Sooner or later, it happens to all of us. We find ourselves utterly fragile, unable to move, unable to care for ourselves—for a time that might be brief, or long, or endless. Illness or accident can strike us down in the prime of life, or accompany us toward its end. We know that fate shows no mercy or favoritism.
Like infants—though far less easily comforted and far less pleasant to the eye—we are placed in the hands of people we have never met. People who, by profession and rarely by calling, take custody of our bodies, our suffering, our vulnerability, our distress. Then we learn, on our own skin, how much harm or good nurses and nursing assistants, ward supervisors and attendants can do us. We discover how our suffering, our distress can be eased or made a hundred times worse by the way they care for us. But we also begin to understand how hard their work truly is. How much gentleness and sensitivity they must bring to it. How much patience and persistence are required to live up to a task that even the most devoted children or most loving parents often cannot manage. And if we pay attention to their lives, we see how long their shifts are and how modest their wages.
Yes, it is true: they chose this work, and so they must do it with the care and sensitivity it demands. They must preserve the dignity of the person in their hands, and alongside that, their own professional standing. And yet an old observer cannot help but think of another side to this problem. In a country where footballers, tailors, and television hosts—where bankers and administrators—are paid astronomical sums, surely the work of those who hold us in their hands when we are most defenseless, most in need of welcome and care, deserves far greater recognition and far better pay.
Pennablù, 2011