Nurse the Hate: The Caregiver

By the time the bottom fell out of the mortgage market, I was completely burnt out.  14 hour days followed by marathon party nights were ultimately unsustainable.  Frankly, it was a relief when the market tanked.  I tried to catch my breath during a month in a small village north of Tulum doing drugs with surfers and South American jet trash.  I spent hazy days emerging from hangovers reading F Scott Fitzgerald books, lounging in the sun like a lizard.   At night, I drank tequila and had emotionless sex with strangers.  For a time it was unclear if I was going to die or run out of money first.   In the end, the money ran out.

I used airline points to hopscotch home on a three layover flight taking 19 1/2 hours featuring a triumphant shit in the Atlanta Airport United Club.  I landed back here at 135am.  Not a soul knew I was here.  I returned to my apartment like it was a jail cell.  The stale air hit me like a wall.  The dead houseplants rattled from the air conditioning blasting from the metal vents. Someone’s laughing bled through the wall next door.  For better or worse, I was home.  I had no job, no plan, and no human relationships of substance.  

I did not leave the apartment for the first two weeks.  Food delivery boxes stacked up by the door.  The TV was always on, the volume low.  I set it on Univision and tried to figure out what I was watching.  I was going to have to do something with my time eventually.  I started applying to jobs that looked low stress and would involve the least effort possible.  On a whim I interviewed for and got a job as a “caregiver”.  

In my case, being a caregiver meant going to an old suburban couple’s house, the Anderson’s, three times a week.  Mr. Anderson played golf at his country club Mondays/Wednesdays/Fridays.  His expectation was for me to read books to his stricken wife.  Mrs. Anderson was in a coma and had not stirred in the last 18 months.  I would be expected to attend to Mrs. Anderson and read her favorite book, which according to Mr. Anderson was "Little Women".  I was to sit in a wooden straight back chair next to her bed and make regular progress on "Little Women".  "Don’t worry if you lose your place.", Mr. Anderson told me.  "It’s just the sound of the words themselves that she finds soothing."  A sadness oozed from Mr. Anderson.

Mrs. Anderson never moved, never gave a change of expression, and never changed her rate of breathing in the months I served as caregiver.  Between you and me, I do not believe the Mrs. Anderson cared what I read.  With this thinking, I decided to begin reading my choice of books out to Mrs. Anderson.  We started up on Charles Bukowski’s "Ham on Rye" on my second week.  It was very strange to read the book to Mrs. Anderson’s lifeless body at first.  Soon enough, I not only got comfortable with it, but looked forward to our reading sessions.  A certain sense of calm and camaraderie formed between the silent woman prone on the bed and I.

Within a few weeks I began to stop my reading and confide in Mrs. Anderson.  I told her most of my biggest secrets.  In many ways, Mrs. Anderson was the one of the best friends I’ve ever had.  While she never technically responded to my confessions, she was a great listener.  I felt she accepted me for who I was.  Just having the opportunity to tell her about my unrequited love for the Finnish nanny, my struggles with depression, and the difficulties with my sister were a great comfort.  In many ways, I should have been paying the Andersons.

Mr. Anderson would return from the country club at dusk.  He would uncertainly park his Buick in the garage which would allow me the time to retrieve "Little Women".  I would always be slowly reading a random page when he walked in.  I think he always knew I was slacking off in his instructions when I left, but maintaining this guise allowed him to escape the house and relax at the course for a few hours with minimal guilt.  Sometimes we would quietly have a beer in the kitchen before he scratched out his weekly check to me.  He was a good man.

Mrs. Anderson passed away that Fall.  She had slowly eroded into hospice.  I saw the death notice in the paper and had meant to go to the service but didn't.  I had returned to finance sales.  I had returned to suits, corporate spread sheets and insincerity.  I was back to 60 hour work weeks.  I was still in love with the Finnish nanny, still struggled with depression, and avoided my sister whenever possible.  I drove by the Anderson's house on my way home.  That night I started a new book, Mrs. Anderson's worn copy of Little Women.