From Being Cared For, To Being A Carer...

I may be going to work as a carer for people with disabilities.

Which feels a little like the poacher turning gamekeeper — except with fewer pheasants and considerably more paperwork.

Having lived with a disability myself, I know what it’s like to need help. I also know what it’s like when people speak to the person beside you instead of speaking to you, assume that a wonky walk means a wonky brain, or become so determined to “help” that they forget to ask whether you actually want any.

I’ve had 29 brain operations, acquired a brain injury along the way and spent more time navigating hospitals, specialists and support systems than any sane person would willingly choose. So, while I may be new to caring as a job, I’m certainly not new to disability.

I know that sometimes people need practical help. Sometimes they need encouragement. Sometimes they need someone to listen without trying to fix everything. And sometimes they simply need to be treated like an ordinary adult who happens to require a hand with a few things.

I think my own experience could make me rather good at it. I mean I would wait for their brain to finish formalising a reply, before moving onto something else. I understand how fiercely important independence is, even when your body has other ideas. I understand the frustration, the embarrassment, the exhaustion and the peculiar humour required to get through it all.

Most importantly, I wouldn’t be frightened by disability. I wouldn’t pity anyone or treat them as though their life were a tragedy. Mine certainly isn’t. It’s been inconvenient, ridiculous and occasionally bloody difficult — but never meaningless. In fact, I can say after my brain injury that life has got alot better!

Perhaps everything I’ve been through has been preparing me for something after all.

Who knew? I may finally have found a job where being a bit broken is actually part of my résumé.

My Fridge Is Cleaner Than Most Operating Theatres

I opened my fridge this morning and realised something rather disturbing.

It is cleaner than most people’s houses.

There are no mysterious containers lurking at the back. No vegetable quietly turning into soup in the crisper. No jar of something exotic that I bought in 2019 because one recipe required half a teaspoon of it.

Everything is clean, organised and facing the correct direction.

Because I’m OCD - and before anyone writes to tell me that isn’t funny, I know. But neither is lying awake at night wondering whether the butter container is sitting crooked.

My fridge doesn’t need cleaning. It needs a curator.

People could buy tickets to see it. They could shuffle through the kitchen in respectful silence while I point out the perfectly arranged dairy section and the condiments standing in height order. There would be a velvet rope across the vegetable crisper.

“No touching, please. That capsicum was polished this morning.”

The trouble with having a spotless fridge is that other people insist on using it.

They put things back wherever they like.

Wherever. They. Like.

My partner can take the milk from its clearly designated position and return it to another shelf as though we are living through the collapse of civilisation and rules no longer apply. He’ll put an uncovered plate inside. Sideways. Occasionally containing half a sausage.

Then he closes the door and casually walks away.

How?

How does he sleep at night?

I have considered installing security cameras. Not because I suspect anyone of stealing food, but because somebody moved the mustard last Tuesday and I want names.

I’d also like my fridge fitted with fingerprint recognition. If you haven’t completed the compulsory food-storage induction, the door remains locked. There will be a short examination covering shelf allocation, lid requirements and the correct orientation of yoghurt labels.

A score below 90 percent and you’re banned from the kitchen.

People say home is where the heart is. Nonsense.

Home is where everything has a proper place—and some lunatic keeps moving the bloody milk.

I Am Now Qualified to Save Your Life...

I passed my Life Saving Course!

It was actually great. Interesting, practical and rather reassuring. I now know what to do if someone collapses, chokes, bleeds profusely or otherwise decides to create a medical emergency in my immediate vicinity. Whether I’ll remember every single step while somebody is turning blue remains to be seen, but according to the certificate, I am officially qualified!

It was also enormously time-consuming. There was online study, questions, demonstrations, more questions and an impressive number of ways for the human body to suddenly go wrong. By the end of it, I felt as though I’d completed a medical degree—albeit one where everybody kept shouting, “Call 000!”

Then came CPR.

Getting down onto the floor to perform CPR was quite a feat in itself. Saving the patient was almost secondary; first I had to make sure I didn’t become the second casualty. There was lowering, manoeuvring, careful placement of limbs and a brief moment when I wondered whether they had a crane available. Still, I got down there, pumped enthusiastically on the plastic patient’s chest and proved that I could keep someone alive.

Getting back up again probably wasn’t included in the assessment—which was fortunate.

But I did it. I passed, I learned a great deal, and I’m genuinely glad I completed it. It may have taken up half my natural life and required physical manoeuvres worthy of an Olympic event, but I am now qualified to save yours.

Just try to collapse somewhere elevated.

Knee-Deep in First Aid

I’m currently knee-deep in a first aid course, learning how to save lives—or at least select the correct answer from four suspiciously similar options.

Apparently, “give them a cup of tea and see how they feel” is never the answer. Nor is “panic loudly and call someone more qualified.”

By the end of this, I’ll be ready for any emergency. Provided it happens in multiple-choice format. 

Yay! I Picked My T-shirt Up!

It looks pretty cool! 

Sing out via email if you want one and what size...

I got another one coming, that is in white...

As for the cost... I'm not sure.

It cost me $45 bucks and then throw postage on top.

I'll source them cheaper...