I came out of my supervisor’s office feeling battered and bruised.
I hadn’t been chastised or done anything wrong. In the midst of a major change, I experienced the messy and overwhelming emotions that go along with that. We were starting a new neighbourhood, training new staff and learning a radical way to deliver care. Instead of the rules which had been our boundaries to this point, we were looking at resident-led care. Letting people sleep in, get dressed when they were ready, dictate what they wanted to wear. The staff felt a lot of angst as they tried to understand what was okay, and I had been pulled in a hundred directions, trying to run the ship.
And it was only Wednesday. 
As I stepped into the hall, one of my residents wheeled herself down the hall. She suffered from aphasia, so didn’t have much language, but she possessed a wise and perceptive heart. Miss S. looked at me and knew something was wrong.
“What?”
With that one word, she told me she saw my pain and wanted to know the source.
“It’s been a hard day. I’m tired, is all.” I knelt at her level and smiled.
“Ohhhhhh.” Her face creased in concern and she lifted her bent arms . They enveloped me, and she rubbed my back as I knelt there. I returned her hug, and when I got up, said, “Thank you. I needed that.”
For the rest of the day, that hug reached into the frustrated, frightened and overwhelmed parts of my soul. I would be oaky.
It was important for me to receive it, though.
If I had pasted on a smile and walked away, I would have missed the blessing.
As a person who gives care, and who led others who gave care, I was a doer. I fixed things, solved problems and looked for ways to make the process run smoothly while meeting all the residents needs.
In that moment, I became a receiver. I allowed this wise, lovely lady to give me the gift of her care. For those few minutes, she cared for me.
Over the next few years, I learned to receive care from all kinds of people.
- The non-verbal woman with advanced dementia who I helped with breakfast most mornings. She communicated with her eyes and a turn of her head, and listened as I chatted.
- The resident with dementia who got downright huffy when she perceived someone had hurt me, and stood by my desk regailing me with all the things she would do to that person.
- The resident with the wry sense of humour who made me laugh.
- The lady who so appreciated the fancy napkins at the tea party, she pinned hers to the wall.
Reciprocal care is tricky. As a care partner, I need to be vulnerable and open when care is offered. I need to see it, and then receive it.
When I am able to do that, we both are blessed.