Strength in Struggle, Wiltshire
Strength in Struggle,Wiltshire
Hilary was my second client, after Mrs P. I’d told the agency outright that I didn’t have enough training to handle clients with mental health issues, but they sent me to her anyway. The job description didn’t mention it—just epilepsy since she was 18, multiple sclerosis from 25, and dementia by 50. Hilary played the piano, was a passionate smoker, and, even in illness, remained a beautiful woman with stunning long hair. The handover was with a carer from my home country. She was going through her own rough patch—abuse, a son struggling with alcoholism—and was trying to stay positive. Her fingers were yellow from cigarettes, her gaze restless, always darting about. While talking to Hilary, she made crude jokes with sexual undertones. I felt uneasy. I was new to this, shocked that someone in her state could be a carer, but my empathy made me think how tough it must be for her. Still, a strong inner voice warned me: it’s dangerous if the person caring for a client isn’t mentally stable. Fear and distrust grew. After my experience with Michelle, another colleague, I hadn’t expected this. Each placement revealed more about the agency: they bring in women from abroad, give them minimal training, and use them for profit, ignoring the safety of clients and carers alike.That first night, I discovered Hilary barely slept. She battled anxiety, hysteria, and sometimes aggression I didn’t know how to handle. Exhausted, I emailed the agency in the morning, describing what happened. They apologised for not mentioning Hilary’s mental health issues. I felt trapped: I couldn’t leave because there was no replacement. Hilary deserved proper care, and I, with my shaky English and limited knowledge, wasn’t enough. I called my aunt, an experienced nurse back in Croatia. “The NHS is your ally, Cherry. Tackle the problems one by one,” she said.After three draining days with hardly any sleep, I wrote a summary of Hilary’s condition, behaviour, and medications, then called the GP surgery. The doctor was stunned: no one had reported that Hilary wasn’t sleeping. “She’s a complex patient, needing regular medication reviews and coordination across NHS services,” he said. I apologised for my English, but he responded warmly: “Cherry, you’re doing a cracking job. Don’t worry about the language—I understood you perfectly. It’s commendable that you’re the first carer to try and help Hilary.” He sent emails to all the relevant departments, arranging a meeting with Hilary’s family and me. A wave of relief washed over me.But things didn’t get easier straight away. One early morning, as I prepared her medications in the kitchen, I heard a commotion. At the stairs, there was Hilary, standing, gripping her wheelchair. Her face was twisted with rage, shouting and swearing. I was absolutely gobsmacked—my client doesn’t walk! Swallowing my shock, I said calmly, ‘Hilary, what’s wrong?’ She lifted the wheelchair and hurled it at me. I dodged it, grabbed my phone, and stepped onto the first stair: ‘Hilary, calm down, you could fall. I’m calling an ambulance.’ She stopped shouting and whispered, ‘Please, don’t call them.’ Holding onto the wall, she slowly shuffled toward her room. I was trembling, watching her move. When I heard a noise from her room, I raced in. She was sitting on her bed, the chair toppled, the alarm mat tossed under the window. She knew about the alarm, though they’d told me she didn’t. She reached out her hand: ‘Don’t call the ambulance, they’ll take me to hospital.’ Scared as I was, I sat beside her. ‘You’ve properly frightened me,’ I said. Tears rolled down her face. I remembered my aunt’s firm but gentle rule: “Never judge. The illness is to blame, not them.” I hugged her: ‘Alright, I won’t call the ambulance, but I have to call the GP.’The next day, three nurses arrived. They read my log and explained that her aggressive episodes were due to lack of sleep. “We’ll adjust her medications, align them with her therapies. This won’t happen again,” they said. When I asked how she walked, they replied, “The brain’s a mystery. In those episodes, clients can have unexpected strength.” That day, Hilary played the piano and let me open the curtains, which she’d never allowed before. In that tough moment, a bond formed between us. The next day, I asked, “Hilary, fancy a cuppa in the garden?” I’d been told she hadn’t been outside in years. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “You’re safe with me,” I replied. Exhausted but proud, I cherished sitting with her in the garden. When the new medications arrived, we found a routine. Hilary slept most of the night, was more relaxed, and played the piano daily. Listening to her, I felt joy. I realised the lesson from my training: “You’re not just there to feed and bathe a client. You help them live a better, fuller life.”The last week was intense. It saddened me that her daughter and husband couldn’t often witness that sight—Hilary in her good moments, at the piano, wearing a dreamy smile. Life is tough; it had been cruel to Hilary, but equally cruel to her family. Yet, her husband was my rock. He was someone who truly understood what I was going through and knew exactly how to soothe Hilary. That wonderful man was full of understanding and love for everyone, but most of all for his daughter—just as her love was for him. The two of them were living proof that with love, we can overcome anything, survive, and carry on, no matter how painful it gets. That was my motivation. With the two of them in my mind, I could give my absolute best for Hilary—not just because it was my job, but because it was my human duty. One evening, as she brushed her teeth in the kitchen while I sorted her medications, I teased, “You’re like my daughter Kristina—she hates going to bed too.” When she didn’t respond, I turned—she was having an epileptic seizure. I acted on instinct: called the ambulance, held her head, slipped a rubber item between her teeth to protect her tongue. I encouraged her, talking to the ambulance team in turn. “Sorry for my English,” I said to the man on the phone. “Cherry, you’re doing a cracking job, keep going,” he replied. I noticed one side of her body was in an odd position and reported it. The ambulance arrived in 11 minutes. I handed over the blue folder. “You can come with us if you like,” the nurse said. Hilary looked at me, terrified. I couldn’t leave her, so scared of hospitals and strangers. “Just let me grab my jacket,” I said, and sat beside her in the van, holding her hand. “It’ll be alright, I’m here,” I whispered. The nurse said, “I think she’s had a stroke, so we’re going to a different hospital.”After hours of tests, around 3 a.m., the doctor called me. “Hilary’s stable. Brilliant work, Cherry. She had a stroke, but there won’t be major consequences.” I went with her to the ward. She desperately searched for my gaze. I sat by her bed, holding her hand until she fell asleep. Only then did I feel the reaction—my body was shaking. A nurse gave me water and a sugary drink: “This’ll settle you.” My mum used the same trick.Walking to reception, I wondered if I even had my wallet in my bag. I found it, but a thought hit me: I only had 10 quid in my account. I’d paid my daughter’s fees and sent money to my kids. My next pay was in two days. “Enough for the bus,” I told myself. At reception, I checked the time—4 a.m. The woman who’d been there when we arrived was still on duty. She asked, “Are you OK?” I said I was, that my client was alright, and asked about the bus. “Love, there’s no bus till 9,” she replied. The clock read 4 a.m. I was an exhausted foreigner, 50 years old, alone, and staring down a five-hour wait. The £10 wasn’t just money; it was my only safety net, now useless.A few minutes later, the woman from reception came over and said, “Love, what do you think about a cup of tea or coffee?” I looked at her, and tears started flowing. She touched my shoulder: “It’ll be alright, love, I’ll be back.” She gave me a moment to compose myself. “Cherry, it’ll be fine, you’ve got to calm down,” I told myself. She came back with a coffee and a packet of biscuits and asked, “Are you a Live-in Carer?” I nodded, afraid I’d cry again. “Where are you from?” she started. “Croatia. I’ve got three daughters.” “And you?” I asked. “Two sons,” she laughed. “I’m jealous of your girls.” The conversation flowed easily, and I relaxed. “Do your daughters live here?” “Just the youngest, studying in Sheffield.” “Brilliant, what’s she studying?” “Product design.” Only then did I realise I hadn’t thanked her for the coffee and biscuits. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Do you want me to call you a taxi?” I said, “No, thank you, I’ll have to take the bus. I’d just paid my daughter’s fees and only had ten quid left. Payday’s Monday, two days away. It’s just a few hours till the bus, if it’s alright, I’ll wait here.” She looked at me carefully. That’s when I noticed her beautiful blue eyes and gorgeous red hair, like a mane. “What’s your name?” she asked. “Cherry, it means cherry, like the fruit.” She laughed: “I’m Susane, nice to meet you.” “I’ve got to sort something, I’ll be back.” I watched her go, thinking how the English are always so kind, even when you admit you’ve only got ten quid. I was ashamed for saying it, but I couldn’t explain why she shouldn’t call a taxi. She came back about ten minutes later and sat beside me, this time with her own coffee in hand. “Cherry, listen, you’re doing a cracking job. I saw you last night with your client, the way she looked at you. Being a Live-in Carer is tough.” I thanked her: “It’s not easy, but I’m grateful for the chance to do it and help my daughters finish uni.” “You’re doing alright, Cherry,” she said, touching my arm. I chuckled: “Not really, considering I’d just paid my daughter’s fees and only had ten quid left, but I’ve only been here a few months.” “I haven’t got much more myself, believe me,” she chuckled. “But I’ve got news for you. My manager said to book you a taxi, and we’ll cover it. The driver’s waiting at the door.” Her eyes sparkled—I swear they were the most beautiful blue eyes I’d ever seen. She turned and waved to a man approaching. “Come on, love, let me take you home,” he said. I hugged Susane and whispered, “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” She stood, holding my hand, and said, “Look after her,” then left. On Monday, I ordered and sent her a bouquet of flowers with a note: Thank you from the bottom of my heart.The ten quid in my account that morning was not a sign of failure, but a measure of sacrifice—for my family, for my client. Susane and the NHS confirmed what the war had taught me: humanity transcends borders. That Swarovski flower from Hilary’s daughter was my reward for integrity, not shortcuts—a test of my budding citizenship. With their trust, I’m no longer a foreigner battling alone; I’m part of a British community that lifts me up.I didn’t go back to Hilary—the job was too much for my peace of mind. But I stayed in touch with her daughter. That placement was a profound life experience that marked me forever, in a positive way. Being a Live-in Carer in Britain was a special honour, one I came to appreciate time and again. Before I left Hilary, a little package arrived in my name. Inside was a stunning flower adorned with Swarovski crystals, and at its base, a heart engraved with the words "Thank You" – a heartfelt gift from Hilary’s daughter. After expressing my gratitude, we promised each other to stay in touch, sealing a bond that warmed my heart.Life is full of those gentle strokes of the pen that carry love, tenderness, and kindness—a true British value of keeping the community spirit alive.
