Care worker in London

It is not a glamourous job that I would share with my friends, much less something I would brag about. I've recently spoken with a colleague, a high-flyer in his academic career wanting to "gain work experience" relevant to the medical field which he is in. He unabashedly said he would leave this place after some months. This job is a stepping stone, or plainly, a livelihood. I was asked recently if I am doing this for money, or if I like the job. I clearly stumbled upon that question, I do not know. 

I started out being enthusiastic about the new people whom I got to meet often on a daily basis, investing personal time and effort into running errands, providing company, and mostly, just listening to the lonely with genuine empathy and interest. Note that I do not get paid for these. Much like a social worker, I found myself spending a good part of my life here with many who live alone (sometimes forgotten), many with glorious pasts and stories to tell, but have since "fallen from grace". With bodies and minds no longer working as they used to, the photos on their walls reflect a distant past that they now stare blankly through. Those smiling faces around them no longer visit. 

Then comes the worst part of this job, the dirty work. Yes, literally. So primal, so human. Little things that I take for granted in being able to do for myself until now. The bodily functions which I never thought would mess up this badly until reality splats right in my face, as I wipe up fresh excrement that terrorizes my nostrils and makes me cringe no matter how many times I encounter it. Perhaps this is where the notoriety of being a care worker arises. I would go to any extent to get myself this meagerly paid. 

While I have always admired healthcare professionals for their forgiving demeanour, I never thought I would start cultivating the temper of a saint (though I have not met one before). And it also began in dealing with some of the nastiest disposition on top of a confused mind. I've since learnt to combat personal insults with a smile and an apology. I am not sure if it's a healthy habit to adopt, but I do it anyhow. Mostly because such hostility does not stem from intention, yet I cannot deny that the perpetrators are the reason that I get paid. I just hope this matter-of-fact apologetic tendency does not become my second nature. 

Now, I often find myself approaching these living beings with increasing apathy (although I am unsure if it had been accidental, intentional, or merely a natural course of desensitization). While I used to hesitate cutting someone off in the middle of a wistful reminiscence, I can increasingly detach myself, mindful of my tight schedule and the other dozen I have to visit. When I make a conscious effort to conduct a conscience check, the result becomes emotionally draining. 

Sometimes I tell a white lie to a confused individual, that perhaps a relation is coming to visit. For a split second I detect a flitting melancholy, a knowing disagreement in their eyes. I hadn't mean to lie. I only did so because... Because they would brighten up and take some care of themselves for a little? The utter dejection that I find escalating not only with these daily scenes, but also within myself as I stay on this job. On many occasions, I think maybe they know more than I do. Perhaps they know that I only came here for the money, not for them. Perhaps they know me better than I do myself.