Bathed in Compassion

November 8, 2013

I have not given anyone a bath since my daughter was a wee one. Tonight, I started sponging down an 88 ¾ woman, as part of my caregiving service. I cannot say I am completely comfortable with the idea but, given she shared with me her trepidation in being utterly exposed to other people, I had to give up my baggage. Darn it all, so challenging to come to grips with my own stuff while admitting it is not ALL about me and how I am feeling.

While swabbing, adjusting the temperature of the water eight million times until it is baby-bathwater-perfect, soaping, dabbing versus scrubbing, rinsing, dampening my jeans, saturating the bathroom floor and murmuring comforting words, I feel accepting and calm. Deep red abrasions need special cream application, and a light back massage helps the washing process fall into a rhythm I didn’t expect. I agreed to avoid getting her new do wet, which was a feat in and of itself.

Suction cups placed within reach of an extended arm, a formed plastic seat with arm rests comes in handy over the commode for a place to park and rest for a moment, a walker cumbersomely accepts full-weight in the stand-up shower, shower head on a hose, and I marvel at the gyrations of positioning this aging woman has had to accept for a “simple” bath. When I get to be 88 ¾, don’t let me forget just how important feeling squeaky clean can be.

Sitting in her recliner, dressed in jammies, a robe and jacket over the top, well-oiled legs wrapped tight in an ace bandage and slippers on her feet, she did look like a contented child, a smile wrapped like a jack ‘o lantern, on her pretty face.