Two Concerns

8:20am the bus dropped me off in front of the gate of the Willow Grove supportedliving complex. A chilly September morning bit at my cheeks, and dry oak leaves littered the flowerbeds by the entrance. First day on the job, fortysixth year of life, Ill manage, I thought, hoisting a satchel that held a pair of clean shoes and an empty thermos.

Mrs. Margaret Ellis, the house manager, met me in the lobby, which smelled faintly of boiled oatmeal. Behind her round spectacles, sharp eyes flickered.

Come in, Ill show you the ward, she said.

A low hum from a television drifted down the corridor, while clinking crockery echoed from the dining room. An elderly gentleman, thin as a reed, rested against a walking frame beside the wall. No one spoke loudly; everyone seemed determined not to disturb the fragile peace of the residents.

I was handed a vacant locker, a light cardigan, and a badge that read Social Worker James H. I removed my cap; my hair was slightly mussed, and I tried, in vain, to smooth it out. My previous job in a bustling accounts office had been surrounded by paper and ink, not antiseptic and medicine. The summer after my fathers death left me unemployed, and I realised I wanted work that involved my hands, that helped people who truly had no one else.

My first task was to hand out knitted blankets. I walked past a sixbedroom wing: Mrs. Eleanor Clarke folded tiny hats for her grandchildren, never looking up from her knitting; Mr. Arthur Jennings strained to read a newspaper, holding the magnifier inches from his nose; Mrs. Victoria Shaw sat by the window, listening to the silence as if it were a song. Each room was cluttered with personal belongings, yet the occupants seemed isolated. A peculiar prickling rose under my breastbone, as if I sensed a strangers tear I could not wipe away.

During the lunch break I stepped into the courtyard, dialled my mothers number. Miriam, seventytwo, lives in the same part of town, but it takes two bus changes to get there, I heard her say. Everythings fine, just the hobs burner keeps spitting; come over and have a look. I promised to visit on Saturday and caught a brief dont forget at the end. I could picture her thinlipped face, accustomed to asking for nothing more than what she could manage herself.

Evening came, I finished my rounds, signed the first wardcheck sheet and closed my shift. The sky grew dark, and a flock of crows wheeled overhead as I walked to the bus stop. In the seat I leafed through a handout on caring for mobilityimpaired elders that the training centre had printed. Between the lines I thought of my mother, alone in a flat, stacking a heavy castiron pan on a faulty gas hob just to avoid borrowing the neighbours electric cooker.

A month slipped by. October nights iced the windowpanes, and I settled into routine meetings with a rehab physio, group exercises, medication checks. I started Coffee Fridays: I brewed a fresh pot in the kitchen, set a folding table for four, and played a portable recorder with hits from the sixties. Two residents smiled, one dozed, but even a nap beside someone felt warmer than the empty hallway.

Staff shortfalls were inevitable. One Thursday the nightshift aide called in sick, leaving me alone to escort a resident to the clinic. Mrs. Lydia Parker had to wait for her turn while Mrs. Ellis summoned her upstairs to fill a rushed form for the socialservices inspector. Its all right, love, Ill sit here, Mrs. Parker whispered, her fingers trembling over her purse as the halfhour standing test tormented her swollen joints.

Later that evening my mother called first. Ive run out of my bloodpressure tablets, and my heads a bit fuzzy, she said dryly. I pressed the phone to my cheek while wiping a basket of apples in the staff kitchen, where the cook had asked for a hand. Ill buy them tomorrow, I replied quietly, Sorry, I havent had time today. A pause hung, filled with the low buzz of the fridge.

The next morning started badly: the bus stalled in traffic and I was fifteen minutes late. I asked Mrs. Ellis for a short break, rushed to the nearest pharmacy, stood in a line of pensioners, and returned with a bag of medicines. I handed the parcel with the label forzaten to my mother via a familiar postwoman, because I couldnt make it myself. An SMS later read Got it, thanks, yet the words felt empty.

That evening Mr. Jennings realised his photo album was missing and we both scoured the room, the bedside, under the nightstand, even the linen cupboard. All we found was a faded circus ticket. He then told me his daughter had moved to faroff Cornwall and only sent postcards on holidays. I think Im forgetting her voice, he whispered. I sensed my own fear in his words: what if my mother ever didnt recognise my voice over the phone?

I trudged home after nine, wind biting, streetlights flickering, stairwells dimly lit. The front door slammed behind me, and my phone displayed a missed call from Mum an hour ago. I tried to call back, but the line kept buzzing. The memory of the stark carehome corridor returned there a duty nurse walked the halls every two hours; now my mother was utterly alone.

Sunday I finally made it to Mums flat. The smell of braised cabbage and old oil filled the air; the fridge hummed louder than a year before. She sat on a stool, one hand resting on her knee as if conserving strength.

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

The bulbs nothing. When was the last time you just sat down, had a cup of tea without watching the clock? she asked, her question cutting through my excuses.

Monday the homes director announced an audit the following week, demanding each staff member submit a CommunityEngagement Report. Mrs. Ellis brought a stack of forms. I took one mechanically, but the empty kitchen in my mothers flat flashed before my eyes, tightening a knot in my chest. The job required full presence; I could not be in two places at once.

End of October. Rain hammered the trolleybus windows, early dusk pushed the few pedestrians under the awnings of the terraces. After a shift where two residents argued over the television, I didnt head home. I alighted at the stop opposite my mothers fivestorey block, bought three batteries for a torch from the nightwatch kiosk, and climbed to the fourth floor. The door was unlocked, chain only. Inside, damp leaves scented the air, a draft slipped in from the open balcony.

Mum sat at the kitchen table opposite a dead stove, shoulders hunched. A solitary candle sputtered, casting shadows on the cupboards.

The circuits blown, she said without looking up, its dark, I havent felt like shouting.

I shed my coat, flicked the torch on, but the black panel in the hallway felt like a mute rebuke.

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

I dropped onto the edge of a chair, suddenly realising that in this halflight we were both like my residents our roles had reversed.

I took her cold hand, far from the warm support Id known. A clear thought rose: I could not reclaim those evenings after theyre gone, just as I could not retrieve Arthurs youthful photograph.

Mum, Ill make sure youre not left alone, I said aloud, as if signing a contract. The resolve trembled in my stomach I would have to request flexible hours, find a livein carer, risk another job. I could no longer run between two lonely worlds.

At dawn, I switched on the hallway light in Mums flat, having replaced the blown fuse during the night. The smell of burnt insulation mixed with fresh bread; a neighbour from below brought a loaf after hearing the clatter. Mum turned the kettle on, watching me tinker with the wiring.

Ill arrange for specialists to visit you, I repeated, standing straight. On the nearby table lay an opened notebook with the phone number of the boroughs socialservices centre.

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

You can apply online. Under the national care act, residents over sixtyfive are entitled to a homecare assistant twice a week, she said.

I filled out the forms, attached my mothers income statement, and asked cautiously about a district nurse. Well organise a care package, but well need to agree on a schedule, she nodded.

Returning to Willow Grove by midday, the gatekeeper glared at her watch, but Mrs. Ellis met me in the infirmary, handing out the new shift roster.

I have a personal reason, I began, laying it out plainly: my mother needs help; without flexible hours Ill collapse at both work and home. Its not a request for a holiday; I need two evenings a week off, Im willing to take early morning shifts and handle the reports.

My words came sharper than intended.

Mrs. Ellis removed her glasses, wiped the lenses with a cloth.

Reporting is climbing, the inspection is on the horizon, she warned.

I braced for denial, but she continued: Residents have a right to stable support. Propose a concrete plan so none are left unattended, and Ill sign.

In the dining room I drafted a FamilyHistory Corner: each resident could store treasured items albums, cards, embroidery in a locked drawer. The idea was accepted, and the nightshift aide, Gene, volunteered to build shelves from reclaimed garden boxes. Mrs. Ellis glanced over the chart, signed, and added, Make sure quality doesnt slip. People here arent statistics, theyre lives.

Later that day I returned to the mens wing. Mr. Jennings sat by the old radio, fingers fiddling with the blankets fringe.

Well find the album, I whispered.

I checked the laundry, peered into the storage where spare blankets lived, questioned the nightshift aide about the previous shift. By evening, after moving a nightstand, a rustle of paper emerged from behind the skirting board a redbound album.

I pulled it out, brushed off dust. The cover read Summer1973. Mr. Jennings clutched it to his chest as if it were a living bird. He didnt speak, but his eyes shone, and the tension in me began to melt.

At the residents meeting I proposed a Memory Corner: a locked box for each persons keepsakes. The suggestion was welcomed, and Gene set to construct the shelves. The clatter of his hammer made me smile despite myself.

Around seven I slipped into my coat and caught the train. At Mums flat a silverhaired nurse in a mask, posted by the socialservices team, sat at the kitchen table. The women discussed a cranberryjuice prescription. Mum eyed the newcomer warily, but when she saw me in the doorway she gave a small nod.

They say itll help keep your pressure steady, the nurse said.

A week later I was up at five, ferrying residents to physiotherapy, and on Thursday and Saturday I left at fiveplus, making time to cook dinner for Mum or simply sit with a mug of hot water. The schedule was tight, yet for the first time it didnt feel like a futile race.

One morning Mrs. Ellis stopped me at the desk.

The inspectors noted an increase in resident engagement. Your history boxes are a success. Heres a note of thanks for your personal initiative, she handed me.

I exhaled: the plan worked.

The day grew misty, a light snow fell. From the secondfloor windows I could see a thin crust of ice glinting on the thawing pavement. I escorted Mr. Jennings back to his room, checked the radiator was warm, and asked the nightshift nurse to drop by again before his next checkup. I took my coat, stepped out under the streetlamp.

In the trolleybus the air was warm, the scent of damp wool filled the cabin. I opened a message from Mum: Nurse brought a sphygmomanometer, pressure 130, normal. A short line, but it carried peace. I sent a voice note back, telling her how Arthur had finally turned through the whole album and found a circus photograph hed spoken of.

Mums kitchen smelled of apple compote. The old fridge hummed, now beside it a new power strip the council electrician had installed after the social workers request. I arranged the pantry, changed into slippers, and sat at the table.

Are you in a rush today? Mum asked.

No, I replied. I have an early shift tomorrow, Ill be fine.

We sipped tea with honey. On the windowsill rested my old torch no longer needed, but still handy. Mum talked about keeping a paper diary of her bloodpressure readings for the nurse to review. As she spoke, the nervous flutter in my stomach faded; a concrete routine and a few allies had given me a balance I feared unattainable.

Before leaving I straightened my coat on the hall rack; Mum handed me a small knitted scarf.

Its cold outside, she said.

I wrapped it around my neck, feeling the familiar warmth of the yarn. The hallway clock ticked, the only sound breaking the hush. I switched off the main light, leaving the kitchen lamp glowing.

See you tomorrow, Mum, I said.

The stairwell smelled of cold metal and the iron railings. I clutched the scarf, and a clear realisation settled: neither the care home nor my mothers flat were deadends. They were two points between which I had learned to move. Snowflakes, barely visible under the streetlamp, drifted silently. I stepped into the night, knowing the next shift and another cup of tea awaited. The lesson I carry forward is simple caring for others starts with caring for the part of yourself you tend to forget, and a welldrawn schedule can be the bridge between two lonely worlds.