I get the impression that many of you think me a saint for what I do. I’m not. Not even close. There are days when I do not like my job. There are moments when I hate it. There are times when I dislike my patients. There have been a couple times when I was glad they died. There are times when I resent my younger clients for their laziness and not holding down a job and for using the system. (Not all the people I care for are elderly or vulnerable.). There are times when I wish they would try harder. Times when I want to stop blaming me for being late even though I showed up at my scheduled time. And times I grit my teeth because they are complaining that I didn’t fold their towels a certain way or that I pulled the covers up too high or not high enough. Times I want to tell them to fuck off and show some gratitude. There are homes where I have to sit in my car and take deep breaths before going in and homes where I have intense anxiety when I know I have to go into the night before. I have called my patients bitches and assholes behind their backs. There are days when I hate old people. Days when I call in sick when there is nothing wrong with me because I can’t take one more day of giving of myself.
I am not always a good and kind person. I get angry, hate, resentful, weary and bitchy. Most days I love what I do and believe in the importance of what I do. Most days I wish I could win the lottery and quit.