Having a bath has always been one of life’s true pleasures for me. Stoically, I find that bubbles and froth are unnecessary and I don’t need granular highly-scented spheres on a string either: just lots of hot water to ease myself down into and somewhere to put my drink. Recently, Frasier gave me one of those candles that crackles like a wood fire and sometimes I will light that as well if I am feeling particularly fancy.
In recent years, I do make sure that I have some good quality soap: either the translucent amber of Pears or French-milled, a perfectly smooth block stamped with ‘Provence” and perfumed with violets, vanilla or fig. This sounds like a high maintenance diva talking but truly, it’s only late in life that I have justified such luxuries. I suddenly realized that no one, absolutely no one, is going to step forward and insist that I “treat myself”- so now that responsibility rests solely with me.
(Which is completely fine because I am definitely going to make it happen!)
My first full time job in my very early twenties was at a seniors’ longterm care facility and each day I gave someone a bath. I remember being very respectful of this ritual and I enjoyed seeing the variety of what everyone brought along in their little waterproof bags. Sponges. Loofahs. Talcum Powder and accompanying puffs. Cartoonish shower caps that always seemed to have tea roses on them. Bottles of scent - 4711 anyone? - were for dabbing afterwards. There were also old-fashioned back brushes with soft yielding bristles made from something that is likely now illegal.
The baths themselves were large and square - like giant sugar cubes - and opened to reveal a seat, hand held shower and grab bars. Once the bathers were installed and I had filled the tub to their liking, I would casually soap up a washcloth for them and then they could manage their own bits and pieces and just happily leave their backs to me. I recall swallowing my shock when I observed their bodies slowly entering these cubes, flesh hanging on arms like towels on a railing, their bottoms heavily pleated with wrinkles, like an elephant’s. One of my favourite residents, Mrs.Craven, once said to me sadly:”Oooh, a wee girl like yourself should never be bathing old ladies for a living. Don’t you keep doing this, will you?” I really loved Mrs.Craven. She spoke with a soft Lancashire accent not unlike my mother’s and her intelligent bright eyes reminded me of a kindly bird. She was frail but still beautiful in her daintiness and she had to wear a colostomy bag of which she was deeply ashamed. We talked about all manner of cheerful things during bath time, chiefly as a distraction, since it was clear that no longer being able to enjoy a bath independently was just another thing that had been stolen as they aged.
The internet is heaving with quotes about the happiness of a good bath but I will leave you with the one I like best attributed to Dodie Smith from I Capture the Castle: “Noble deeds and hot baths are the best cures for depression.”
Oh so lovely and sad and emotional for me to read about your first job. At my mother’s care home there was a male orderly who would roll in and ask her if she would like to go to the car wash! And she always did with a gig grin. But you are right about the joy of bathing independently is something stolen from the ancients.
Oh what a lovely evocative piece Sue. Very empathic of you as a young woman to appreciate their needs & wrinkled bodies. I’m with you a little 4711, candle, drinky and good book but I still haven’t figured out how to keep the book dry! Then I get an itchy face & suddenly I’m all wet & uncomfortable … such a diva too! xx
Ahhhhhh yes a bath is so relaxing and I love all the smells and steam.
So many times I have emerged feeling much better and now that we have a sauna at home the bath is the perfect next step after a sweaty sauna.
Love your description of the ladies who were under your care during their bathing time.
Thanks for sharing.
A lovely piece, but as my time as an orderly at London Psychiatric Hospital and Marian Villa, bathing the angry old men is a memory I tend to repress.