She's HOW Old?

My first assignment at the Senior Care agency is a 12-hour shift this coming Saturday, 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. Yes. Let that soak in for a moment. It's me, Candy, who believes that getting up before noon is deep, sticky blasphemy. And didn't I just suffer through a semester of unbearably early teaching, leaving home before the sun came up?

Now, add on these details: The woman, who I will call Mrs. Fossilfuel, is 98 years old. She has recently taken a fall and cut her head open, and thus her son, a dentist in Seattle, now demands that she have 24/7 care. According to the briefing I got, (along with my high-quality company polo shirt, tote-bag and nametag), she is "very difficult to please" and has told three of the five care givers that have shown up at her home not to come back. About 2 of them, she told the agency "She's a very nice girl. It just wasn't a good match." I wasn't told what her reaction was to the third. But I was told that she said "I don't ever want any black people in my house."

I am curious to see how I do with her. It's hard to imagine that I will be her "good match," since she requested a "quiet, motherly type." The fact that I am being sent in next is a sign that the agency is running out of options. I'm the next in a long line of annoying jesters to approach the ill-humored queen, who has already thrown a dozen into the lion pit along with their punctured whoopie cushions.

Although I think of old age and mortality a lot, possibly more than I should, I cannot imagine how much it would suck to be 98 years old, my only son living what might as well be four galaxies away, and at the mercy of a gaggle of strangers shooting through a revolving door each day. I want to make her happy. But she may hate me. If she does hate me, I will have to accept it, then go back and steal all her pots and pans.