I am a caregiver. The job involves me sitting a small room with a massively obese woman and her small army of pets for upwards of ten hours a day (today, for example, I’m here for thirteen hours.) The woman is completely nuts. She thinks she’s a goddess, an angel, and that she was born on another planet. Sadly, this does not actually make her an interesting person. She’s incredibly boring, occasionally enlightening me with her horrendous metaphysical poetry which, as far as I can tell, is her sole contribution to the world.
She is completely incapable of preparing her own food, bathing herself, doing anything that involves being upright and walking, etc. Her big health problem? The thing that really holds her back? She’s fat. If she lost weight, she would be able to do all of that stuff and more. Her solution to this problem is to eat as much awful frozen crap as she can possibly shove down her throat.
She’s a revolting sight to behold. I used to feel bad for her. When I started this job, I was bright-eyed and optimistic, looking forward to helping some poor unfortunate woman regain her life. I am quitting at the end of the month because I have been turned into a bitter, cynical wreck, plagued with constant migraines and stomach pain from all the stress of this job.
It wouldn’t be so bad if she’d just done what she’d planned to do. If she just TRIED to get out of the horrible situation she’s gotten herself into, I wouldn’t be so keen to run out of here. But I’ve become convinced that she’s absolutely never going to get better and it’s not worth it. I make just barely enough to survive (and that’s only due to the cheap glory of ramen) and have been physically ill and weakened from stress for almost nine months thanks to the misery of this job.
Unless it’s for a family member who is certain to either die soon or get better quickly, just put them in a nursing home. Never, EVER become a caregiver. There might be some people who can handle the emotional misery of this job, but I am simply not one of those people.