The Idler

Crap

When I was 18 I worked at a nursing home. Most of the ‘residents’ were ga ga, all wore adult diapers and the only bloke in there died the first weekend I started.

I was responsible (!) for feeding, toileting cleaning them; feeding meant timing the cycle of grunts and yells, figuring out when the mouth was at its widest and tongue at the lowest point in the mouth, then shoving a load of pulverised food on a spoon up into the roof of the mouth and withdrawing it so that the food remained behind the gum. Usually most of it would come out as the new cycle of groaning commenced. Toileting and cleaning were normally done together. Whilst the old dear evacuated herself on the commode you were distracted from the death-metal odour by having to clean faces, armpits and ancient tits. Some of the tits were pert and young looking. I was terrified.

After the commode pan was removed and its delicious contents disposed of I would ‘get to work’ on the nether regions. I was in denial at this stage and questioned the authority of the person that employed me, surely this was illegal. On more than one occasion your granny hadn’t fully finished doing her business when I was down there cleaning her bits with warm, soapy water. Not only have I had my shoes shat on, but also I have physically cradled turds that have suddenly dropped into my hands. It was only on the second day that I realised you were supposed to wear gloves.

I am emotionally scarred forever and believe all old people are inherently evil.

Jamie Dwelly