Tuesday, 12 August 2014

Bye Bye, Mrs Doubtfire

'Funny' Just Isn't as Funny Anymore

Here we are a few days later…

Ok, so it’s a couple of weeks later in real time.  The Robin Williams suicide thing is still fairly fresh in our minds and still all over the media.

And it’s definitely still sad.

AND... it’s ironic that whenever I’m feeling a little down and need a dose of warm fuzzy to cheer me up, I reach for one of two movies to take over my headspace and make everything in my world find its proper perspective again.  These would be the ‘Up’ movie (the kids movie with the little old man and his floating balloon house).

And the ‘Mrs Doubtfire’ movie.

Funny man dead
Ooooo helloooo, Dear!

Can I just say… the scene where his/her mask gets run over by the truck while the social worker lady is visiting, is the absolute clincher for me and a guaranteed mood swinger every time.

“I don’t need a hand – I need a face!”  

THAT will always be funny, I don't care what anybody says. 

When you think about it, it’s uncanny that my two fave movies are about old people and here I am working as an Aged-Carer.  Oh lord... I’m surrounded in ‘em!

Destiny perhaps?

Anyhoooo… (said in a shrill Mrs Doubtfire voice, as is only fitting) you could analyse the heck out of Mr William’s death but it all sucks.  Perhaps he decided this way out was better than the alternative – you know, the getting old and dying reg'lar kind of way.  Apparently he had symptoms of Parkinson’s disease too which can’t have been a pleasant outlook for the future.  And it’s certainly nothing to laugh at.

As some guy on twitter recently said – ‘funny just won’t be as funny anymore without Robin Williams in the world.’ 

Reckon that sums it up spot on.

Do we still want to hear about the rest of my day?  I will be brief… and it’s just petty, surfacey stuff really but it was all made a zillion times worse once I’d stepped on the wettest, smelliest dog turd that has ever been expelled from a dog bottom EVER.

Clearly it was a freshie and clearly it was lying in wait for me when I walked to the car after my first shift of the day.  A Home Care job for Mrs Dorothy Pussywillow and her five evil-eyed Siamese cats who spied on me for an hour and a half as I invaded their space and threatened to meddle with their rotten kitty litter trays.

Ewww... as if.

And of course once dog shite is under your shoe it finds a way to squish itself into all the grooves and crevices and no matter how much you scrape at it with leaves, twigs, wet grass or a ball point pen – IT NEVER LEAVES YOU!  For the entire day I felt like I was enveloped in an aura of poo that each of my elderly clients also had the pleasure of too... although none of them dared to mentioned it.

Older adults are so polite and considerate like that and even if they could smell something mysteriously pooey on you, they would never say so.  Because that would be rude and elderly folk understand, only too well, how upsetting it is to have bowels that let you down at the most inappropriate moments.  Least said, soonest mended - as the saying goes.  And besides, if I played dumb, they might think they were responsible for the foul aroma!

Leave 'em guessing I decided.

So off I went with my pungent self, to pick up the lovely Mr Sidney Goodfellow to take him for his weekly lap of the supermarket so as to get the usual few items that he never actually needs.

"It’s more about the company than the groceries, Dollie".

 And we chat and have a laugh and poke fun at all the other 'oldies' that he used to play bridge with when his wife was alive.

Only to find out on this day by the nosey neighbour as I stood there ding-donging at his door, that poor old Sid was taken to hospital three days ago suffering ‘some sort of a stroke thing.’ And that his family had already arranged to have him relocated into a nursing home... IF he made it through the hospital part okay.

It’s always quite upsetting when this kind of serious medical emergency occurs because I know I will actually never see my client again.  They either a)need a higher level of care that only an aged care facility can provide... or b)they die.

Par for the course in this line of work, I’m afraid.  

It was at this stage in the car (with all windows down thanks to the still lingering stench of dog excrement) - that I heard the news about Robin Williams.  And after a fleeting teary moment I raced off to my next client’s house hoping that surely, things might pick up a bit.

And that if I breathed through my mouth... I wouldn't taste it.

My next job was to take an elderly Indian lady called Manju (I won’t embarrass myself attempting her actual native name) to her Physiotherapy class.  My mission was to safely drop her off at the clinic and then return to deliver her back home an hour later.  Easy peasy, I hear you say and normally you’d be correct.  Usually it means I can duck off to the shopping centre nearby, grab some lunch, mooch around and enjoy a nice cuppa while I wait.

Long story short, as I attempt to depart the carpark, my car starts chugging and lurching and horror of all horrors… and PLEASE NO, NOT HERE AT THE BOOM GATE…I find I can no longer change gear!

And not only could I not change gear (or drive the dam car) but I could also not pick up lovely Manju from the Physio to take her home.  Complete and utter DISASTER! 

So after the ensuing flurry of phone calls, plus I thanked Vishnu the elephant god (see, I do listen to my clients when they tell me stuff) that Manju was somewhere safe and not standing on the side of a road somewhere waiting for me to NOT turn up.  And thankfully too, her daughter was able to leave her posh doctors office in the city and come save the day for her poor abandoned mother!

I, on the other hand, was left red-faced, smelling of doggy-do whilst holding up the entire works at a crowded carpark and feeling dreadful that I'd let darling Manju down (although she swears she was not offended and that she actually laughed about it later).

Add to that my worry about poor old Sidney Goodfellow and wondering whether he'd make it back home or not.

Plus the stress from the inevitable gearbox bill I would soon no doubt be presented with.

Overall just a really CRAPPY day.

Ha ha yes, literally.

Caring for the elderly should not mean standing in dog poo!
sticky AND icky!

But, as the legendary Mrs Euphegenia Doubtfire would say at times like this, as later I watched the movie for the squillionth time with a box of tissues and half a block of fruit n nut…

”All my love to you, poppet, you’re going to all right… Bye-bye”.  

And so I was.

Oh, and it was with enormous pleasure and a flourishing flick that I flung my stinky, turd-lined work shoes straight into the bin. Sometimes you just don't have any other choice.

Perhaps that's exactly how the not-feeling-so-funny-anymore Robin Williams saw it too.



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