I've been thinking about a lot of stuff at work -- like "What does it all mean?" And whether what I'm doing is more akin to the Czech "little work" or the Serbian "grand gesture". [I remember that stuff from my anthropology class about post-communist countries.]

My favorite resident is a man named Larry who was born with a severe joint disease. He is intelligent and well read and started his life story with "I am the fifth generation Oregonian in my family, and I'm very proud of that." I said, "Awesome! I love Oregon!" He used to work for the state government, and he's had quite a colorful life. Every time I'm the one who ends up changing him, washing him, making him dinner, or whatever, we get in fascinating conversations about our lives. When I leave, he always says, "Keep coming back" because my job has such a high turnover rate that they train a new person almost every few weeks. The last person left after three days; many people don't make it past the first few hours of training.

Larry begs me not to quit, saying, "We need you; we need someone with empathy who isn't stupid. Especially me. I need someone smart to talk to." Yesterday I walked in and he said, "Who are you going to vote for, Hilary or Obama?"

Scott has severe cerebral palsy, and trying to understand what he's saying is almost impossible. He has a college degree, but he's frustrated that a lot of new attendents treat him like he's retarded because of how he speaks. He "had a big problem" with the last five girls, according to Jennie, but he likes me.

Darnette is a bitchy control freak who instructs me exactly how to fold her washcloths, and what order to stack them in. Kim had a brain tumor but she should be a comedian because she is so fucking hilarious, like a Sarah Silverman for disabled people. Yesterday I helped her paint her nails. Chris got in a motorcycle accident in the eighties and then found Jesus, and spends her days corresponding with missionaries and making little paintings by holding the brush in her mouth. Alli is my age and has a boyfriend, and yesterday I almost broke my back helping them out of bed after some kind of amorous encounter (they were both flushed and sweaty).

I should explain that the place I work uses "resident directed care". That means that I only do what the residents tell me to do. I am their arms and legs for them, but not their brain. They control all their care. They sign up for "helps", then one of us goes to their room and does whatever they tell us to do. Often they only want me to wash their dishes, program their VCR, clean, do their laundry, cook, do their hair.

At night it gets more intense. We help them have bowel movements (you don't want to know what that involves); we clean them, undress them, and lift them into bed using a body sling and an electric lift. It's extremely complex. But it doesn't matter that I have no experience, because they know how to do all their care, and they explain how to use the lift, clean their catheter, change their leg bag, or whatever.

This is very different from a nursing home or a lot of other residences for disabled people, because there is no schedule. They can shower ever day or never. They can eat whenever they want and they all have their own kitchens. They can have pets, smoke, and drink, if they want. All their apartments are decorated according to their own tastes. I like it because I don't have to memorize a bunch of procedures, I just walk in and they tell me what to do; I'm basically a glorified servant.

But they are all so thankful. After everything I do they thank me. Sometimes I accidentally thank them back because I feel honored being let into someone's personal space and being allowed to do such delicate things with their bodies. They've had a lot of insensitive attendants, like the one who told Darnette, "If I had your life, I'd kill myself." They don't want to be treated as invalids, and they treasure any amount of independence they still have, even if it's being able to move one hand enough to feed themselves.