Field Notes

It's a 30-minute drive to the client's house and I get there early... showing up on time is showing up late. Though if I'm honest, I got there 30 minutes early and sat in the car for a bit. Ran through things in my head. Mind racing.

Everything before this, via Mable, had been home and garden assistance, hedges trimmed, floors mopped... decent, honest work, but work that asks nothing of your hands that your hands don't already know how to do. This was different. This was the first time I'd be responsible for someone's body, and I knew it the second the coordinator from the company that hired me a few months ago told me. they even had me ion for a special seizure training. Sh*t's got real...

The mother gives me the tour... which rooms is where, where the towels live, the geography of somebody else's home you're expected to memorise in ninety seconds flat.

Beautiful place. And homely.

I meet the other support worker on shift... Clara, a few years further into this than I am.

And then I meet him. The reason we're all standing in this hallway to begin with. Call him Steve. A teenager. Cerebral palsy, severe... he can't move on his own, can't speak, can't tell you what he needs or doesn't. Everything about how you read him has to come from somewhere other than words.

I talk to him for a minute before anything else happens. Not because it's in the training manual - though it probably is - but because you don't just walk into someone's evening and start handling their body without saying hello first, even if hello gets you nothing back you can name. My voice came out steadier than I felt.

Clara tells me that they've just finished dinner and it's shower time... a two-person job, choreography and all. She walks me through the transfer... hands under the arms, weight shifted just right, from wheelchair to the electric bed. I know it is not the right way to do it... Manual handling regulations and all that. The house is kitted out with overhead ceiling hoists. She asked me, "Are you ok with moving Steve this way?" I just nodded my head.

I felt his weight. This is a person, his full weight, his trust, whether he's able to give it consciously or not, and every part of me is aware that I could get this wrong. We undress him. Quick wipe down. Move him again, bed to shower chair. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, a toothbrush... the most ordinary rituals in the world, except somebody else's hands are doing them for him, and today, for the first time, those hands are mine... I've no idea yet if I'm doing this right.

Dry him off. Nappy, pyjamas, shirt. Transfer him back to the chair... same careful physics as before, a little less foreign this time. Wheel him to his room. Struggling slightly with the electric wheelchair.. another first.

By 6:45 he's ready for bed, and I let his parents know.

Clara spends the last few minutes of her shift scrubbing down the bathroom, then clocks out around seven. And then it's just me.

I stay in his room until ten. No conversation, because there can't be one. Also, he's already asleep. His parents were awake. Mum would stop by on and off for a brief chat in whispers.

The other times, I sat near his bed. Once in a while looking at my phone. Making notes. Putting it away. Stuck in my head.

He sometimes has seizures when asleep. I was keeping an eye out for one. Praying that it wouldn't happen on my watch. Not this time, anyways.

At 9.57 pm, the night shift support worker arrived and relieved me. Her movements suggested she was a pro.

Before I left, his parents told me he liked me. I couldn't tell. They knew because you learn to read the small stuff after years of it, the things the rest of us miss.

I held onto that the whole drive home. Whatever nerves had ridden shotgun with me all evening, they let up a little on the way out the door. But I also knew I had it easy... no seizures.

I didn't know, walking in fifteen minutes early and half-sick with nerves, that this was the shift that would actually teach me what this work is

6:55am, and I'm back... this time the sun's barely up and so is the house. Clara's already there when I arrive, which is its own kind of comfort. Round two doesn't come with the same static in your chest as round one, but it's not nothing either. You don't get to relax just because you've done it once. At least I can't.

We wake Steve up gently... Blinds rolled up, projector clicking on, his favourite show. He wakes up happy. That's worth noting, because it means something's working, some rhythm the house has built long before I showed up.

Pyjamas off. Nappy change, proper clean-up, no shortcuts. School trousers on. Then the transfer... hands under the armpits, wheelchair waiting and it's already less foreign than it was yesterday. Muscles remember faster than nerves settle. Shirt, jumper, socks. Wheeled him out to the table for breakfast.

His mother had it prepped and handled the first few mouthfuls herself because there's medication folded into food, and that's not something you hand off to the new guy on his second day. Once that part's done, I take over the feeding. We get through the whole serving without a fuss, which apparently is its own small victory in this house. Something in him seems to be loosening up around me. I talked to him right through the process. Joking. Laughing. I think he smiled too. Maybe the beginning of some trust.

Then it happens... he put his arm on me... around my neck. At first I thought h was trying to pull my hair as he is won't to do. I don't have hair for pulling... haha.. but he didn't. His hand rested on my shoulder for a bit. His dad was excited... "He likes you a lot!".

I was floored. This is what it's all about.

Shoes on. His mother walks me through securing him properly for the bus. Straps, positioning, the difference between "seated" and "safe." Then out the front door, his father alongside us, and I take Steve for a couple of short walks up and down the sidewalk while his dad watches on.

There's a rainbow out, so I point it out to him. No idea what lands and what doesn't. You do it anyway.

The van shows up at 8:10. I wheel him right up to the back and the driver takes it from there... a whole system of hands and routines this family has built long before I entered the picture, and will keep running long after.

Back inside, it's a different kind of work. His mother runs me through the cleaning routine... dishwasher emptied, everything stowed exactly where it belongs. Coffee. Then vacuuming and mopping. Walkways, living area, kitchen, laundry. Everywhere except the bedrooms. The parents simply cannot do much and they need all the support they can get.

Shift's done by ten. I let myself out.

Two mornings in, and the job's already stopped being about proving I can do the physical parts right. It's turning into something else. Learning the shape of a family's morning, the choreography that keeps a kid like Steve fed, dressed, medicated, out the door and safely delivered, every single day, whether or not anyone ever stops to notice how much precision that actually takes.

I was on my way to grab breakfast when my phone rang. The coordinator from the agency, the one who'd placed me at Steve's.

They'd sent two different support workers in the past couple of days.

And his mum had asked for me.

I stood there for a second, coffee line forgotten. Two shifts. That's all it had been... two shifts, some nappies, a breakfast, a walk to see a rainbow... and somehow that had been enough to get requested.

Not because I'd mastered the transfers or memorised the routine faster than anyone else could. I hadn't. I still don't fully trust my own hands half the time. But something had landed anyway.

Proof, maybe, of the thing nobody tells you when you're starting out in this line of work: skill is teachable. Turning up wearing your heart on your sleeve isn't. You either bring it or you don't, and apparently it shows faster than the training does.

Problem is, I don't have much of myself left to give right now. TAFE's eating most of my week alive. But I found what I could and gave it back: Tuesday 6 to 10pm, Wednesday 7 to 10am, Friday 7 to 10am.

I'm psyched. I won't pretend otherwise. But underneath all that there's a low hum of nerves too. The kind that comes from being handed someone's trust before you're sure you've earned it, and having to earn it properly now, on a schedule, week after week.

Imposter syndrome, was it?!

Mostly, though, I'm just grateful.

I get there at six. Steve's already finished dinner, Amanda, another support worker, sitting with him. Some evenings you walk into the middle of something instead of the start of it - the job doesn't always begin with you.

I said Hi to everyone and a special Hi to Daniel. Call me crazy but I'm sure he looked at me and smiled. Warmed me right up. Ahhh, the little things.

We move him to the living area, Amanda helping get him settled onto the mat on the floor. For the next half hour it's him and I, and The Wiggles. No tasks, no checklist. Just presence. the most important ingredient of all.

Then it's shower time. Bathroom, transfer to the electric bed, undress him... a little bit of a clean up too... Shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, teeth brushed. Back to the bed to get him into his pyjamas.

Transfer to the wheelchair. I blow-dry his hair while Clara handles the bathroom. Then I bring him through to his room so his mum and dad can say goodnight... a small, precious ritual.

By 7.20 he's fast asleep.

I sit near him after that, just watching, until ten, when the next support worker comes to take over.

Some shifts are all motion... transfers, meals, cleaning (a lot of it). This one was quieter. Dinner, The Wiggles, a shower, a goodnight.

Quiet doesn't mean nothing happened. It just means the work looked more like care than labor.

I get to the house by seven. Amanda is already there. The wheels are in motion. Steve had been up since five, only drifted back off around 6:30. So instead of the usual wake-up routine, we wait. His mum asks us to let him surface on his own time.

You learn quickly that some mornings the plan is just no plan.

He wakes up around 7:30. From fast asleep to super-excited in 2 seconds flat. I love it.

Hhe won't be going to school today. So, we get changed and have breakfast. Then, it's time for a stroll. The weather was very accommodative. Sunny.

I take him out for a walk around the block instead. We end up out there almost an hour, no destination, just watching cars go by. There's a kind of patience in that I didn't have before this job... standing on a sidewalk with someone, watching traffic, and calling that a good use of an hour. It is, though. He seemed to think so too. 😄

Back home, I get him settled on the mat for some TV, and then the shift shifts again into the other half of the job nobody photographs for the brochure. Clothes out to dry. Linen changes. Mopped the room. The unglamorous scaffolding that keeps a household like this one standing, same as the walks and the wheelchair transfers, just quieter about it.

Signed out at ten.

Not every shift is buzzing with activity. Some of them are just made of small adjustments, a plan that changes within five minutes of getting there, an hour spent watching cars with someone who can't tell you why he likes it, but clearly does.

3:35pm. Steve's off the playmat and into his wheelchair for tea.

I feed him, clean him up, take him out for the walk around the block that's become its own small tradition between us. This time I pick some flowers along the way, hold them up so he can take in the colours, then find a dandelion and blow the seeds right near his face. He lights up. Genuinely excited... the kind of reaction that makes you stop and remember why the small stuff matters as much as the big stuff in this job.

Back home an hour later. Some playtime, then I help his mum with a bit of cleaning. Dinner, which he devoured. Then, cleaned up again, and Tamara takes over for his bath while I vacuum the living area and the TV room, take the garbage out, line the bins. Tamara runs me through his care app before I go. Note: Tamara is the big-wig coordinating all of Steve's care work. Big brains. Lots of experience. Watching her work is a damn masterclass.

Closed the shift at eight. Nothing dramatic today. A walk, some flowers, a boy who lit up at a dandelion.

Some of the best moments in this job are that small.

7am, back at the house. Amanda is already there.

Steve's mum wakes him, and I take it from there... nappy changed, into his school uniform, transferred to the wheelchair, breakfast fed. Wheeled him out to the bus, which this time, was already here and the driver, impatient.

But the real thing happened before any of that. The moment his mum woke him and I came into view, he smiled. Not a reflex, not something I'm reading into out of hope... an actual smile, aimed at me, first thing in the morning. Then during breakfast, more of them. A couple of big ones. And then he reached out and hugged me. Twice.

Just finished my second week. Nappies, transfers, showers... I've gotten competent at the mechanics fast enough. But competence was never really the thing I was chasing.

This was.

Some kid who can't tell you a single word about how he feels, telling you anyway, with his whole body, that he's glad you're there.

The rest of the shift was ordinary in the best sense. Linen changed, his room vacuumed and mopped. Clothes out to dry, kitchen utensils washed, the living area and kitchen given a once-over. The unglamorous back half of the job nobody smiles about.

But I'll take the ordinary all day if it comes bookended by a hug like that.

I'm at Steve's by six. He's on his play-mat, watching The Wiggles. Peter (new guy, from the same agency I am with), parked beside him keeping half an eye and half an ear on the TV himself.

Nobody's rushing anything. That's the tell of a good evening.

"You're the Senior one today", mum tells me with a wry smile.

"Way to put me on the spot," I respond. She knows I'm joking.

While nervous, I do appreciate the trust.

I take over from there. I play with Steve on the mat for a bit. He laughs!!! Hugs me. Dad says, "Look at that... He's laughing... He's glad you're here!"

That warms me up.

Transfer him off the mat, into the shower chair, down the hall to the bathroom... Undress him. Nappy off, quick clean-up, no drama, and back into the shower chair for the part of the evening that he enjoys. Yes, Steve loves the water. Brushing his teeth, not so much. 🫤

Soap. Shampoo. Conditioner. The same rituals that somebody else's hands are doing for him tonight, and tonight those hands are mine, same as most Tuesdays now.

Onto the changing table. Dry him off, get him dressed, and Peter wheels him through to his room while I finish up. Nadia and Jerry come in to say goodnight... the two of them leaning over him. A private, loving "good night". I transfer him into bed after that and tuck him in. Lights down. Quiet. He's asleep.

Peter stays with him while I go deal with the bathroom. Mop it, wipe it down, put it back the way it should be. Then back to the room, watching him, because that's really what the rest of the shift is. Not tasks. Just presence.

I pull out my notepad and write... Mostly nothing. Some of it... well could be something.

I get there by seven. Steve's already up... been up since some ungodly hour, and Amanda's already changed him once by the time I walk in.

I don't rush him. Let him surface properly before I do anything, because a kid who's been awake since 3am deserves a minute before someone starts putting clothes on him.

I transfer him into the wheelchair. Uniform on, jumper over the top, and we wheel out to the table for breakfast. Amanda handles the meds first, folded into food the way it always is, and then I take over the feeding. Same choreography as every morning like this one. He loves his food, yes he does. Smashes his brekkie while taking moments here and there to hug me. 🤗

After, I take him out for a walk, killing time until the bus shows. Nothing dramatic, just the two of us and the footpath until the driver pulls up.

Once he's gone, it's the other half of the job. The domestic assistance part.

Steve's mum bakes, and today she'd made something with chocolate swirls in it that had no business being that good this early. Coffee too, fuc*ing good coffee. Amanda and I take a few minutes at the dining table for a coffee and a chat before I get back into it...

Then it's the laundry, the last job of the morning. Once it's done I look it over, satisfied, and clock out.

Some shifts are all urgency. This one was cake and coffee and clean linen, and I'll take that kind any day.

No nosy managers. No presentation. No office politics. Just human connections and honest, simple work.

Next... gym time.

TAFE today from 9.30 am to 2.30pm. I finish and drive straight to Steve's. Thursday have been pretty gnarly... no breaks...

I arrived Steve's by 3.30 pm; he was asleep. Tamara handed over, advising Steve had a significant seizure that morning and had missed school as a result. this had thrown the day's care plan into disarray.

Amanda who did the morning shift had to stay on for a couple more hours. Tamara, who was due at 8pm had covered the usually vacant afternoon shift.

Chaos was an understatement.

And she was knackered and ready to clock out the moment I arrived.

I was on my own...

While Steve napped, I brought in and folded the laundry.

He woke around 4:30pm. Sat with him on the mat watching Wiggles, followed by playtime, then transferred him to his wheelchair for dinner.

After dinner, more playtime, then showered and changed him for bed.

Was solo on shift from 3.30 until 8:15pm... no other support present. Managed independently.

Steve's dad said, "Naveen you handled this shift all alone like brilliantly."

Stayed back past the scheduled finish to complete: put Steve to bed after showering, cleaned the bathroom, and took out garbage. Clocked out at 8:15pm just as the night's shift worker arrived earlier than her scheduled time.

What a day... Exhausting. Fulfilling. Reminded yet again that things don't often go to plan. But a bunch of support workers rose to the occasion.

Arrived at 7:00am to find Amanda already with Steve, who was wide awake and grooving along to The Wiggles. Let him enjoy the moment before easing into the morning routine... changed him into his school uniform, freshened him up, and got him ready for breakfast. One thing about Steve... he loves his food. 😋

Strapped him into his wheelchair, packed his school bag, and took him out for a walk while waiting for the bus. About 20 minutes later he was off to school.

Took a short break inside... Steve's mum makes an excellent coffee, and today's biscuits more than made up for the absence of cake. They had some sort of cheesy cream on them. "My version of Oreos", she said.

"Much, much better", Amanda and I confirm.

I love these tea-break conversations. One gets to know a lot about clients during these informal chats. Helps solidify relationships.

Spent the rest of the shift on a solid block of housekeeping: cleaned out Steve's room, changed the linen, vacuumed through the house, and worked through a good amount of laundry.

Feeling increasingly settled into the role — getting a clearer sense of what the position calls for day to day, and building a good read on how Steve's parents like things done. Steadily finding my footing with the family.

Arrived at Steve's at 6pm. The family was having dinner and Steve was on his playmat. Playing. Taking a break to watch the Wiggles. Playing again.

I joined him and hung out until 6.30 when it was time for his shower. Usual transfers, showers and change of nappies and clothes.

In bed by 7.20.

Cleaned the bathroom and cleared all the bins and lined them before sitting by Steve to keep an eye on him until end of shift and handed over to the nightshift support worker.

One of those ordinary days. Peaceful. Everything went to plan.

Arrived at 7am and Steve had just woken up. Changed his nappy and got him dressed for school. Transferred him from bed to wheelchair. Finishing touches.

After Amanda had given him his meds, I fed him breakfast. Steve and I do this little play thing where I pretend the food is going into my mouth and not his. He loves it. Tries to get to the spoon faster. And flashes a tiny smile. You'll miss it if you blink.

Then, we headed out for a walk. It's a beautiful day. Typical first days of spring.

His bus arrived 10 minutes early. I saw the driver waving at us from a far. The powerlessness is real when you must hurry but the electric wheelchair only goes 3.2kmh!!!😮‍💨

Handed him over to his school bus and then cleaned Jerry's room, changed linen, etc.

Some delicious cake and coffee later, vacuumed the house. Mopped the kitchen and some other areas.

Washed clothes and put them out to dry.

Swept the back porch.

Showed up at Steve's at 7, ready for the usual: get him up, dressed, fed, off to school.

Amanda met me at the door with the update... fever most of the night, runny nose. No school today.

So the whole shape of the day changed. Support schedules do that. The family's dealt with worse curveballs than this, and so has the existing team... nobody panicked, we just pivoted.

I got Daniel dressed. Breakfast was a write-off... a few mouthfuls and that was it. Poor kid just didn't have it in him. Wheeled him over to his mat, parked him in front of the TV, and used the window to straighten his room. Linen, laundry, the usual tidy-up. Then back to him. He leaned into me, cuddled up, we watched TV together. Simple stuff, but it's the stuff that matters on a day like this.

Tamara, the family's main contact, and a support worker who's been doing this a long time (she even built a cool app for Steve's care services) came in to take over.

Before I left, she pulled me aside. Said my observation skills were sharp, that I notice things most people walk past. Said she liked how I keep records in the app.

I'll take that.

Arrived at 6pm. Steve was having dinner with another support worker, who I was meeting for the first time... she came across as extremely capable, almost single-handedly managing his care. Respect!

Steve had note gone to school since last Friday. The flu had gotten the better of him. Poor kid. Stuffy nose. Poor appetite. But the kid was soldiering on.

After dinner, I supported Steve with his shower, helped him change into fresh clothes, and transferred him to his wheelchair for some time on the playmat. We spent about 15 minutes there before I noticed he was becoming sleepy and tired, so I took him to bed.

He was initially restless for around 10 minutes - tossing and turning - but settled after I placed a hand on his head for reassurance, and fell asleep shortly after.

Clocked out at 10:00 PM.

Seven a.m., and Steve's already two hours into his day by the time I walk in. Tamara, the family's actual MVP, the one who's been holding this operation together since before I showed up is feeding him brekkie.

No school today. Sick day.

We hit the playmat for an hour. And here's where I decided to gamble a little. The Wiggles is law in this house... unbreakable, unquestioned, the background hum of every shift I've worked so far. I turned it off. Sesame Street went on instead.

I did the responsible thing first... thought it through, stayed close, told myself it was just a TV show, not his dinner or his routine, nothing that could actually derail him. Risk assessment they call it in the industry.

He didn't just tolerate it. He crawled straight for the screen, hauled himself up on the TV stand, and stood there like he owned the place. Tamara told me later nobody else had dared touch that remote.

Small rebellion, big payoff.

Then came the kind of compliment that actually lands... Tamara and Steve's mum, off in the kitchen somewhere, talking about how well I'd made his bed. Doesn't sound like much. But when you're this new to a field, still figuring out if you're any good at it, that stuff's gold.

Took him out after that. Sun was doing its best, a little cold edge in the breeze cutting through... ideal for the slow stroll. He seemed good the whole way. Settled. Content.

Back home, playmat again, and I ducked off to sort dad's room before clocking out.

Seven am. Amanda's at Steve's bedside. She starts at 6 am. He'd had a difficult night (i.e., restless sleep, seizures) and was only just back under. I sat with him. Watched him like a hawk... watching for movements, subtle indicators of a seizure.

He was in and out of sleep... more a truce between the body and whatever it had been through a few hours earlier. By quarter to eight he surfaced on his own terms, and the routine's underway... nappy change, fresh clothes, brekkie. He smashed his meal. Then the playmat... a ray of normalcy in a morning that was anything but.

When the roster is shaky, no one is certain who is covering which shift (or if someone is coming at all), you focus on the parts that can be controlled. Stripped and remade his bed. Cleaned, vacuumed, mopped. Hung the washing out.

At ten I handed duties over to the next worker my agency scraped together. A senior support worker who responded to the agency's desperate call. Full brief, nothing left to guesswork as this was his first time with Steve. I also knocked off all tasks and more so that he could give all his attention to Steve for the next four hours.

Here's the part that sat with me longer than the shift did. Steve hadn't been at school all week. When the school routine collapses, it doesn't just cost the him a day of class. 😟

It f*cks up every support shift stacked around it, and suddenly a family that had a plan has no plan, and they're working the phones trying to find people to fill gaps that shouldn't exist. My agency was in full swing to support the family in the absence of Steve's regular care team who were also stretched moving their schedules around.

Today they needed more of us than existed. I had appointments I could not move, so I gave what I could and left. For some reason, I couldn't shake that guilty feeling. Maybe it was the worried look on the mother I had to walk away from...

That's the job, some days... not the nappy changes, baths or the mopped floor, but sitting with the math of not being enough to go around, and showing up for your piece of it anyway.

Two weeks away on aged care placement, and being back at Steve's felt like exhaling. I hadn't realised how much I'd missed the rhythm of the place until I was back in it. Steve clocked it too... that quick, knowing flash of a smile the second I walked in and greeted him in the lounge.

No fanfare. Just recognition. That's enough.

Moved him into his wheelchair, wheeled him for dinner. Another support worker from arvo shift fed him while I got stuck into some quick cleaning. After dinner, it was time for his shower. Fresh nappy and pyjamas. While the other worker put him to bed, I cleaned and straightened the bathroom... the unglamorous tail end of every good shift.

Bed didn't take, though. Steve was restless, unsettled... Tossing and turning. Sitting up. Looking at me. Smiling. Sat with him for about an hour... just presence, talking, comforting. On mum's call, moved him back out to the lounge for some Wiggles in the hope that will tire him out. Another nappy change. And hung out with him until 9:55pm, when I transferred him back to the wheelchair for a late snack.

The next worker arrived expecting him to be asleep as is her norm.

Last night was nothing like my usual Tuesdays. Normally I come in, feed and shower him, and when transferred to his bed, he's down within minutes. The rest of the shift is me watching him sleep, observing his sleep patterns, watching out for seizures. Tonight was the opposite. Active, unsettled, requiring real engagement for the full duration of my 4-hour-shift. Another reminder that the job doesn't run on a script.

Outside Steve's house at 5.55. Quick updates on the apps and when I step indoors, I'm met with Steve in his wheelchair. Amanda is taking him out for a walk. It was fantastic time for a walk.

Steve smiled. Never fails to remind me why I do what I do. He had on a bucket hat and blue-screen glasses that Amanda had given him hoping that it might help him with the sun. We'd never know if he was excited that he looked like a little professor, but we sure were.

I got started cleaning up. Folded a bunch of laundry.

Steve was back 30 minutes later. I showered and changed him. He loves everything about the shower, but my rushing his teeth. That is a battle. A gentle one, but still a battle.

Dressed in his pyjamas, he was out like a lamp within seconds of being tucked into bed.

While he was asleep I restocked his incontinence aids and kept an eye on him until it was time for handover at 10 pm.

6 pm. I'm officially on the clock.

I come in through the back door and find everyone in the lounge room. I clock in on two apps: one belongs to the agency that pays me, the other to Steve's family, a platform that tracks his whole life in checkboxes, timestamps and notes. Between them, a person's needs get reduced to data entry. Important data, however.

Then I see the amber alert. Seizures in progress.

Amanda is holding Steve close, whispering to him. He drifts in and out of sleep, eyes half-open, not quite here. This evening is going to be different.

His mum and dad greet me. "He's been having seizures. He's exhausted." Amanda looks up and gives me a tired half-smile and a nod. She doesn't need to say more. I've learned a lot from her, mostly care tactics, and the kind of sincerity you can't fake.

Mum makes the call: no dinner, no shower, straight to bed. We move quickly and gently, lifting him into the wheelchair and then onto the bed. Fresh incontinence aids, clean clothes. A severe seizure doesn't care about dignity. The muscles that keep the plumbing under control let go, and the bladder, sometimes the bowel, empties without permission. Clinicians call it ictal incontinence.

Once he's tucked in, mum pulls a chair up beside him. Amanda and I turn to the rest of the house: dishes, laundry, stray toys. We barely speak, we don't need to (overlapping shifts in the past have made us a dynamic duo), and within minutes the place is in order.

Amanda clocks out. The door clicks shut behind her, and the house settles into that particular quiet I've become used to. I take the chair beside Steve's bed.

No tasks, no checkboxes. Just me, a dim room, and the sound of a boy breathing. I listen to the rhythm of it: slow, a little ragged at the edges, then steadier. I watch his chest rise and fall.

I hear the fridge hum. Muffled voices from the TV in the lounge room. A dog barks outside. I frantically curse the dog under my breath and check if Steve was disturbed. He didn't stir.

You'd think three hours of sitting would be boring. Well, it can be challenging. The first two evening shifts were. But I remember, every breath is a small piece of good news.

He sleeps straight through. At 10 pm I hand over to the next support worker, and the night goes on without me.

Five to six at Steve's. The care app says he's out walking with a support worker I've never met. So I get to work... Greet the parents and look around for what's sticking out like a sore thumb... I find the laundry.

I start putting away a mountain of fresh-smelling clothes. Folding is my guilty pleasure. 👚

I'd barely squared the last corner when Steve was back. A quick meet-and-greet with Sofia, the support worker I'd never met, and then it was his hour.

Play-mat. The Wiggles. Steve was glued to it, occasionally pausing to play with his toys.

Then, shower-time and into his PJs. Sofia tucked him in. I took ten minutes and put the bathroom back into mint condition, because I've got standards even when nobody's looking. 😉

After that, the long watch. A quiet house, [one sound or light: the monitor glow, the fridge hum], and Steve asleep, easy as you like, all the way to handover. Then Tamara walked in and I handed over the night.

10 minutes in the car reliving the day, notes, updates.

Seven on the dot. The sun is just clearing the rooftops and Amanda's already in the house. We trade a few quiet words, people are still asleep.

Steve isn't, for long. Our voices... Steve stirs, stretches, lets out a small noise somewhere between a yawn and a complaint. Then the grin. He wakes up the way I wish I did: happy, loose, ready.

I give him the high-pitched greeting, the one no grown man would dare use in public. He answers it. I put the Wiggles on to ease him out of sleep, and mum leans in to say good morning.

Then the routine: fresh clothes, school uniform, breakfast in the dining area.

This is the bit I'd keep if I could keep only one. I'm working one arm into his shirt, and when I move on to the second sleeve, his first hand slips free. I stop. I look at him. He looks right back with the tiniest smile, cheekiness plastered all over his face. Was it intentional? I think so. His grin does little to mask it.

At 7:55 the knock comes at the front door: the school bus. Amanda wheels him out and the house goes quiet.

I get to work. Mopping. Laundry: linen, clothes, bibs. I'm done fifteen minutes before I'm due out, and there's no point dragging it out for show, so I ask mum and dad if there's anything else they need. There isn't.

In the car I spend ten minutes on the notes, then point it toward the gym with Pantera at full volume.

Seven on the dot. Steve’s just waking up, stretching, little noises. I give him a few minutes to ease out of the sleepiness with The Wiggles, then we get on with the morning... clean clothes, school uniform, and assist into the wheelchair.

Meds are Amanda’s department. Mine is breakfast, one spoonful at a time, at whatever pace the boss sets. And he usually has a big appetite.

A short lap outside, then the school bus pulls up and he’s gone.

Then, as the washing machine is whirring, I strip Steve’s room, remake it, vacuum, and then mop it.

I’m done early, and a man with spare time on support work is a dangerous thing. I tell her, "I'm done with everything. Is there anything else you'd like me to smash out before I leave?"

Steve’s mum gives me the look of someone working up to a favour.

“Naveen, I hate to ask,” she says. “You’ve already done so much.”

“No, go ahead.”

“It’s just the tops of the kitchen cabinets. I don’t think anyone’s touched them in ages.” She winces a little, as if she’s the one who let them go. “Only if you’ve got the time. Please don’t feel you have to.”

“Happy to.”

"Just do what you can."

I drag the stepladder over, climb, and understand the wince.

It isn’t dust. Dust is soft. Dust wipes off. This is a grey, furred crust with a skin of old cooking oil under it, years of frying, garlic and onions turned to smoke, drifting up and settling on the one surface nobody ever looks at. It has set like glue. My fingertips come away tacky. When I press a rag to it, it doesn’t lift, it resists, then lets go with a small, sticky tearing sound, like a plaster coming off.

First pass, the rag turns the colour of weak tea. Second pass, strong tea. By the third, I’m scraping with a fingernail, a squirt of Windex, and working the stuff up in curls, the way you’d peel old paint off a window frame. The smell is stale oil and a hint of every dinner this family has ever cooked.

It’s the kind of dust that says nobody’s had a spare hour in a long time. Which is the thing about a house with a child like Steve in it. The hours go to the child, as they should, and the cabinets wait.

When I climb down, the tops are bare wood for the first time in years. Nobody will ever see it. Mum will "know", is all. And that's good enough.

No drama, no breakthroughs. Just a regular day of support and care, which is most of the job and, I’m starting to think, the point, really.

One piece of news on the way out the door.. Amanda might be moving out of town in December.

"Oh no.... another one bites the dust," exclaims Steve's mum. She's clearly going to miss Amanada.

She’s great to work alongside, and I see her twice a week, so I’ll miss her. But if it happens, there'd be extra extra shifts, but that depends on whether the family would want to pay "extra" for the agency that employs me or get work with contractors like the rest of the team. Fingers crossed.

Support work: where one person’s goodbye is another person’s roster.

Six o'clock at Steve's. Dinner's done and Sofia's already wheeling him out for a walk, so I've got a twenty-minute window and a house to quietly improve.

Laundry first, then a quick vacuum of the play area, then the kitchen. Steve's mum loves cooking, and the kitchen is the evidence: pans, utensils, a small mountain of mixing bowls, spatula, and utensils I can't even name waiting for someone with a sponge. I'm elbow-deep in suds and nearly done when Steve and Sofia are back, and he's already on his play mat.

My turn.

"Hiiiii, Steeeeeve."

There it is. That knowing, cheeky smile, every time. It never fails to get me.

I hang out for a while, then stand and hold out both arms. He takes my hands. A gentle tug, and his whole face scrunches with effort as he works his way up, inch by inch, until he's standing, wobbling, grinning, holding on to me like a Capn' manning his ship in a storm. I can't fully let go. I ease my grip just enough to feel him try it on his own. He looks up at me, still smiling. We take a few steps together. Small, uncertain steps. Then I help him into the wheelchair and take him for his shower.

We take our time. Steve loves the water, slapping at it while I get on with the job. Teeth are another matter. He has opinions about toothbrushes, and none of them are good. 😆 So we negotiate by looking at each other: a few strokes at a time, a pause, a few more.

Fresh PJs on. Sofia knocks, asking for a hand with his fingernails. I expect a fight. There isn't one. It goes off without a hitch, which in this job counts as a small miracle. She takes him off to bed, and I take the bathroom. Spic and span.

When I'm done, Sofia's at his bedside, finishing her notes. Her night is ending and mine is only halfway through. We swap a few words about the day, and I notice something. Two people with very little in common, brought together by the same job, sharing a quiet moment that only the two of us really get. She says goodnight, and I take my seat beside his bed.

Then it's just me and a sleeping kid. Outside, a heavy rain starts up, loud on the roof, angry. Steve doesn't flinch.

I sit and watch him, and the rain keeps coming, all the way to handover.

5.10 pm. The rain smashes Sydney like it's got a score to settle. I could barely see in front of me as I tore through the streets to get to Steve's on time.

When I get to Steve's, he's having dinner with Sofia. I greet him first. Then, Sofia and the parents. They give me a mix of "Hiiii", "How are you?", "How was your week?", "How's the family?"

Steve looks at me but barely acknowledges me. His plate is full. There's business to be taken care of.

I've got about half hour before he'll be ready for his shower.

I tackle the mountain of dishes in the sink. Some washed. Some rinsed and straight into the dishwasher. And they keep coming! Steve's mum is serving more food, putting some into containers. She says with a chuckle, "I'm sorry, Naveen. The plates and dishes are gonna keep coming!" 🍽️

Once done, it's me and Steve. Shower. Brushing teeth (which he refused more than usual today!). Towel dry. Blow dry hair. Get dressed. And ma man's ready for bed.

Sofia tucks him in and I take a quick coffee break courtesy of mum. 😉 Oh, she makes the best coffee! We're at a point where she doesn't bother asking us if we'd like some coffee. The answer is always a resounding YES!

Sofia and I have a brief chat - how the week went by in a blink, meal plans (she's on a clean bulk) - while updating our notes as Steve falls asleep. Once she leaves, I'm on my own listening to the patter of rain. Steve settles into a deep sleep.

Hot day. Almost like the sun was apologising for last Tuesday's insane drive to Steve's.

Before even clocking in I knew he'd be on a walk with Sofia.

Greet the parents. They ask about my girls. And then I'm off to the races. I mean dishes. Dishes. Dishes. Happens when you're at a house of foodies. Hey, I'm not complaining... I get to indulge too. 😃

Just as my fingers squeak on the last dish, Steve and Sofia are back. A little knowing smile when he sees me and then he loses interest. Sofia wheels him to the bathroom. Moments later I'm near him. Eye contact and a hearty HI usually gets his attention. He acknowledges me with a brief smile.

I leave the bathroom slightly ajar and prep him for his shower. I assist him to stand up, holding him tight, gently getting him to take a few steps towards his shower chair... he smiles as he takes the tiniest steps. Accomplishment. These moments are precious.

Then, it's the shower routine. Shampoo, Conditioner. Lotion. Brush teeth. Dry him thoroughly. Fresh incontinence aids and pyjamas and he's ready for bed. His parents bid him a good night. Kisses. Cuddles.

While he's under Sofia's watch I bring the bathroom back to mint condition. Some banter with Sofia. She animatedly breaks down what her husband cooked for her the night before... A prawn dish. I tell her i'm allergic and she hits me with a double blend of mockery and sympathy. I tell her to shut up and go home to her boiled chicken (actual chicken was on her dinner menu, not the husband.. 🤣).

Those moments during shift transition are pleasant. The conversation that has nothing to do with work. A joke or two. A rant about how quickly the week goes by. As two individuals, not support workers.

And then, I'm on my own. Watching Steve as he sleeps. He sleeps soundly. I sit beside his bed and write. Just free-writing on a notepad.

Four benefits to this: Makes the slow late evening minutes go faster, beats doomscrolling, and I come up with good ideas for writing and other avenues of my life. Most importantly, my focus on Steve isn't diluted like it could be if I was on the phone.

As the clock closes in on 10 pm, my words hit the page like Rambo's machine gun in that semi-dark room. After a brief handover I'm in my car and Robert Plant in his blues-infused voice belts, "Hey, hey, mama, said the way you move / Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove"...