I wrote this because I was smiling to myself after a Senior Helper gave me that look when she arrived and said, “That shirt... what have you been into?”
I told her.
She paused and said, “I think you need to change that one.”
And I replied, “But I am cleaning the shower.”
So, I thought I’d share this with others — my fellow family caregivers.
__________________
I wear white T-shirts.
Not because they’re fashionable.
Not because they hide anything.
I wear them because they don’t.
In the world of caregiving, white T-shirts don’t flatter — they inform.
They don’t camouflage — they confess.
And in this work, I need my clothing to tell me the truth.
That faint spot? I saw it immediately.
That smudge? Didn’t come from me, which means it came from someone who depends on me (or their Depends) — and that matters.
Because when bodily fluids show up uninvited, I’d rather be warned than surprised.
The mirror always provides that surprise.
I’ll go half a day thinking I made it out clean, and then — bam — there it is:
streaked across my chest like I lost a paintball match with the kids I don’t have —
although I do have an elderly toddler.
Dark shirts? They lie.
They whisper, “Everything’s fine,”
while quietly ferrying things you do not want to discover
while folding laundry
or, worse, shaking someone’s hand.
White T-shirts are my early-warning system.
My fire alarm.
My cotton armor that says, “Something happened here — and it’s time to clean house.”
They’re also my bib.
When the coffee spills —
or when the coffee gets spilled onto me —
that cotton chestplate takes the hit.
It’s not glamorous.
But it is washable.
Easily replaceable.
And that’s half the battle.
In caregiving, you don’t always get time for wardrobe changes.
So when something ends up where it shouldn’t,
I want a shirt that announces,
“Houston, we have a situation,”
not one that hides it until it spreads.
And let’s be clear:
you clean the skin before you change the shirt.
No point wrapping a gift if the box is leaking.
Of course, that’s always when someone knocks at the door.
You answer it innocently — because you’ve already forgotten what your shirt’s been through —
and suddenly you’re giving Texas Chainsaw energy
to an Amazon driver who just wanted a signature.
Poor skittish driver.
You were just making lunch.
Or at worst — cleaning the oven.
White undershirts don’t last forever.
They stain.
They stretch.
Eventually, they wave the white flag
and get turned into rags,
cleaning cloths,
or cautionary tales.
But while they’re with me, they work.
They warn.
They wear every stain with honesty,
and they let me reset at the end of each day
with nothing hiding beneath the surface.
And no, I don’t wear white pants.
White T-shirts are about visibility.
White pants are a dare.
Too revealing to survive a caregiving day —
unless you’re actively hoping for a surprise scene in public.
The shorts I wear —
varied in color, changed daily —
aren’t just for comfort during the thermostat wars
between the young(er) and the old(er).
They’re a sanitation protocol.
Because in this line of work, once is plenty.
Twice is reckless.
And yes, there are uniforms:
workwear, scrubs, bleach-safe everything.
Probably the smartest option.
But those look like shifts.
And family caregiving doesn’t clock out.
My day is 24 hours long.
I don’t want to live it in a uniform
that makes me look like an escapee from the ward,
the road crew,
or a visiting nurse.
I want something that still feels like me —
even if it’s covered in ketchup,
coffee,
or Tuesday’s mystery goo.
So, no —
it’s not a fashion choice.
It’s a field-tested protocol.
It’s a quiet manifesto in cotton.
And maybe, just maybe,
the first honest garment I put on all day.
My underpants?
Those are too honest after a long day of coffee.
Perhaps that’s why they call them “unmentionables.”
For anyone wondering why my shirt always looks like it’s been through something... it has. And I wrote about it
Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved
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