There is a lady who walks the streets of my local area called Joanne.
Joanne is a carer who works for a nearby caring agency and I first became aware of her when she used to call to my house to visit my father when I was juggling caring for him and working full-time.
Joanne used to get sandwiches I’d left in the fridge, put them on a plate and give them to him and although she wasn’t allowed to administer his medication she used to encourage him to take them if he’d forgotten or simply hadn’t paid them attention. She also made him a cup of tea.
In the afternoon she would call back, tidy up the plate and make him another drink. Each visit was 15 minutes long but would break up my father’s day when he only had the television for company and with his mobility problems not able to get out on his own.
For me at that time Joanne was a godsend. I knew that far beyond giving him sandwiches and a drink she would make the agency aware if he seemed unwell or had fallen; which thankfully throughout the course of her visits he never did.
But Joanne doesn’t drive. Now, as of then, she walks between her house visits for miles each day, wind, rain, snow or sunshine. A slightly-built woman in her 60’s, who I haven’t seen wear a heavy winter coat, I can only imagine her brisk pace keeps her suitably warm. Ten years after she used to visit my Dad she is still doing the same, walking from house to house, providing low level but absolutely essential care.
When my father’s care needs became more intense, other carers replaced Joanne who came in pairs and drove. She actually only called for a few months, but I remember her because of my astonishment at how she did her job without the capacity to drive. Goodness knows how many steps she does daily but then I don’t expect she would know herself.
Several of the carers who replaced Joanne became friends during that time, I would get to hear all the ins and outs of their families trials and tribulations, about the pressures of the job and the workload they were struggling with. And we had some big laughs. Some of them had considerable personalities and their characters would fill up the room when they came.
When my Dad needed the type of help I couldn’t give I used to reassure him ‘the carers will be here soon’, and I would regularly be filled with relief when I heard them come through the door, knowing with their skills and dedication they would be able to give him some comfort, especially when he was suffering with bed sores.
After my Dad passed away in June 2018 the carers obviously stopped coming. They were suddenly, instantly, sucked away like they had been scooped up in a big human vacuum. The quietness in the house that replaced them, and him, was a large, smothering presence. I can sometimes feel it even now.
My firm belief, and I was gladly able to tell the carers when they were kind enough to attend my Dad’s funeral, that without them the fabric of essential parts of society would crumble. We don’t need the self-serving politicians or the sporting highly paid sports stars or television and internet sensations.
We do however, need the Joanne’s of this world. Flawed, ordinary, and magnificent angels who for low wages and far too little respect, administer help to those in need. And in that I include loved ones thrust into a caring role they often feel inadequate to deal with. For them, every Joanne is a superstar.
SONGS AND SCRIPTS AND DUNKING BISCUITS 
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