I’ve been an employer since I was 17 when I hired
my first personal care attendant. In the intervening time – more years than I
care to mention – I’ve had some very interesting experiences. And I’ve
certainly learned a lot about human behavior.
Like anyone with a disability, I’ve had my share of
otherwise good attendants who were chronically late. Most memorable was a quiet
little mouseburger who worked for me my first year of law school. She
compulsively hit her snooze alarm, often coming darn close to making me miss my
morning van ride to class. When I’d finally had my fill of unnecessary stress
and her excuses, I insisted she put her clock radio across the room from her
bed. She looked at me as if I’d decoded the Rosetta Stone, such was her
astonishment at my solution.
Many of my PCAs were young ladies, often allied med
students. I typically found college kids to be energetic and motivated. They
showed enthusiasm for the job, and I loved hearing their crazy stories about
whack roommates and parties with techno records and plastic trash cans filled
with hairy buffalo. But students can be flighty and short-sighted. I had
several come on strong at first, then quickly lose enthusiasm. They decided a
couple weeks in that they’d prefer waitressing, and I had to push the re-set
button on the attendant search.
Eventually, I changed my approach and started
seeking grown-ups. I figured they’d be more grounded and responsible. Some
were; others, not so much. I hired one older lady who, after two visits, said
she wanted to “job share” the position with her friend. She brought the other woman
– unannounced – with her to my house and started right in on a hard sell. It
seems her friend’s primary qualification was her other job as a maid for Sissi
Fleitas, the buxom Spanish language TV personality. Did she think
hand-laundering Sissi’s generously-sized brassieres was equivalent to showering
a gimp girl?
I understand that attendants are people, too. They’ve
got family problems, car trouble, migraines and bunions. I try to be flexible
and understanding, but I draw the line at crazy. And I never cease to be amazed
at how crazies can hold it together during a 30-minute interview, then let it
all hang out once they get hired.
I had one nut job who -- five minutes into her
first shift – burst forth with a torrent of religious zealotry. She quizzed me
about my personal beliefs and expounded on how the artwork in my home was
demonic and dangerous. I tried to stick to innocuous topics like the weather only
to be told that even overcast days felt sunny to those in the Lord’s bosom. The
last straw came when, while shaving my legs, God Girl caressed my shins and
inquired if I wanted to “be restored.” I paid her right then and there, and
told her never to return.
Looking back, I wish I’d replied: “I am restored, you
knucklehead. Six months ago I was a double amputee!”
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