the spinal knickers combo) or go and find someone who could give me half an idea of what was going on.

Picking up the keys I wandered off in search of sense. And that’s where it all started to get a bit hazy. The next thing I knew, four carers piled into the staff room in differing states of dress. It appeared that the uniform policy consisted of whatever you liked, clean or dirty, flowery or striped. Practically ignoring me, they sorted out the work allocation, organised break times - I didn’t get a break according to their dictatorship - and then shoved me in the direction of the clinic room. It took me a few minutes (okay, almost an hour) to find out what keys were for which cupboard, organise my trolley and get out there into the lounge.

I parked my trolley up and looked around me and that’s when the truth set in. I was accountable for all of these people; all of these vulnerable, frail residents were counting on me to look after them and to make them feel safe. Me with my shiny fob watch and my shinier shoes and my head full of freshly acquired knowledge, and three words sprung to mind…bring it on! 

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