Monday, May 17, 2021

Premature Hospice



There’s a caregiver agency called Home Instead. There’s another one called Home Again.

There are probably a bunch of others with Home in their name. There ought to be one called Home Forevermore because that would be honest. These agencies with Home in their names make it seem like all the people who use their services ever want to do is stay home all the time.

Maybe that’s true for some but not for me. That’s for damn sure. And I’m one of those people who uses services like theirs. Except I don’t use an agency. That’s also for damn sure. It’s ironic that they call them agencies because if you hire them you don’t have any agency. They just dispatch a stranger dressed in surgical scrubs. I have people come in and help me every day but I hire and train them myself and I fire them if I have to. I can’t believe anybody would want it any other way. And the wages of the people who work for me are paid by our tax dollars through a state program. And I don’t call the people who work for me caregivers. That word grates on me. It sounds too much like babysitter, I guess. I call them my pit crew. And I don’t let them wear surgical scrubs. I’d let them go naked before I’d let them wear surgical scrubs. I feel it’s my obligation to educate the masses by showing that not every cripple has to be constantly accompanied by a medical professional.

In the advertising of the caregiver agencies, the cripples and old people receiving the care are always home. It’s like the cripples are on house arrest. And they’re always happy as hell about it. It’s like their only goal in life is to stay home all the time and the job of their caregivers is to keep them there. I suppose being at home all the time beats the hell out of being looked up in some stinkin nursing home all the time, if those are your only options. 

But if all an agency is going to do is send people to just keep me comfy at home, that sounds like a nursing home on wheels to me. If I had to stay home all the time I’d go nuts. I’m super susceptible to cabin fever. If I had to stay home all the time I’d feel like I’m in hospice. Now don’t get me wrong. I got nothing against people in hospice. Some of my best friends are in hospice. Well, they were. Far be it from me to engage in terminal illness shaming. If I was terminally ill, I wouldn’t be ashamed to admit it. I’d hold my head high.  I wouldn’t try to pretend I’m somebody I’m not.

But I’m not terminally ill yet. So until the time comes, I’m interested in getting out and about a lot. That’s why I have a pit crew. I have things to see and people to do. There’ll be plenty of time for that sitting around doing nothing stuff when I’m terminally ill, or after I’m dead.

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