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.