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.