About a week ago I was at work. The night started out normal enough; some light cleaning, doing the dishes, folding laundry. Returning the same resident (we’ll call him ‘Larry’) to his bed in order that he go to sleep approximately 50 times in a span of 2 hours, because he has no short-term memory to speak of, limited cognitive focus, and has trouble sleeping due to the bevvy of psychotropic drugs he is prescribed. As you can see all very typical, mundane things.
Oh, perhaps I should mention I work in a group home for the developmentally disabled.
It’s not a bad gig most of the time, in fact quite the opposite. I work third shift, I clean, do some meal prep or cooking, laundry and other household chores. The members I serve have issues ranging from cerebral palsy, to epilepsy, to complete visual impairment, among others. Of the 3 boys, who are all high school age, most have several of these disorders on top of one another, and all are non-verbal. These things withstanding they are a pleasure to be around. When they smile, it’s brighter than you or me could ever hope to match. When they laugh it’s without the weight of past disappointments, regret or disillusion. It’s really beautiful to experience first hand.
However, let’s get back to Larry for a second. It was a Friday night, during which he’s amped up because he knows his mother comes to pick him up on Saturday. He gets excited and has difficulty falling asleep or staying asleep.
This night, on the 50th trip back to his room I was walking him down the hall to tuck him in, I detected a wall of the foulest smelling odor I could imagine. Not a literal wall, mind you, purely figurative, let me tell you though the scent was very real; it was absolutely horrid.
(Warning, Warning!, WARNING: really disgusting material forthcoming)
I turned on the light in Larry’s room and discovered several piles of feces, one of which he had tried to hide unsuccessfully under his bed. I calmly and promptly sent Larry to wash his hands while I cleaned his room. After slapping on the most stylish pair of rubber gloves I could find, I went about the nasty work. First, I had to (Editor’s note: some material redacted due to graphic nature) #$%#$%#$%#$% #$%#$% #$%#$%, and of course it was squishy. Then, I needed to #$%#$%#$%#$% #$%#$%#$% #$%#$%#$%#$% making sure to take care of the big parts first. Finally, for the drops I #$%#$%#$% #$%#$% #$%#$%#$%.
Clearly, you can imagine how disgusting it must’ve been.
Now as revolting as that might seem, again I want to remind you what I said earlier still holds true: Getting to work with these kids, and seeing them experience what I imagine is the purest form of happiness in existence is the reward here.
So I wrote (and re-lived all that) just to write this: Cleaning up shit is still better, and more rewarding than working at my last job...
...which was what you ask?
Bank of America.
