"Oh - it's you again". Sometimes it's a phrase said with genuine affection. Sometimes relief. Sometimes it's just downright disdain.
"Armchair", you grunt, as an afterthought to the opening phrase.
Well, yes. It is me again. And again. And again. I keep coming back here when you've had enough of another one of your clients. But this time, I can bite my tongue no longer.
This time, you left her in the armchair, in front of all the other residents, for a whole day. And night. And most of another day. Almost 36 hours, and none of you thought to check on her.
You just "assumed".
You just thought "she doesn't do much usually".
You just presumed "she was in one of those moods".
None of you thought that it was unusual that she hadn't asked for help to get to meals.
Or back to bed.
Or even to the toilet.
Three shifts went by, and she was still sat in the armchair.
When you finally took a look, you saw she was barely breathing.
You saw she was covered in vomit.
You smelt the strong smell of urine.
So you told her off. Like she was some sort of small child.
Like it was her fault that she'd possibly been unconscious for the best part of two days.
Like it was her fault you ignored her.
Well you know what? It's your fault. Your job is to care, to pay attention, to tend to needs. That's why she was there, so you could look after her. That's what you have chosen to do. That's what you're paid for. So don't tell me that you're "not paid to think, just to clean them". The "them" you refer to are people. Not animals or the cages that they're kept in.
You were charged with her welfare, when she had no where else to look, and no one else to turn to. And you failed.
And I hate to say it - I get the feeling you're almost glad.
Glad that she's taken off your hands.
Glad that you're no longer responsible.
Glad that she'll probably never return to that armchair.