A "Good Story" house

My job is great. I go into the homes of many people. The homes vary, the people vary. Some are wonderful and inspirational and you feel like a better person just for knowing them. Others are...well, a good story. Yeah, that was today.

The house was nasty. Nasty, nasty, nasty. I wonder if it's actually possible for it to stink from the outside? Because as I was ringing the bell, I was cranning my neck around to try to find the source of that funky smell. The source was not outside.

First off, the caregiver could not be bother to wear clothes. He wore a bathrobe and I'm postive that was all. Not even socks. So a naked guy in a robe answered the door. Good start.

And walking into that house was like hitting a wall of stink and it only got denser and thicker the closer I got to the client. Who is a lovely lady but bedridden with cancer.

The stink downstairs is nothing compared to smell upstairs. There's little old lady in the middle of bed and hardly any room to walk around the bed. There are plastic bags of clothes (maybe) all over the floor. There's a commode, an oxygen tank, a bedside table....all this nice hospital equipment but covered with junk. None of it is easily usable for the client.

I sat on my coat on a old red chair next to the client's bed. There's a reason I also bring a jacket or coat with me on visits, to tackfully protecting my behind from sitting in something gross. My leg kept brushing against this plastic bag on the floor. I'm not sure what was in the bag but the bag was WET. In my mind I'm screaming, "Oh! Gross!! Now I have to burn these pants!!!" But I smile and don't say anything. Directly.

And some of the bags moved. I know, it's just mice, but I hate mice. They give me the willies more than anything. I can handle sinks and unidentified wet surfaces but mice...I'm going to scream like a little girl.

And I keep coming back to the sink of urine, I know, but it was something foul. Honestly, in the middle of the visit I'm gagging and trying to cover it up like a cough, all the while wondering in a panic what to do if I puke all over this nice lady in her bed. That's bad.

The son, who is the caregiver, just had surgery and he's telling me how hard it is to keep up the house. Which I happened to notice. And he's telling me he's on disability for his arthritis but hands me half a dozen anti-psychotic medications that he's taking.

I don't want to take the mom out of the house. She's clean. She's being cared for. I talked with her privately and she said she was happy and safe. But clearly the house needs some housekeeping services pronto. I'm giving the son a week to find someone privately to help with the housekeeping or I'm arranging an agency. Fuck it, I'll call Merry Maids if I have to.

I couldn't get home fast enough to take a shower. I think the stink clung to my clothes. And the coat has to be dry cleaned now. See, a good story.