Turnover

I suppose we all expect people to think like we do… much more often than it really happens, anyway. Maybe the two caregivers who suddenly left this week expected me to think like they were thinking. Both of them had sick children upcountry they had to take care of, so they said.

They probably figured I’d be as accepting of the disruption in our routine as they would have been in my shoes. It’s common in Thailand for misfortune to be met with giggles, in a sort of “might as well laugh as cry” spirit.

But I have to say it was rough to get a call from the bus station, essentially saying, “I’m not sure if I’ll be back, and no, I won’t be coming over to say goodbye in person.” Living here has relaxed me, but not enough to receive that kind of news calmly, twice in the same week. It’s hard to be accepting of the sudden new demands on me and the remaining caregiver. Not to mention the change for Jip, who has to put up with a lowered standard of care when it’s my shift each night.

Helping her take care of her daily activities is tough enough, but on top of that, I also have to once again look for and orient thick-skinned, experienced folks with strong backs who can see past Jip’s ornery exterior and discover the truly wonderful person inside. Since October four new caregivers have worked at least a month, and then moved on, taking with them the hard-earned understanding of our little idiosyncrasies.

Maybe we were spoiled by the two women who came from an agency back in July ’05 when we first arrived. They effectively worked non-stop for sixteen months, each taking less than five days off during that time, except for Sundays, when it was my turn.

One of them is still with us, working extra hard this week. It’s hard for me to believe there aren’t more like her out there, but since that very first experience, our luck with agencies has been pretty lousy. They typically send us seven or eight people for every one that sticks around. Sometimes the candidates decide that the work isn’t for them, sometimes we decide that they’re not for us.

I can understand why a potential caregiver might get scared off. Jip’s mood is good about 60% of the time, average about 30%, and pretty foul the remaining 10%. Watching her swing quickly through those states can be frustrating, especially when you’re also trying to attend to the near-constant stream of difficult-to-decipher talk that comes from Jip during waking hours these days.

As for the folks who left this week, what could I really say to them? It’s an unfair fact of Thai village life that young mothers can’t make enough money to support their families. They take off for the big city to earn wages that they then send back to grandma or whoever is raising their kids. When I try to think like they must be thinking, I know they’re making the right choice to return home. I just wish we’d gotten a little more notice.

RBSC 7’s Football Tournament, brought to you by ThaiBev

February has been an eventful month for soccer, kicked off with another of the well-organized tourneys designed for us mature players. The 30th annual Royal Bangkok Sports Club 7’s was held at what must be the finest football pitch in Thailand. This photo doesn’t do justice to the groomed expanse, which is ringed by a two fine running tracks (one for humans, one for horses).

From the picture you at least get a sense of how the Polo Club Field, as it’s known, fits into its otherwise high rise neighborhood. This is some prime real estate—a colonial leftover, in a country that prides itself on never having been colonized.

Our small but proud team fared OK on the first day, but were soon dispatched on Sunday by a much fitter and better-acquainted side from Australia. Two of our lads had flown in especially to play with us, one from Macao and the other from England (extending a week’s business trip he had just finished in Singapore).

Had we been club members (the waiting period is said to be ten years), we could have brushed aside our loss with a bit of lawn bowling afterward, or perhaps some badminton/basketball/billiards/bridge/chess/cricket/golf/hockey/tae kwan do/squash/swimming or tennis. As it was, we simply walked off into the sunset (watching out for passing horses, of course).


At work, Team Orange won a thriller over Team Blue to take home the trophy in the second annual Sport Day. We played on the grass next to the parking lot.

Looking in the Mirror

A couple weeks ago I offered to talk to other spouses when I met up with the neurologist here who specializes in Jip’s disease. One husband and I got together last Saturday evening. He and his wife have only recently begun struggling with this diagnosis. For him it may be even weirder than it was for me, because it’s such a rare problem among Thais. He had lots of questions that I could answer from experience. It was also nice for me to chat with someone who instantly understands something about what my life is like.

Before long, he had to leave the coffee shop to take over from the daytime caregiver he has hired. He does the night shifts, just like I used to do in Seattle. Those shifts are clearly taking a toll—he’s got circles under his eyes. I wasn’t sure if the lines on his forehead were new or natural (he’s about twenty-five years older than I am), but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were caused by worry. I thought to myself, Did I used to look like that? Do I still look like that?

I also realized again how fortunate Jip and I have been throughout our long journey with poor health. In the States, insurance paid for lots of gear that makes our lives much easier. For instance, we have a tall device called a Hoyer lifter that makes it possible for Jip to get from the bed to the wheelchair several times a day, with only one person’s help. This guy’s wife must wait until two strong backs can move her, and so she spends much of her time horizontal.

He and I will probably get together again. Here where there’s no national association that promotes support groups in every community, we can create our own.

Fast Food

The pace of life in Thailand fits the droopy weather. People here saunter. They nap. Dinner at a restaurant can sometimes go on for hours—Thais love to nibble, share dishes, and order in stages. A few days ago, some colleagues and I spent a hilarious ninety minutes lunching at a hotpot restaurant. (Traditional wisdom in these parts holds that something isn’t worth doing unless it’s fun.)

So I was a little put off the other night when I happened upon an outdoor eatery in a narrow alley. Teenage waiters were literally sprinting up back and forth, delivering food and drink to the two or three dozen tables that had been set up.

An older man in the middle of the alley directed new arrivals to empty seats and took orders. He saved a few seconds by simply looking at me with an expression that said “What’ll it be?” After I named a common Thai favorite, he repeated my words into a wireless microphone, turned, and was seating another newcomer when a kid scampered up with the dish I had requested.

Start to finish, I was probably at the place for less than fifteen minutes. Where’s the fun in that?