Wiping Asses: It's a Living
Wiping adult asses makes me want to hurl a little bit. I know it’s my job. I have to do lots of things that most people would consider distasteful. I generally don’t mind most of them. The confused patients get on my nerves; that’s true. I also get a little (extremely) annoyed when I have to gear up head to toe to take care of people with serious infections secondary to the Diabetes Mellitus that they have because they couldn’t be bothered to take care of themselves. Yes, I am judging them, but that doesn’t interfere with me giving good care.
But I digress. I am human. I do a job that many can never imagine themselves doing (they can imagine it up until the bodily fluids). I don’t mind sticking people with needles; cleaning funky, stinky wounds; drawing blood (although I wish I were better at it); the tedious paperwork; suctioning green phlegm; emptying bags full of urine; unclogging blocked peg tubes (the lines going directly into the stomach); and so many other things… but something about wiping asses still does not sit well with me. I’m not sure whether it’s the fully-formed feces or the liquid chyme found in a colostomy bag that makes me want to retch more violently. I don’t, of course, and it is quite a bit of work just vomiting or making an ugly face. I am a professional, right?
Who would think that as much juvenile pleasure that I derive from obsessing over my poo or that of my best friend, that this aspect of my job would be what bothers me? I prefer and am often proud of my own brand. I will fart in your general direction. But crap on yourself, and I am not happy to clean you.