Two Concerns

Hey, Ive got to tell you about my first week at the new residential care home in Manchester it feels like a whole other world. I got off the bus right at the gate of St.Jamess Care at exactly 8:20am. The September air was sharp, biting my cheeks, and dry oak leaves were scattered across the front garden. I muttered to myself, First day on the job, fortysixth year of life, Ill manage, as I slung my bag with fresh shoes and an empty mug over my shoulder.

The ward manager, Zoe Parker, met me in the lobby that smelled faintly of porridge. Behind her round glasses, her eyes flickered kindly.

Come on in, Ill show you your post, she said.

A low hum from the TV filled the corridor, and clinking dishes drifted from the dining room. By the wall, an elderly bloke named Arthur Finch was dozing on a walking frame, his shoulders hunched. Nobody was shouting everyone seemed determined not to disturb the residents fragile peace.

I was handed a small locker, a soft robe and a badge that read Social Worker Sarah H. I pulled off my hat, tried to smooth my slightly rumpled hair, and thought back to my old accounting job at the firm that folded last summer. That office had the smell of paper, not antiseptic, and the change of career wasnt just about a lazy summer; after my dad passed, I wanted to do something with my hands, to help people who truly had no one else.

My first task was to hand out knitted blankets. I walked past a sixbedroom wing: Eleanor Glover was folding tiny hats for her grandchildren, eyes never leaving her knitting; Arthur tried to read the morning paper, holding his glasses up to his nose; Victoria Smythe sat by the window, listening to the quiet rather than the street. Each resident was surrounded by their belongings, yet they all looked solitary. I felt a little tingle under my ribs like the sting before someone elses tears you cant quite wipe away.

During lunch break I stepped outside, found a bench and dialed my mums number. Shes 72, lives in the same part of town but you still need two bus changes to get there.

Everythings fine, she said, just the hobs acting up again once youre here you can have a look. I promised to swing by Saturday and heard a quick, Dont forget. I pictured her thin lips, never asking for more than she needed.

That evening, after Id tidied the beds and signed the first roundsheet, I closed my shift. It was already dark at the bus stop, the sky looking like a flock of crows. On the way home I leafed through a handout on caring for mobilityimpaired elders that the college had printed. Between the lines I kept thinking about Mum, sitting in her empty flat, balancing a heavy castiron pan on the stove to keep the gas from choking just to avoid borrowing an electric hob from neighbours.

A month slipped by. October nights glued icy sheets to the windows, and I fell into the routine meeting the rehab therapist, leading group exercises, checking medications. I started Coffee Fridays: brewing Turkishstyle coffee in the kitchen, setting up a small folding table for four, and playing a vintage 60s music player. Two folks smiled, one dozed, but even a nap in a shared space felt cozier than the lonely hallway.

Then we hit a snag. One Thursday the nightshift nurse called in sick, and I was left to escort a resident to the clinic alone. Lydia Parker had to wait in line while Zoe called her up to fill a sudden paperwork request for the social services inspector. Lydia let out a soft sigh.

Dont worry, love, Ill sit and wait, she murmured, her hands trembling over her purse half an hour on her feet was a marathon for swollen joints.

That night Mum was the first to call. Ive run out of my bloodpressure tablets, and my heads pounding, she said flatly. I pressed the phone to my cheek while wiping an apple basket in the staff kitchen the cook had asked for a hand. Ill pop out and get them tomorrow, I whispered, apologising for not managing it today. A brief silence hung, full of the hum of the building.

The next morning was a disaster: the bus got stuck in traffic and I was fifteen minutes late. I asked Zoe for a quick lunch break, raced to the nearest pharmacy, stood in the seniors queue and came back with a bag of meds. I handed the parcel with a forzaten label to Mum via a familiar postwoman, because I couldnt make it home myself. A couple of hours later a text pinged, Got it, thanks, but the words felt empty.

That evening Arthur realised his photo album was missing and broke down, his sobs hitting me right in the chest. We tore the room apart between the mattress and the headboard, under the nightstand, even in the linen cupboard and only found a faded circus ticket. He then told me how his daughter had moved to the farnorth and only sent holiday cards. I think Im starting to forget her voice, he whispered. I felt a chill, wondering what would happen if Mum ever didnt recognise my voice over the phone.

I didnt get home until after nine. A cold wind rattled the street lamps, the stairwell was dark, and the front door slammed shut behind me. My phone flashed a missed call from Mum an hour ago. I tried calling back, but the line just hissed. The memory of the grim care home corridor hit me at least there a night nurse checked in every couple of hours, whereas Mum was now completely on her own.

On Sunday I finally made it to her flat. The whole place smelled of stewed cabbage and old oil. The fridge buzzed louder than it had a year ago. Mum perched on a stool, one hand resting on her knee, as if conserving strength.

Ill change the light bulb myself, I joked, but she stared back.

The bulbs nothing. When was the last time you just sat down for a cuppa without watching the clock? she asked, her question slicing through the excuses Id been building.

Monday brought the homes director announcing an upcoming audit, meaning every staff member now had to submit a community engagement report. Zoe piled a stack of forms on my desk. I grabbed a handful, but my mind drifted to Mums empty kitchen. A knot tightened in my chest I couldnt keep splitting myself between two places.

Late October. Rain hammered the windows of the tram, early dusk pushed the few passersby under the buildings overhangs. After a shift where two residents argued over the telly, I didnt head straight home. I got off at the stop near Mums fivestorey block, bought three batteries for a torch, and walked up to the fourth floor. The door was unlocked, just chained. Inside lay a scent of damp leaves a draft blowing in from the open balcony.

Mum was hunched over the kitchen, the stove dark, a lone candle sputtering and casting shadows on the cupboards.

The fuse blew again, she said without looking up, its dark, I didnt bother fixing it.

I shrugged off my coat, flicked the torch on, but the black switchboard in the hallway felt like a silent accusation.

You called, didnt you? Mum said softly. I just wanted to talk.

I slipped onto the edge of a chair and suddenly realised: in this halflight we were both like my residents, only the roles had flipped.

I took her cold hand it wasnt the warm support Id known. A clear thought swirled: I couldnt let these evenings slip away, just as I wouldnt let Arthur lose his youthful photos.

Mum, Ill make sure youre not alone, I said out loud, as if signing a contract. The decision trembled in my gut Id have to ask for a flexible schedule, look for a livein carer, maybe risk another job. I couldnt go back to racing between two lonely worlds.

At dawn, I flicked the torch again the hallway light in Mums flat now glowed, Id swapped the fuse overnight. The smell of burnt insulation mixed with fresh bread: the neighbour downstairs had brought a loaf after hearing the clatter. Mum set the kettle and watched, bemused, as I fiddled with the wiring.

Ill arrange for specialists to visit, I promised, straightening up. On the table lay an open notebook with the contact details of the local councils social services.

Within an hour I was at the centre, explaining the situation. The social worker in a lilac cardigan flipped through the programme.

You can apply online. By law, residents over 65 are entitled to a carer twice a week, she said.

I filled out the forms, attached Mums income proof and asked about a visiting nurse. Well organise a weekly visit, just need to sort the schedule, she nodded.

Back at St.Jamess, I met Zoe in the staff room, the clock ticking loudly. Ive got a personal reason, I began, laying it out: Mum needs help, and without a flexible roster Ill crack both here and at home. Its not a request for a holiday, I need two evenings a week off, Im happy to take morning shifts and handle the reports.

My words came out sharper than Id liked.

Zoe took off her glasses, wiped them with a cloth.

You know the paperworks piling up, the inspections right around the corner, she warned.

I braced for a rejection, but she continued, The residents have a right to stable support. Propose a clear plan so none of them are left unattended, and Ill sign off.

In the dining hall I drafted a quick coverage plan: Lydia would be taken to the clinic by a university volunteer, the hall duty would go to the nightshift assistant Gary, and Id move Coffee Fridays to early mornings when staff are free. Zoe glanced over the sheet, signed, and added, Make sure quality doesnt slip. These people arent just numbers, theyre lives.

That same day I returned to the mens wing. Arthur was listening to an old radio, his fingers tracing the blankets weave.

Well find that album, I whispered.

I combed the laundry room, peeked into the storage where extra blankets were kept, and asked the nightshift aide about the previous shift. By evening, after moving a bedside table, I heard a rustle a redcovered box tucked between a board and the skirting. The album.

I pulled it out, brushed off dust. The cover read Summer1973. Arthur clutched it to his chest as if it were a living thing. He didnt speak, but his eyes sparkled, and the tension in my chest finally eased.

At the next residents meeting I suggested a Family History Corner: a lockable drawer where anyone could keep precious items albums, postcards, handknitted pieces. The idea was welcomed, and Gary volunteered to build shelves from old vegetable crates. The sound of his hammer made me smile for no reason.

Around seven I slipped out, caught the train home. Mums flat was lit a greyhaired nurse in a mask, arranged by the council, was there for three weekly visits. The women chatted about a cranberry tonic. Mum eyed the newcomer warily, then nodded at me.

They say itll help keep the pressure steady, she said.

A week later I was up at five, ferrying residents to physiotherapy, and on Thursdays and Saturdays I was home by five, cooking dinner for Mum or just sitting with a mug of hot water. The schedule was tight, but for the first time it didnt feel like a futile race.

One afternoon Zoe stopped me by the desk.

The inspectors noted the boost in resident engagement. Those little history boxes are a hit. Heres a thanks for your personal touch, she said, handing me a note of appreciation.

I exhaled, finally feeling the plan work.

Evening rolled in with a light snow, the secondfloor windows showing a thin sheet of ice glinting on the pavement. I checked on Arthur, made sure his radiator was warm, and asked the nightshift nurse Olga to pop in once more before the night shift ended. Then I slipped on my coat and stepped out under the streetlamp.

In the tram the air was warm, smelling of wet wool. I opened a message from Mum: Nurse brought a bloodpressure monitor, reading 130 all good. Just a few words, but they brought a calm I hadnt felt in weeks. I sent her a voice note, describing how Arthur finally flipped through the whole album and found a circus photo hed spoken about.

Mums kitchen smelled of apple compote. The old fridge still hummed, but a new power strip sat on the counter an electrician from the council had rewired the sockets after the social workers request. I arranged the pantry, changed into slippers and sat at the table.

Are you taking it easy today? Mum asked.

No, I replied. Ive got a morning shift tomorrow, but Ill make it.

We sipped tea with honey. A lantern lay on the windowsill no longer needed, but still there out of habit. Mum told me she was learning to log her bloodpressure in a little notebook for the nurse to check. I listened, feeling the nervous flutter in my stomach settle into a steady rhythm. The balance Id feared missing turned out to be a concrete timetable and a few allies.

Before leaving, I straightened my coat on the rack, and Mum slipped a small woollen scarf over my hands.

Its chilly out, she said.

I wrapped the scarf around my neck, feeling that familiar warmth of the yarn. The hallway clock ticked, the only sound breaking the silence. I switched off the main light, leaving the kitchen lamp on.

See you tomorrow, Mum.

No rush, no hustle.

On the stairwell the air was crisp, the iron rail cold under my palm. I clutched the scarf and suddenly realised that neither the care home nor Mums flat felt like deadends anymore. Theyre just two points Ive learned to move between. Snowflakes, barely visible under the entrance light, drifted softly. I stepped into the night another shift, another cup of tea, and a quiet smile waiting for me.