Taking Care 6 (ii)

     I realised early on that I got better results from people if I didn't try to coerce them with activities.  Like the thing with Greg.  Instead of forcing him to stop playing with his cards, I showed him other activities to see if he was interested.  After I'd won his attention that day with the ball game, I kept to my word and allowed him a little 'play time' each lunchtime, when the Centre was quiet.  I then tried other tactics.  During art sessions, I'd put some paints and paper in a spare space at the table, then invite him to join in.  He refused at first, which was fine.  Then one day he looked up, nodded his head, and came over and took the seat.  Sometimes he'd only engage for a few minutes before going back to the cards.  Other times, he'd get really involved and enjoy what he was doing.  He got a lot of satisfaction out of finishing a painting (it might just be random splodges and splashes on the paper), and would express approval in a small way - especially if it then got hung on the wall, or he was allowed to take it home.  He'd thank me.  Or he'd agree to try something else.  It didn't take long before he was much more open and accommodating with me.  He'd come out on shopping trips, or go to golf.  Not every time - but if you gave him the opportunity to choose to come, it worked better than any insistence.  Laura was certainly pleased.

       "It's taken us a long while to try to get him away from those cards, so it's really good to see him responding with you."

       She also thought that flexibility was a better approach, rather than sticking rigidly to the timetable.  We kept to the same basic daily structure.  But sometimes, if people weren't engaging so well with something, we'd scrap it and do something else. 

       One of the main fallbacks was 'Games'.  Everyone enjoyed bowling.  The main room at the Centre was big enough, and we had a set of skittles and a ball, so on dull days we'd clear the tables to the sides and set up for a game.  Most people joined in, too - including Jamie, who needed help to hold and throw the ball (he'd crack up if he got a strike, whooping with laughter).  Steven was the only one who preferred to sit by himself, chatting in his usual way.  But even he would sometimes come and watch.  Ganesh especially loved it - always making a big performance of swinging the ball to and fro, in an ever-widening arc, then releasing it like a missile into the centre of the skittles.  As they went flying to the corners of the room, he'd raise his arms in exultation.

       "'TRIKE!" he'd yell - usually prompting Maggie to shout out a reprimand.

       "BRING IT DOWN, GANESH."

       I could see there was a risk with some of them getting a bit too 'high' with the excitement.  But it was just great to see them enjoying themselves in that way.  It was certainly, up to that point, the most fun I'd ever had working.

       Then came the first challenge.  I'd been doing the job for about six weeks and everything had been going fine.  One lunchtime at the Centre, I'd just finished playing a ball game with Greg and was sitting at the piano playing a tune for Jamie.  Suddenly, the Centre door opened and Andrea walked in.  It was surprising to see her there, and I stopped mid-bar.

       "I didn't realise you could play," she said, smiling.

       "I can't really," I said.  "I just mess around.  The folks seem to like it."

       She stood by.  It was clear she'd come to see me.  I immediately wondered what I'd done wrong.

       "I had to come over for a meeting," she said.  "I thought it was a good opportunity to catch you.  I wanted to ask if you'd consider taking on some extra shifts.  Perhaps coming in early to help get people up.  Then at the weekends.  We always need extra."

       The words were like a weight dropping inside me.  This was what I'd always been afraid of. One of the main reasons I went for the job was the hours, and how they fitted with my routines.  They had always been important to me, and deviations has always caused problems - though I'd never really understood why.  I'd had jobs where I'd sometimes been asked, on the spur of the moment, to work a bit of overtime.  That would then lead to huge amounts of anxiety about the adjustments I'd have to make to my evening plans, whatever they might be (usually not much, except reading or writing - nothing more pressing than that).

       I looked at her in stunned silence. I didn't know what to say, and she seemed to be waiting.  Finally, she turned to go out again.

       "Well, you don't have to give me an answer now if you don't want to.  But think on it and let me know when you can."

       After she'd gone, I went and sat in the kitchen, trying to get my head to slow down so that I could think.  I didn't want the extra hours.  I simply didn't want to do it, despite how useful the extra money would be.  But it wasn't about the money.  It never had been.  I'd taken a large drop in income for this job, but it was still enough for me to cover everything.  My free time had always been important to me - time to do the things that made life meaningful for me in other ways.  My priority had always been 'work to live' - never 'live to work'.

       I was still sitting there when Laura came over for the afternoon session.  She could see something was up, and I told her what Andrea had said.

       "Then just tell her you don't want to do it, that's all.  It's unfair, anyway, to be asking you as you already do forty hours a week."

       "Exactly."

       She shrugged.  "Sadly, though, that's one of the things in care.  You always have to have shifts covered and someone always has to do it.  You get called in on days off because someone's gone sick.  And I know they're short over there."

       "But I'm not a care worker in that sense," I said.  "I didn't apply for that role - and I wouldn't have done for exactly that reason.  I like the hours as they are."

       "Well... like I said.  She didn't tell you you had to do it.  She just asked.  Bear in mind too, knowing Andrea... the moment you agree to do one shift, she'll take it for granted, and she'll just keep giving you extra without asking.  That's how it usually works.  Say 'yes' once and that's it.  So tell her 'no'.  That's all you have to do."

       Yes... it was all I had to do.  But for me, it wasn't as easy as that.  A lot of stuff was bound up in it all - but at root, it was about personal insecurity.  I simply didn't like saying 'no', and feeling that I was letting people down.  That was why I'd worked so hard at this, and tried to cover everything so that I didn't do anything wrong.  I'd seen, too, Andrea's temper with other staff, and I'd had enough of that treatment in other jobs - even when it was unjustified - so was fearful of it happening again.  I just wanted to keep my head down, do my job, fade into the background, not get noticed.  That's what I'd hoped would happen, so that I didn't get thrown any of those curve-balls. I felt that if I said 'no', Andrea would think less of me - maybe try to get back at me in some way over something.  I didn't want that to happen again because of where it might lead me.  I wished I could stand up for myself more.  But after that lifetime of being pulled up, being reprimanded, being told I was 'wrong', coming bottom of the class, the effect was still there on my self-esteem and sense of self-worth.  Once again, I felt like I was being wrong-footed, put on the spot, tested to see how far I could be pushed.  Andrea struck me as a supremely confident person, by contrast.  You didn't get to be a manager unless you knew you could do the job, and do it better than anyone else.  She didn't suffer fools gladly, as I knew.  So her asking me this was a big deal indeed. 

       It was so big, in fact, that I didn't know how to deal with it.  I went home that evening and sat in the chair, riven with anxiety, unable to properly function.  Then I went to bed and tried to sleep to forget it.  But sleep wouldn't come.  I tossed and turned all night, with the same narrow thoughts plaguing my head - overthinking the possibilities, as I always did, until I was in a pit of anxiety and exhaustion.  But still I couldn't sleep.

       Next morning, I got myself ready as usual, even though I was feeling physically sick from tiredness and worry. I'd reached such a pitch with it that, on my way to work, I saw a bus pull up at a stop in the High Street - and for a few brief seconds, I wanted to jump on it and disappear.  Escape.  Looking back on it now, it seems both pitiful and unimaginable that a man in his mid-forties should react in this way to something which, for most people, would probably be a trivial thing, hardly worth a moment's consideration. 

       Stand up for yourself, for fuck's sake! What's the hell is the matter with you? Why are you so stupidly scared of people like this?  Why do you worry so much about what they might think?

       But there it is.  I can only be honest about where it had taken me.  And as crazy as it sounds... that's what was going through my head: Get on that bus.  Run away.  Disappear. It was the kind of thing I'd done during schooldays - especially in those final months at the school in Devon, where every day was a day of fear.  It was more than that, though.  It was what I'd done throughout my life - from school, from jobs, from marriage: run away.  What was it about these things that I couldn't cope with?  Was it simply that I was a coward, unable to face up to responsibilities?  Even though that's how it must have looked, I knew that it wasn't the case.  Deep down, I felt that it was something 'wrong' with me, that was more than just simply being an idiot or a weakling.  I'd proven to myself (and to others) that I was intelligent, that I had capabilities and resources, that I could achieve things.  I'd gotten a degree.  I'd always worked hard and conscientiously in whatever job I'd had.  Even in my marriage, I'd tried my best to make it work.  So why all this backing down and running away?  Why all this fear and worry and uncertainty?  Why all this appalling and debilitating lack of self-confidence?  Where was it all coming from? 

       I knew, from the counselling I'd had the previous year, that my disrupted childhood, dad's alcoholism, the things I'd seen and heard, the moving around, the challenges with bullying... I knew they had had an impact.  But I was a grown man now.  I was aware of these things.  I was self-aware.  So... why did this trivial stuff still affect me in such a profound way?  I didn't know.  All I did know was how I felt.  So I stopped briefly that day and looked at that bus - the door still open, waiting.  The driver was looking out at me, as if expecting me to get aboard.  In the end, I think the only things that held me back were my thoughts and worries about mum, about the impact on her... and the deeper problems it might make for me, not least with the loss of income.  Those things came to me in those few seconds... before the bus door finally closed, and the bus pulled away.  And I carried on to work.

       I arrived in a huge state of anxiety, almost expecting Andrea to be there at the door waiting for me and my decision - a decision upon which so much seemed to hang.  But I just found the usual situation, with my six people waiting in the hallway with their coats on and bags ready, and the bus outside waiting to be loaded.  The morning staff were there directing operations.  The office door was shut.  Andrea was in - her car was outside - but she didn't show her face.

       Neither did she when I got back that afternoon, after a day of expecting a phone call from her, demanding to know what I was going to do.  I'd cobbled together a kind of half-way position if that had happened - saying that I didn't mind doing a few extra hours during the week if needed, but I wanted to leave the weekends free for study (I'd told her at interview that I had been accepted onto an master's degree course at the university, which was true - though I'd decided not to go ahead with it because of the cost).  I'd thought that would be better than a straightforward 'no' - even though it still wasn't what I wanted. 

       Again, though, the call had never come.  And at five, after dropping everyone home and doing the usual end-of-shift stuff, I'd gone home with a huge sense of relief.  And I'd gone straight to bed after a quick dinner, and managed to sleep for almost twelve hours.

(continued)  https://www.abctales.com/story/harryc/taking-care-6-iii