A Funny Kind of Paradise

  PUBLISHED BY RANDOM HOUSE CANADA

  Copyright © 2021 Jo Owens

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2021 by Random House Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed in Canada and the United States of America by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  Random House Canada and colophon are registered trademarks.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Title: A funny kind of paradise / Jo Owens.

  Names: Owens, Jo, 1961– author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 2020026219X | Canadiana (ebook) 20200262246 | ISBN 9780735278820 (softcover) | ISBN 9780735278837 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8629.W4635 F86 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  Text design by Kelly Hill

  Cover design by Kelly Hill

  Image credits: (woman) © SallyLL / iStock / Getty Images

  a_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Not Dead Yet

  Are You Glad to Be Alive?

  Discontent

  You Don’t Know How Good You Have It

  Shikata Ga Nai

  Circling

  Butterfly

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Tunes

  About the Author

  THIS BOOK IS FOR:

  care aides

  health care aides

  personal care attendants

  personal support workers

  carers

  nurses’ aides

  and

  care workers

  everywhere:

  whatever your title,

  wherever you work,

  you know who you are,

  and you know what you do—

  thank you.

  NOT DEAD YET

  Decreased morbidity. That’s what most of us think we want. We want to live long, healthy, productive lives until the day we keel over, on the golf course perhaps. Even better, we imagine, to die quietly in our bed one night or float away during a siesta after an especially good meal.

  Easy. Painless.

  Me, I used to think I’d like to die at a ripe old age, hale and hearty, pausing on my morning walk along Dallas Road to admire the Cascade Mountains in Washington just across from Victoria. The wind coming off the Juan de Fuca Strait filters through the thicket on the bank, blowing that familiar sweet, strong scent past my lips. Salt water and wild roses, I’d think, as I hit the pavement with a fatal aneurysm, and I’d smile while drawing my last breath. A nice way to go.

  Some people think they want time to prepare. To say goodbyes, to set their affairs in order. But a minimum of suffering, for sure. And nobody wants to lie there like a vegetable. We don’t want it for ourselves, nor for our loved ones. Better to die quickly than to endure a half life. That’s what we think.

  But I surprised myself.

  I just want to live.

  * * *

  Dearest Anna:

  I know. One doesn’t really talk with someone who is dead. I am aware of that. But I can still talk to you. My friend. I still need you. In some ways, you are closer to me than you’ve ever been, since you are privy to all my uncensored thoughts now. What’s left of you is the part that’s in me.

  So I would like to assure you, Anna, that I am alive and well, though I know you would sigh to see me lying here, unable to speak. Your eyes would flicker to my lunch hanging next to me in a bag on a pole, measured out drip by drop with a kangaroo pump that delivers liquid nutrition through the tube that plunges straight through my skin into my belly. Your face would drop, acknowledging my crooked right arm, my right hand slowly contracting, atrophying, my fingernails growing uselessly on, attached to a dead thing. I know it would grieve you. You would force a smile, make awkward, one-sided conversation, bid me farewell, and walk away upset.

  It hurts me to think of you seeing me this way. As it hurt me to watch you suffer as your cancer progressed. But let me reassure you, I am fine. In spite of how things appear.

  As I emerged from the fog after I had my stroke and my reality pressed down on me, I was so angry I couldn’t even think. But now, a year later, I’m ready to come out of the dunce’s corner, like some sullen, grubby, pig-tailed schoolgirl, one knee-high crumpled to the ankle, temper under control but still holding a grudge.

  I have time for reflection now in a way I’ve never had before. Although I complained about being busy all my adult life, I am now beginning to suspect that an element of choice kept me on the verge of overload all the time. We both admired hard workers; we had that in common. But it never occurred to me that working hard might be a way to disengage. For both of us.

  I live in a facility, an institution, a so-called extended care hospital. I’m not capable of looking after myself. But I’m not dying. So…I won’t be checking out anytime soon.

  I live on the first floor in the North Wing in the corner room at the end of the hall. And this is important: my window faces east, and the way my bed is positioned, I bear witness to an old chestnut tree. I have watched its leaves change colour and drop, and heard the bare boughs groaning in the squally west-coast winter storms. My heart leapt at the leafing and budding in spring and spread wide like the summer leaves gathering the sun. Now it is fall again, and the leaves have begun to yellow. Although I cannot see the sunrise, I see the glow of it through the branches of my tree on fine days, and I witness the stubborn dark erasure at nighttime when the weather is dull.

  This tiny patch of tree and sky, this rectangle is a portal in my universe. This is my home now. I am mute, immobile, tube-fed and on drugs for my pain. This is where I spend out my days.

  I just want to live.

  * * *

  My room is a five-bed ward. I survey my domain from my corner. Four other beds, four other souls, four other poor sods stuck here like me: my roommates.

  I know the most appallingly intimate things about them. And they about me, those who are still capable of knowing, which does rather narrow it down. We are not as we were, let’s put it that way. (But unlike me, you are forgiving. You always were. Even now I am counting on your generous spirit.)

  The bed on my left, in the darkest corner, belongs to Janet. Diabetes has made her blind and has taken her legs, amputated just below the knee, a fact that terrifies the new aides until someone teaches them how to position Janet’s sling properly to ensure her safe transfer to the wheelchair. Once in a while, she complains about pain in her feet; sometimes she remembers they’re gone and sometimes she doesn’t. The nurses take her blood sugars, twitter about “spiking” and “dropping,” adjust her insulin and tell the aides to push juice or back off. Janet says she doesn’t care. Janet hates the food.

  Mary has the other bed with a window, but while my head is at the north wall, hers is on the south, so we face each other. Mary is the quintessential little old lady, with her permed hair in stiff white curls, her dentures, and a tissue up the sleeve of her cardigan. She is the darling, everyone’s favourite, loved for her smile and her sunny nature. She was still walking with the help of the activity aides when I first cam
e here, but she’s on the slow slide, and no one would ever try to transfer her now without the overhead lift. She stiffened up gradually, and she talks a little less every day. We, her roommates, are grateful that she’s passed the stage of calling out constantly, “Hey, are you here for me?” thinking that someone was coming to take her home to her mama. Mind you, we do miss some of the more innovative excuses the staff used to try to convince her that her mother wasn’t going to be too worried about her whereabouts. “You’re so considerate of your mama!” they would coo on a good day. “Your mama knows you’re here and she’s glad you’re safe.”

  “You’re ninety years old and your mama died fifty years ago!” they’d mutter under their breath on their way out the door.

  Alice’s bed is perpendicular between Mary’s and mine, the head at the east-facing window and facing the door. Alice rarely rests. No wonder she’s such a scrawny pack of bones, shuffling from bed to bed, night and day, looking for her children or maybe her purse. There’s no malice in her, and if there ever was, she’s forgotten her spite. She acts like there’s something she should have remembered, on the tip of her tongue or tangled in the plaque in her cortex, thoughts like fishes struggling in a net. Poor anxious soul, endlessly tapping and sifting, sorting and folding, a worried expression on her face. Why they have her in the middle bed, open space on both sides, so exposed, I’m sure I don’t know. If I had to sleep there, without the comfort of a wall at my back, or a corner to turn my face to when I need to pretend I’m alone, I’d be anxious too. Even with the curtains pulled, Alice’s is the worst bed in the room.

  Kitty-corner to me is the woman I know only as Nana, and of her, dearest Anna, there is not much left to say. She has reached that stage of living death where she lies completely passive. Perhaps some distant signals reach her or perhaps she has truly gone, leaving nothing but an empty shell. At any rate, if she has a family, I have not seen them yet, and there she lies, day after day, while the nurses shift her from side to side, tucking pillows between her knees to prevent skin rubbing against skin until it reddens and then rots. They raise her ankles so that the weight of her own feet pushing her heels into the bed won’t create sores (great blackened holes that must be dressed and never heal, as happened to the poor woman who had Janet’s bed before her.) Nana’s skin is like tissue paper; a careless fingernail may rip it. One day an aide tried to turn her over by grabbing her wrist, instead of placing a flat hand on her shoulder blade and she left a bruise the shape of her—

  Snap! The lights are on, and I’m seeing stars. Molly’s voice, the specific tone she uses for training new staff, fills the room.

  …just going to follow me, to get the idea of what the rhythm of your day is going to be like. You don’t need to help. I’m not interested in training you in nursing skills—if you don’t have those by now, you’re screwed. My object is to show you how to do a day shift. You need to know what it looks like to take care of six people by yourself, cuz that’s what you gotta do. Oh, she’s wet, draw the curtain, will you, we’re gonna take the top pad off, I don’t want her sitting in that.

  Molly is talking about Nana, and now I can hear the sound of the electric bed whirring into the flattened position that allows Molly to move Nana most easily. The blankets flip back with a swish.

  Most people are nice here, and they’ll set you straight as to who to do first and such, but they have their own workload, you know what I mean.

  Okay.

  Every now and then you’re gonna run into an asshole, that’s reality; just tell yourself, “Oh yeah, Auntie Molly told me there’d be days like this,” and try not to let the negativity stick, cuz most people here are really good, thank God…

  Okay, I’m just gonna fold this top pad over, like this, see, and then one quick flip and it’s out and she’s on her back, got it? Now we can sit her up for breakfast. Give me a lift up the bed, will you, her chin’s going to be on her toes. Yup, that’s right. Nice body mechanics, Gayla, you got it. There you go, Nana! Good morning, sweetie! Did you just finish your training, or have you been doing this work before?

  I just finished. I did my practicum at Aberhart.

  Okay then. Well, the good news is that unlike at Aberhart, you’re not expected to get everyone up for breakfast in the dining room at nine here.

  Yeah, so I heard. That’s why I wanted to work here. It’s brutal, that morning rush. Get everyone up, so they can sit there looking at the dining room wall.

  Yup, it sucks for the nurses, and it sucks for the patients. I’m telling you when I’m ninety-five, nobody is going to be getting me outta bed at seven fifteen unless I’m drugged to the hilt cuz I’m gonna fight it. All these years of early risin’ for the seven a.m. shift—no bloody way I’ll be getting up so I can sit on my ass getting pressure sores. Forget it, baby. These people deserve breakfast in bed, I figure.

  At Aberhart, by the time breakfast comes, everyone’s up and you’re so tired you just want to go home.

  Too right. Hey, Janet, I’m gonna sit you up for breakfast, here’s your napkin. This is Gayla, she’s our newbie. Don’t bother giving Frannie a napkin, she’s a tube-feed, right Fran? Good morning, sweetie!

  I wave with my good arm and Molly blows me a kiss before moving on.

  First floor gets breakfast first. It comes up from the kitchen at seven forty-five, so you gotta get everyone sitting up, but look, second floor, breakfast comes at eight, so if you’re quick you can get a couple of people washed up, and on third floor it comes at eight fifteen. Of course you’re starting casual, so you’re gonna be working everywhere, all groups. It’s a little rough at first, but it’s good experience. You learn to be flexible. Sink or swim. You gotta think on your feet, you’ll get used to it, don’t worry. It’s best if you can pace yourself. That way you can treat the residents a little nicer, take the time to do that little extra, eh? After all, most of us went into this job thinking we could spread the love a little, same time as we aim to put bread on the table for those kids, right? You have kids?

  Yeah, one. She’s five.

  Single mom?

  Yeah.

  You got your daycare lined up? When you’re on call, sometimes you don’t get much warning. It’s so tough at first. Sweetie, sit down. Breakfast is coming. This one’s pretty restless, aren’t you, honey? Sit down, sweetie. That’s right. Here’s your napkin. Breakfast is coming. That’s it, love. Usually I get her washed up first, she’s quick, but we were a little late getting started today, no worries. We’ll make it up. Not all these people are in my group, but Michiko, she sits mine up across the hall, and I sit hers up here, saves time, right?

  Is she in your group?

  Nana? No.

  Molly pauses.

  I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. Some of the girls don’t like you to touch their resident, but Michiko and I are on the same page. Besides, Nana’s mine next month, and I don’t want her wet, cuz group change is com—

  * * *

  And that’s it. Molly and her charge are out of the room, on to the next task. I can’t hear any more, but it doesn’t matter because I’ve heard Molly’s training spiel more times than I can count. We, the thirteen residents in the North Wing, are divided into groups of six and seven and assigned to an aide. Molly is about to explain that, like all the regular staff, she and her partner will trade groups on the first of every month. Molly and Michiko have the permanent day shifts in the North Wing. Blaire and Bettina cover their days off, then go down to the East Wing to relieve the two permanent staff there, but their shifts don’t line up exactly, so sometimes Molly works with Bettina instead of Michiko, and sometimes Michi works with Blaire. The evening shifts work the same way, but there are only two aides for the whole floor on nights.

  I like the system. While it’s nice to see a familiar face at my bedside, frankly by the end of the month my aides and I are ready for a change from each other. Of cours
e casuals cover the regular staff for sick days and holidays; they have to fly by the seat of their pants. Sometimes they’re fresh and enthusiastic; sometimes they’re so green I’m afraid they’re going to drop me.

  What can I do? I don’t get to choose my nurses.

  These girls, these women and sometimes men literally and figuratively touch us in the most intimate way. They come and go like the staff in your diner, Anna. There are the lifers, who always make me think of mine-shaft ponies: solid, dependable beasts of burden, trudging along. Some are hopeless, some cheerfully resigned, some are even passionate about their work, but they just keep working steadfastly on.

  Then there are the aides who are passing through. Molly or Michiko or Blaire train them, with varying degrees of cynicism and enthusiasm, because far less than half of new hires will last for long. Molly’s good; she’s a natural teacher, and she continues to treat every newbie as if she might stay. The work attracts all kinds of people, but it burns them out fast too. Some can’t stick it out on call long enough to get their own regular position. Some injure themselves or grow afraid that they will. Some are on their way to bigger, better things; they’ll bridge into nursing or work part-time here while going back to school. Some are still searching for what they want to do, but they’ve got to do something.

  But no matter what their motivation for choosing this job, everyone starts at the bottom of the casual call list, flying in to work at a moment’s notice because who knows when they’re going to get around to calling the last person on the list again? And that’s the way it is until you move up the list enough to be confident you’re going to get sufficient work to pay the rent.

  I know what you’re thinking, my darling Anna, you’re thinking, “Why, Francesca! You’ve changed! You sound almost compassionate!”

  Yes, my dear friend. I’ve changed. Living here will do that to a girl.