Wright, 36, works at Bridgedale House, a specialist care home in Sheffield for people with dementia. On March 24, she and seven of her colleagues moved in for a month to provide round-the-clock care, while protecting residents from Covid-19 infection. She normally lives in Whiston, Rotherham, with her husband, Steve.
I’m always up at four o’clock. It’s handy because it allows me to get myself sorted before the day starts at the home. It’s shower, a coffee and cereal, read my Kindle. I like to stick to my routine even if it’s daft o’clock.
Some of the girls are bunking in the training room, but I’m in the management office on a blow-up bed. There’s always paperwork to sort out in the mornings, like monthly medication and care plans. Our brilliant domestic cleaner, Mandy, does a full clean, top to bottom, morning and night, and we’re all trying to chip in. This isn’t the time to say: “Sorry, that’s not my job.”
Breakfast starts at seven. We’ve got three floors, each with its own team. They get the residents washed and dressed, then bring them down to the dining room.
Everybody has been asking why we agreed to live in the home for a month but, for me, it’s simply part of the job. We’re cutting down the risk to the residents. I miss my dogs and cats. And my husband. It’s the longest we’ve been apart in 19 years. But this generation has done their time for us — our oldest resident is 99 — and this is my chance to give back.
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I became a full-time carer at 16 after my grandad had a stroke. My grandma couldn’t cope, and I only lived five minutes away. It was the most rewarding thing I’d ever done and I decided it was going to be my career. The only downside is that a lot of care jobs are zero-hours contracts. It’s a struggle if you’ve got a mortgage.
This job isn’t for the squeamish. You’re looking after the bathroom stuff, not sitting there playing dominoes. Residents get ill and you sometimes lose them, which is like losing a family member. Those days are draining. Exercise helps. I’ve been running around the grounds; I’m up to 40 laps.
Mornings can be full-on until we start lunch at 11.40am. There’s a daily menu but Mark, the chef, makes anything the residents want, even if it’s just a bit of cake.
We’ve increased the activities since the lockdown. The residents aren’t getting family visits, so we try to keep them entertained with chairobics and sing-alongs. We’ve got all levels of dementia here and some residents prefer watching telly, which is fine.
You always get one or two characters. Some come out with these quick one-liners that have you in stitches. And some can have you in floods of tears. There’s one lovely lady who hardly speaks, but if you put music on, she knows all the words. Another lady hasn’t been able to hold her own cup for a long time. I went into the lounge the other day and there she was, drinking tea, her face all lit up. Moments like that make your day.
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Luckily, we haven’t had any corona scares. We’re being very vigilant and checking all temperatures daily.
The residents have tea early, from 3.50pm. If I’ve time, I might join them but while we’re living here, we’re not really clocking off. If one of the residents has had a fall or there’s a GP visit, you deal with it. No matter what time it is.
I try and get to bed about 10.30 and call my husband. Sometimes he moans about having a tough day, but I soon set him straight. Spend a day with us!
The care sector doesn’t get the respect it deserves. People call us unskilled. I’ve got qualifications. I got them while I was working full-time because that’s the only way I could afford it. We’re not on the front line like the NHS, but we are looking after some of the most vulnerable people — your mams, dads, grans and grandads. I just hope when it’s all over, people recognise we do an important job too.
