The Job Description Was Suspiciously Vague
Apparently, I work for a monarchy. The benefits package is unclear.
I don't recall applying for a position in a royal household.
And yet, here I am.
Somewhere along the way, I apparently became a full-time caregiver, personal assistant, medical coordinator, short-order cook, crisis negotiator, administrative professional, and member of the royal staff.
The compensation package was never clearly explained.
Neither was the chain of command.
Although, in hindsight, that last part should have been obvious.
My boss wears a crown.
An actual crown.
It's laminated, because apparently even the monarchy has discovered the benefits of office supplies.
He wears it from the moment he wakes up until bedtime, removing it only for bathing and wardrobe changes.
This is not ceremonial headwear.
This is a full-time position.
And the crown isn't even the most interesting part of his management style.
Other Duties as Assigned
If you've ever been a caregiver, you know the phrase other duties as assigned is doing some extremely heavy lifting.
On paper, caregiving sounds relatively straightforward.
Help someone with the things they need help with.
Simple enough.
Except those things might include managing medications, coordinating appointments, preparing meals, keeping track of paperwork, monitoring approximately seventeen things at once, and trying to remember whether you've eaten anything besides the crust from somebody else's sandwich.
You're a nurse, a detective, a personal assistant, a logistics coordinator, a negotiator, and occasionally a hostage to someone's very specific preferences.
And just when you think you've developed a system, management introduces a new policy.
Effective immediately.
Without consulting staff.
The Royal Dismissal Procedure
In our household, His Majesty has a very particular way of conducting business.
When he requires assistance, we report for duty.
We fulfill his requests, make the necessary adjustments, and ensure that everything meets royal standards.
Then we wait.
Because apparently, we are not permitted to determine when the meeting has concluded.
That decision rests entirely with management.
When His Majesty is satisfied, he announces:
"Go back to work."
Which is fascinating, considering that attending to him is literally my job.
Apparently, royal service doesn't count.
Should I fail to recognize that my audience has ended, he moves to the next phase of the dismissal process.
"Bye."
And if I'm still standing there?
"See you later."
There is no ambiguity.
No opportunity for questions.
No suggestion box.
The meeting is over, and security would like me to leave.
Except there is no security.
Because that would also be my job.
I Would Like to Speak to Human Resources
One of the more interesting things about caregiving is that people tend to imagine the serious parts.
The medical responsibilities. The physical demands. The emotional weight.
And yes, those are real.
Some days are exhausting in ways that are difficult to explain to someone who hasn't lived them.
Some days involve decisions I never imagined having to make.
And some days, I'd simply like to use the bathroom without feeling as though I've abandoned my post during a national emergency.
But there's another part of caregiving that rarely makes it into the inspirational brochures.
The sheer absurdity of it all.
The elaborate routines.
The negotiations over things that would never occur to another human being to negotiate.
The household rules that sound completely unhinged when explained out loud but have somehow become standard operating procedure.
At a certain point, you stop questioning things.
You just accept that this is how the organization functions.
For example, I live with someone who wears a laminated crown and formally dismisses me from his presence.
And somehow, that's not even particularly unusual anymore.
It's Tuesday.
The Part Nobody Talks About Enough
Here's where I should probably clarify something.
I love His Majesty.
Fiercely.
And I also occasionally find our household operations completely ridiculous.
Those two things are not mutually exclusive.
Caregiving can be meaningful and exhausting.
It can be deeply loving and spectacularly inconvenient.
It can involve serious responsibilities at 9:00 a.m. and an argument over an entirely unreasonable household policy at 9:07.
And sometimes the only reasonable response is to laugh.
Not at the person you're caring for.
At the situation.
At yourself.
At the fact that you've somehow become the entire executive leadership team of an organization you never agreed to join.
There's a lot of pressure on caregivers to be endlessly patient, endlessly grateful, and endlessly capable.
As though loving someone means you're never allowed to be tired, frustrated, overwhelmed, or in desperate need of five uninterrupted minutes and a snack.
I'd like to respectfully suggest that this expectation is nonsense.
We can love our people beyond measure and still acknowledge that some days are a lot.
And we can find humor in those days without diminishing the people we love.
Sometimes humor is what makes the difficult moments a little easier to carry.
Apparently, I'm Never Off the Clock
So no, caregiving wasn't exactly what I expected.
The hours are unreasonable.
The responsibilities are constantly expanding.
The employee handbook remains suspiciously absent.
And management has made it abundantly clear that my performance is subject to ongoing review.
But I've learned something along the way.
The little moments matter.
The ridiculous routines. The unexpected phrases. The personalities that make our households unlike anyone else's.
Those are part of the story, too.
And while I may never receive a formal job description, a satisfactory explanation of the benefits package, or permission to take an uninterrupted lunch break, I have at least learned to recognize when a meeting is over.
His Majesty looks at me.
"Go back to work."
And just like that, I've been dismissed.
Which would be considerably more satisfying if I had somewhere else to go.
Unfortunately, I work from home.