She was a worker at an aged-care facility. She wasn't a nurse or a care worker, just a volunteer. She helped out those who were at the end of life. That’s what they call it today, end-of-life — those who are terminal. These people can’t travel, walk, or do much at all. Only comfort matters. Their pain is managed by professionals but volunteers serve tea, biscuits and social contact.
Books were on Mother’s trolley too. She’d swap out those that’d been read for new ones. Her other duties were fetching blankets and pillows, reading letters from family members, and reaching for miscellaneous items residents couldn’t get for themselves — she smiled all the while but complained about it too. Complaining was her specialty. She did that best.
She’d phone me after her working week was over and I’d hear every negative word about it. I’d tell her that if she wasn’t happy working there then she didn’t need to be doing it. But she wouldn’t hear of it. It’s as though she needed to complain to make her life complete.
Since my father passed, her complaints increased. I don’t know why. She was happy he was gone. There was no more of his vitriol, none of his unpredictable outbursts. He was the source of most of her pessimism. I guess she was so used to complaining that she needed a hobby to keep it going.
Mother was a manic depressive. Life was a burden. She found negativity in everything. People, places, events — the only time she was happy was when her negativity was proved right — and that was too short-lived to be thoroughly enjoyed.
“I told you so,” preceded another round of complaints.
She complained about Dad the most. His drunken tirades, threats of violence, and promises to commit suicide — were certainly complaint-worthy. If it were me, I’d complain about those too. I’d want it to stop.
That’s why I killed Dad.
I figured I could fix things by sending him on his way — and it almost worked. She was ecstatic when I told her he wasn’t coming home. A few days passed and then she became sad again. Her source of daily misery had gone away. How was I to know she adored complaining about him? She despised the man but made a sport out of assassinating his character each day. She lived for it.
I missed the point. Oh well.
Mother went back to complaining big-time. Nothing was right or good in her world. Everything was wrong. She was destined for better things but it was ruined after meeting my dad and falling pregnant. It was a grind to get up each morning, to go to work, and to listen to sick people complain about the things that mattered to them.
So, I sent her to a nursing home that was rumoured to be in the early stages of an outbreak. We called it Covid Central — I told her they needed her specialised service and she went.
She complained about having to find its address, drive to the other side of town and locate a car park, the cost of fuel, the heat of the day, and the cold air conditioning inside the resident’s rooms. Nothing could escape her misery.
She caught the virus and died.
The complaints stopped and I now live happily ever after.
It’s funny how things turn out.