Death by Shuffling Baby Steps

For reasons of confidentiality I have changed names dates and identifiable features of this narrative but all the facts, all the hard truths are true. I have also decided to use a pseudonym in order to protect myself from being sued for publishing this work especially as I probably signed something to say I would keep it to myself but honestly if you’ve been at the local cocktail bar on a staff work night out you would have heard it all anyway warts, fungal feet, massive ball sacks, hairy moles and all.

Chapter One

I had finally had enough the Ministry of Defence (MOD) it had finally pushed me too far. I was still not able to go back to my office job fully because no matter how many special adjustments and fancy bits of kit that they gave me I still couldn’t sit for very long, work for very long, click for very long or type for very long; all of which were essential parts of my job. One evening I was sat on my sofa being mainlined prosecco and bitching to my best friend Louise about the latest step to manage me out of my job or into medical retirement that the MOD was aiming for. Louise suggested that I would be perfect as an activities person at her dementia care home I toyed with the idea to her face but thought “I couldn’t do that” but Louise and prosecco basically convince me very quickly that I could. She said you’re great you’re always doing different crafts and getting on with things and you love talking and that’s half the battle. I drilled her for information about what it was like to work there, what the residents will like, what sort of jobs she did as a carer on a daily basis. Don't you need experience? What will they ask me? What sort of person are they looking for? Why does she think I'd be any better than any other glue gun-loving eccentric (hint hint: massage my ego my BFF)? Louise did her job and painted it in a glowing light of chatting to old ladies that randomly swear or shuffle off to nowhere in particular and just need to hold someone's hand; barring the odd slap from someone who doesn’t enjoy personal care. A general term for being thoroughly washed especially in the underwear areas....P.S. why am I getting prudish here when the word c**t will be featured later on? Needless to say, I was already smitten and I hadn’t stepped in the building plus anything was better than pushing papers around with backache and wrist pain for another day. Wasn't it? My partner, as always, was very supportive and just wanted me to be happy; my mother being gloomy as always said “never go into a room alone with one of them you’ll get sued for abuse, theft or assaulted” thanks mum, for putting a positive spin on things! I thought mum, despite being a daily mail racist bigot type, would be the font of all knowledge about looking after the elderly seen as she has been an auxiliary nurse for 20 years but alas she “went all Daily Mail on me” again....so I thought. She harped on about how you are always expected more and more for less, are never appreciated, pulled up in front of management for the smallest things and basically, I should cover my arse at any opportunity. She recently text me "I told you so" and I couldn't agree more.

A few days later, I was a little disturbed to find out that then Louise’s partner Bob was trying to get her to quit the care job or move on to another care home or get a different job because she was coming home covered in bruises and nail marks. This wasn’t necessarily the red flag you would think for the reasons you would think. I didn’t go screaming running or crying to anyone, I just put it down to a part of the job - these people were not mentally sound and therefore couldn’t be blamed for their actions, they are all angels stuck in a body that is failing them miserably. In my mind, Bob was just being overprotective. Louise wouldn’t come bouncing home, as he had previously mentioned, spouting off different stories about her amazing new job, if it was really that much of a horror movie. The thing is Louise was predisposed to love the job because dementia was kicking her own family’s arse and therefore everything there must have been fascinating, interesting and really helpful for her own life.

So, I did it I put in an application form, diligently filled out the form which I never normally do (normally just fling a CV at the relevant email address and hope it sticks somewhere that fate deems perfect for me much like the lottery scratchers I buy monthly, I mean weekly, I mean every time I go to the corner shop). This has become my standard operational set up because the spray and pray "Rules of Engagement" seem to have enabled me to find a winner eventually and plus I just don’t know what my life’s calling is yet, same as my careers chat at 15 still clueless. What's to say what I would or wouldn’t like to do “if you are passionate about what you do, you don’t work a day in your life” I’m pretty sure that’s a famous quote from somewhere (I’ll have to look it up sometime), I do all the proper reading and research once I get an interview. I sent off the form excitedly making sure that I read the website correctly and sent it to the right place and included the correct subject heading and so on and so on and so on. I was over the moon to get the call month's later (when I thought I had once again been rejected) that I have been shortlisted for the job. Bearing in mind that the home was mostly looking for carers and still is but I’ll get to that later. I was specifically going or trying to be the activities coordinator or as they call it at Beech Wood House the Activities Assistant most of the care homes call it the Activities Coordinator to give it some gravity but no I was applying to be the Activities Assistant(/Carer) as it turns out but again we’ll get to that later. I assured my other half that we could afford the slight drop in pay because I’d be close on to full-time hours and that I was soon to be put on half-rate sick pay which we definitely couldn’t afford.

Chapter 2 Me

Now a few things about me I am a heavier girl and suffer from a condition that sucks and even the way it sounds totally sucks. I have a condition called fibromyalgia which I have had since 2014, well I was diagnosed in 2014, I’d probably had it for about 2 years prior but hadn’t realised I thought I was just getting carpal tunnel from my incessant mouse clicking back at the MOD. No amount of wrist braces, ointments, creams, specific strengthening exercises, physiotherapists, special chairs or hydraulic desks (Embarrassment factor 10,000,000) thanks to a library quiet office and the noise of the desk going up/down often making my colleagues jump followed by "going up" or "going down" type comments. Apparently, standing desks are the next big thing in ergonomic office design as it's healthier, burns more calories and gives you better posture. Enabled me to be comfortable for more than 20 minutes without having to readjust or have to get up and stretch out etc. My doctor also suggested more exercise, less fast food, less sugar which I feel is a bit of a cop-out seen as they probably say that to 99% of the population; therefore, I summarily ignored it. I didn’t feel enormously fat although now I realise I’m actually obese having a BMI of 34 it’s nice to know that my ego isn’t so low that I had lump myself in with every other curvy girl that I passed on the street. The one part of me I should feel bad about probably being my weight and I love it and of course the bit I should feel good about like my personality sense of humour etc I always feel bad about and it shouldn’t but this is what being a woman is all about. That weird self-imposed guilt does more self-harm than any jerk of a partner or damaging childhood could ever do.

Without going into too much detail fibromyalgia is a condition that causes widespread pain whether it is a condition of misfiring nerves or the brains translation of said signals being incorrectly communicated i.e. pressure now reads as pain. The only way I can describe it is, imagine having the flu and the worst hangover you’ve ever experienced without the annoying buzz of having been drunk beforehand combine this with irritable bowel symptoms, a case of depression, low energy, the possibility of getting exhausted over the smallest of errands and you’ve got yourself the full medical symptom buffet. Some may call me a hypochondriac some may suggest that I suffer from SLS (shit life syndrome) but for me, this is been a reality for some years. This is why I’m currently dictating this at 9 o’clock at night having spent an hour in the bath trying to loosen my joints and now I’m laid on the bed as typing is pretty much impossible for someone who’s fine motor skills have been lost forever. As I deal with the long-term effects of this condition some still give me helpful advice when going through utter agony and can hardly leave my bed such as, take up more activity not high impact activity but things like walking or swimming so being a mum and forever multitasking and rather than eating to any free time I was thinking of having in the next decade so having a desk job was totally no longer working for me. So a job in a busy care home seemed like the perfect solution to a lot of my problems.

I breezed through the interview thanks to Louise's stellar advice beforehand and to be honest, I’ve been going to interviews annually for most of my adult life thanks to this "I need to find my purpose" kind of mentality and as a cure for cancer wasn't on the cards I decided this might be the right way to go.