Caregiving Unzipped: Let Me Tell You About Today

Let me tell you about today.

I was sitting at my desk sipping coffee, planning around what I had to do because today was off-routine. The Senior Helper had called off sick Tuesday, so the agency rescheduled for Thursday with a replacement aide. They said her name was Carol and she'd be here at noon.

It was 9:30am, so I figured I had time. Trash, grocery store, prescriptions, get back, hydrate Dad — then walk the new helper through the ropes. I don’t leave unknown people alone with my father, especially not in my house.

Then the doorbell rang.

I assumed it was maintenance — our kitchen sink needed fixing. I opened the door expecting a wrench, and instead found a short young lady, maybe 25, maybe 12. I genuinely can't tell anymore. I tilted my head and said, “Hello. How can I help you?” Fully aware that my white t-shirt was stamped with the morning’s bodily fluids.

She said, with a heavy accent, “I am Hope. I am from Senior Helpers. I am schedule with you today.”

You can guess the rest. I called Senior Helpers asking where Carol was and why someone named Hope was at my door at 9:30am when Carol was supposed to be here at noon — which was already earlier than our usual time. They offered foggy answers. Carol had something come up. Hope was a better fit. Sorry for the time change. They’d make a note that I should be informed about schedule adjustments. Smoke and mirrors. Platitudes.

I was polite, as I always am. Funny, as I always am. My voice is apparently deep and calm — and some say sexy. If a lady mentions that, I usually reply, “Ah, well, where were you 20 years ago?” They laugh. They blush. It’s strange, because I mostly look like Santa Claus on laundry day.

It was a good thing Hope was in the other room and the supervisor on the phone couldn’t see my eyes. My eyes… they were not laughing. If they’d seen those eyes, they’d have probably called the police and ran.

Still, I moved forward with Hope. I introduced her to Dad. He was unusually pleasant today. No insults, no shouting. Only aimed his displeasure at me, as usual. Hope gave him a shower. Not bad, really. I did the final cleanup — barrier cream, dressed him, showed her how to fold the guard pad into the adult underpants, how to wrap a day-pad around the catheter tubing.

I pointed out the glasses, how to clean them, where the hearing aids go — the usual caregiver playbook. Dad made it out to the living room with his walker. He wanted coffee. He wanted food.

I asked Hope if she could cook. She said no. I wasn’t surprised — modern times. So I told her, “Watch me and learn.” I microwaved quick oats, toasted bread, fried eggs while explaining the difference between sunny side up and over easy. I was a cook in a former life. Also a cowboy. That part wasn’t relevant today.

I finished the oatmeal first — added banana, butter, honey, seasonings — and had her bring it to Dad. Then I plated the rest and served him breakfast. He sipped coffee but hadn’t touched the oats. That’s fine.

I sat back down to try to salvage my derailed day and figure out what kind of afternoon I was about to stumble into.

About fifteen minutes later, Hope quietly approached the doorway. I motioned her closer — my hearing’s never been good.

She said, “I asked your dad why he wasn’t eating. He said because he needed his teeth.”

And that’s what I forgot today. With all the prep, instruction, and mental juggling… I forgot to give Dad his dentures. He had sat there all that time, patiently waiting, not saying a word.

These are the days of our lives.
A soap opera named A Family Caregiver.