You know what really gets me? When people talk about getting older, they always throw around numbers – like turning 70 or 80 is some deadline where everything falls apart. But working in live-in care has completely changed how I see all this.
I remember this one woman I looked after – she was only 72 but could barely remember my name from one day to the next, and needed help with almost everything. But at the same time, she had this streak of stubbornness, and she just wanted to do things herself. Then there was this 87-year-old man with whom we would take our daily stroll down the street to the coffee shop for the daily cuppa, and we would talk about the old days when he was a producer for quite well-known movies. The number on their birth certificate? It told me absolutely nothing about who they were.
What really matters is what someone can still do and how the world treats them when things get harder. And here’s what breaks my heart – we’ve somehow decided that needing help means you’re less of a person. Like the moment you can’t button your own shirt or forget where you put your keys. Suddenly, your opinion doesn’t count anymore. But in live-in care and dignity, I’ve learned that those small choices and voices matter more than anything.
I’ve watched the opposite happen too many times. In my meetings with my supervisor, where they ask about things like the person isn’t in the same room… Occupational therapists who ignore the person who’s stuck in bed, not even bothering to ask if he’d like to go out. Doctors explain everything to the adult children instead of the person sitting right in front of them. It’s like we think getting older means your voice… disappears.
But that’s not true at all. Every single person I’ve cared for had something to say, something they cared about. Maybe they needed me to help them get dressed, but they still wanted to pick out their favourite checked shirt. Or that particular blue cardigan that brings out the eye colour. Maybe I had to remind them about their medication, but they’d tell me exactly how they liked their morning tea – half a sugar, splash of milk. Always in the china cup, never the mug. That’s what caring for a person really means – supporting their independence, not erasing it.
Not being able to do everything yourself, but still being seen as the person making the choices about your own life.
The best days at work weren’t when I got through my checklist quickly. They were when I’d sit down and actually listen to stories about their childhood. Their worries about the garden, how it doesn’t look as well-kept as they would like. Or their strong opinions about the weather forecast, which, let’s be honest, rarely turn out right. When I treated them like the full, complex people they still were, not just a collection of needs to be managed. That’s when live-in care and dignity really came to life.
Because here’s the thing – we’re all heading in the same direction. One day, we’ll be the ones who need a hand getting up the stairs or remembering appointments. And when that happens, I hope there’s someone there who still sees us, still listens to us, still thinks what we have to say matters.
Until then, I’ll keep learning from the people who are showing me what it really means to grow older with grace.
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