by RAMONA ALVIR as told to CANDICE Y. CEREZO
(first of two parts)
I WILL never forget Edward Fabish; he made me rich. Eight years ago, I was working as a stenographer at the Manila Prosecutors’ Office in City Hall, Manila.
When I left my job, my bosses –all prosecutors, my colleagues, and fellow stenographers never thought I would take the job of a caregiver. They said I was not the type.
An officemate warned me not to take the job of caring for the elderly because I might become intellectually obtuse. They learned three years after I set foot in the United States of America that I became a millionaire.
I didn’t know I was the talk of the town until I got back in the country. Someone told me people from my workplace were talking about my luck.
But what happened to me, changed their prejudices on menial jobs, like caregiving. I also never planned on being a caregiver.
I ARRIVED in San Francisco on December 13, 2000 after my husband, a Filipino born and raised in the US, petitioned me. I met him in the Philippines, though his family is based in the US.
Three days after arrival, I started working in my husband’s office. It was a temporary job. I could not get work in law firms. I didn’t have a US experience as stenographer or court employee. Then I heard from a friend that someone needed a caregiver. I applied for the job at once.
I started working "under the table," or without credentials. I earned $90 a day for staying five straight days in an elderly’s house.
On weekends, I took another caregiving job. I was rarely home during those days.
After three months, I was employed by a Filipino-owned agency where I got a higher rate at $145 a day taking care of another elderly woman. I was fortunate I found a much better salary.
The agency derives 5 percent income from each caregiver’s monthly pay. Caregiver also directly receives pay from clients before turning in the agency’s share.
My situation was better than other caregivers whose income is coursed through an agency. In other agencies, the cost of caring for an elderly is double its worth while in commission-based agencies, the cost is lighter on the pockets.
My service for the elderly woman was brief. The agency then assigned me the third elderly named Edward Fabish, my first male patient. The rate was $120 a day during weekends.
EDWARD was of German-Irish descent, a catholic like me. He was 88 years old who lived in West Portal, Bay Area of San Francisco. He was a railroad worker who did heavy, manual labor until he had a hip fracture.
I took care of him for four-and-a-half days a week with the rate of $170 a day.
I cleaned his house, gave him medicine, cooked for him, and washed his clothes. Though some of these chores were not required by the job, I did them.
My first week with Edward was difficult. He couldn’t accept his condition and would shoo me away. "I will jump from the window if you don’t let me go down by myself!" he yelled at me when I blocked his way at the top of the stairs going down to his garage.
"Go ahead, jump!" I yelled back. Though I never really meant what I said; I never moved from my spot. As a caregiver he hired, I was responsible for him. I would have to answer for whatever happened to him.
Edward was at the stage of denial. He used to be strong and able, judging from the framed photographs on the shelves and on the walls. Most of the pictures showed him in tip-top shape built through hard work. EDWARD never married, childless and with no relatives except his younger sister who was also with a caregiver. Their brother, the youngest died before them.
Aside from his hip fracture, he had a catheter, a tube attached to his side where his urine passed through. He had it when I started taking care of him until the day he died. Whenever I cleaned him, I also cleaned the catheter and the catheter bag.
Taking care of him also meant encouraging him to do the things he used to do, like gardening and driving. I got nervous with him driving. We almost had two accidents. But he wanted to drive despite his physical limitations.
Edward was not that difficult to take care of, but I must always be with him. He would have fallen several times had I failed to hold him up. Despite my being just above four feet, with Edward’s a few inches taller, I was able to help him walk or stand. If I went on an errand, I brought him with me – I walked beside him as he rode a scooter.
WHEN Edward’s sister, a spinster, died, he had my husband Gary and I lived with him since he had no one. I paid rent for our room because I didn’t want him to think I was abusing his kindness, that I was guilty of elderly abuse.
I also wanted to avoid the moment he becomes "goopy." The elderly tends to become "goopy," or start to lose themselves, suddenly changing attitudes.
Sometimes they would say their illness has returned, causing them pain. Sometimes it would come to a point where they would accuse you of robbing or taking advantage of them. From my experience, that’s how the elderly are. You really have to be patient with them.
Yes, there are many cases of elderly abuse in America. If you’re found guilty, you’re dead. If the elderly did not feel like eating, one cannot force him to eat. If one left or neglected him, dupe money out of him, verbally abuse him, one could be charged with elderly abuse.
That is because the elderly may not be able to report abuses done to them unless somebody, sometimes a fellow Filipino, reports it.
So I paid Edward $300 for monthly rent, shared in paying the water, electricity, and telephone bills. That time, my job with the agency became seven days a week. I rarely rested. Since I could not just leave him alone in his house, I brought him to family gatherings, usually hosted by my in-laws.
One day, the agency sent a reliever to take care of him on weekends. "I fired her," Edward said when I came home not finding my reliever around. He said he felt my reliever was not sincere and was after his money. That was how I ended up working 24/7 for Edward.
At night, whenever I slept in his room, I would be so exhausted I’d fail to notice I was already slumped on the floor. I would be so tired that the moment my back touches the floor, I would be in a long-deep sleep. I relied on alarm clock to wake me up.
One time, he heard me coughing. "If only I could sleep on the floor, I would have traded places with you," Edward said from his bed.
I told him not to worry since we Filipinos are used to sleeping on the floor. When he was about to die, he always wanted me beside him.
He got used to having me sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed. He wanted me beside him up to his death.
He got angry one time when he didn’t find me in his room to answer his demands. BUT Edward was thrifty. He didn’t buy anything for himself. With his extreme frugality, I never thought of him having money to spare.
When I started taking care of him, he had three pieces of underwear that had holes in them.
He didn’t even want to buy a recliner chair he needed to lift his swollen foot because he didn’t want to pay the $25 delivery charge! I paid for it instead so he could get that chair.
Aside from buying him food, I shopped clothes for him: long sleeves, pants, shoes, and underwear. When he got really sick, I brought him to the hospital. He was about to die and was already with an oxygen apparatus. Yet he wanted to go home because an aspirin would cost him $2. He even removed his oxygen mask and insisted on going to the bank to pay his taxes.
I didn’t know if he turned purple at the bank because he had to pay taxes. It surprised me, when he gave me $5,000 during the first Christmas we spent together.
"This is for the kids," Edward said. He explained he held on to it because he was afraid I would spend the money gambling.
(Continued next issue) /MP
When I left my job, my bosses –all prosecutors, my colleagues, and fellow stenographers never thought I would take the job of a caregiver. They said I was not the type.
An officemate warned me not to take the job of caring for the elderly because I might become intellectually obtuse. They learned three years after I set foot in the United States of America that I became a millionaire.
I didn’t know I was the talk of the town until I got back in the country. Someone told me people from my workplace were talking about my luck.
But what happened to me, changed their prejudices on menial jobs, like caregiving. I also never planned on being a caregiver.
I ARRIVED in San Francisco on December 13, 2000 after my husband, a Filipino born and raised in the US, petitioned me. I met him in the Philippines, though his family is based in the US.
Three days after arrival, I started working in my husband’s office. It was a temporary job. I could not get work in law firms. I didn’t have a US experience as stenographer or court employee. Then I heard from a friend that someone needed a caregiver. I applied for the job at once.
I started working "under the table," or without credentials. I earned $90 a day for staying five straight days in an elderly’s house.
On weekends, I took another caregiving job. I was rarely home during those days.
After three months, I was employed by a Filipino-owned agency where I got a higher rate at $145 a day taking care of another elderly woman. I was fortunate I found a much better salary.
The agency derives 5 percent income from each caregiver’s monthly pay. Caregiver also directly receives pay from clients before turning in the agency’s share.
My situation was better than other caregivers whose income is coursed through an agency. In other agencies, the cost of caring for an elderly is double its worth while in commission-based agencies, the cost is lighter on the pockets.
My service for the elderly woman was brief. The agency then assigned me the third elderly named Edward Fabish, my first male patient. The rate was $120 a day during weekends.
EDWARD was of German-Irish descent, a catholic like me. He was 88 years old who lived in West Portal, Bay Area of San Francisco. He was a railroad worker who did heavy, manual labor until he had a hip fracture.
I took care of him for four-and-a-half days a week with the rate of $170 a day.
I cleaned his house, gave him medicine, cooked for him, and washed his clothes. Though some of these chores were not required by the job, I did them.
My first week with Edward was difficult. He couldn’t accept his condition and would shoo me away. "I will jump from the window if you don’t let me go down by myself!" he yelled at me when I blocked his way at the top of the stairs going down to his garage.
"Go ahead, jump!" I yelled back. Though I never really meant what I said; I never moved from my spot. As a caregiver he hired, I was responsible for him. I would have to answer for whatever happened to him.
Edward was at the stage of denial. He used to be strong and able, judging from the framed photographs on the shelves and on the walls. Most of the pictures showed him in tip-top shape built through hard work. EDWARD never married, childless and with no relatives except his younger sister who was also with a caregiver. Their brother, the youngest died before them.
Aside from his hip fracture, he had a catheter, a tube attached to his side where his urine passed through. He had it when I started taking care of him until the day he died. Whenever I cleaned him, I also cleaned the catheter and the catheter bag.
Taking care of him also meant encouraging him to do the things he used to do, like gardening and driving. I got nervous with him driving. We almost had two accidents. But he wanted to drive despite his physical limitations.
Edward was not that difficult to take care of, but I must always be with him. He would have fallen several times had I failed to hold him up. Despite my being just above four feet, with Edward’s a few inches taller, I was able to help him walk or stand. If I went on an errand, I brought him with me – I walked beside him as he rode a scooter.
WHEN Edward’s sister, a spinster, died, he had my husband Gary and I lived with him since he had no one. I paid rent for our room because I didn’t want him to think I was abusing his kindness, that I was guilty of elderly abuse.
I also wanted to avoid the moment he becomes "goopy." The elderly tends to become "goopy," or start to lose themselves, suddenly changing attitudes.
Sometimes they would say their illness has returned, causing them pain. Sometimes it would come to a point where they would accuse you of robbing or taking advantage of them. From my experience, that’s how the elderly are. You really have to be patient with them.
Yes, there are many cases of elderly abuse in America. If you’re found guilty, you’re dead. If the elderly did not feel like eating, one cannot force him to eat. If one left or neglected him, dupe money out of him, verbally abuse him, one could be charged with elderly abuse.
That is because the elderly may not be able to report abuses done to them unless somebody, sometimes a fellow Filipino, reports it.
So I paid Edward $300 for monthly rent, shared in paying the water, electricity, and telephone bills. That time, my job with the agency became seven days a week. I rarely rested. Since I could not just leave him alone in his house, I brought him to family gatherings, usually hosted by my in-laws.
One day, the agency sent a reliever to take care of him on weekends. "I fired her," Edward said when I came home not finding my reliever around. He said he felt my reliever was not sincere and was after his money. That was how I ended up working 24/7 for Edward.
At night, whenever I slept in his room, I would be so exhausted I’d fail to notice I was already slumped on the floor. I would be so tired that the moment my back touches the floor, I would be in a long-deep sleep. I relied on alarm clock to wake me up.
One time, he heard me coughing. "If only I could sleep on the floor, I would have traded places with you," Edward said from his bed.
I told him not to worry since we Filipinos are used to sleeping on the floor. When he was about to die, he always wanted me beside him.
He got used to having me sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed. He wanted me beside him up to his death.
He got angry one time when he didn’t find me in his room to answer his demands. BUT Edward was thrifty. He didn’t buy anything for himself. With his extreme frugality, I never thought of him having money to spare.
When I started taking care of him, he had three pieces of underwear that had holes in them.
He didn’t even want to buy a recliner chair he needed to lift his swollen foot because he didn’t want to pay the $25 delivery charge! I paid for it instead so he could get that chair.
Aside from buying him food, I shopped clothes for him: long sleeves, pants, shoes, and underwear. When he got really sick, I brought him to the hospital. He was about to die and was already with an oxygen apparatus. Yet he wanted to go home because an aspirin would cost him $2. He even removed his oxygen mask and insisted on going to the bank to pay his taxes.
I didn’t know if he turned purple at the bank because he had to pay taxes. It surprised me, when he gave me $5,000 during the first Christmas we spent together.
"This is for the kids," Edward said. He explained he held on to it because he was afraid I would spend the money gambling.
(Continued next issue) /MP
No comments:
Post a Comment