Room 42

FEATURE | MAHI

Written by Aisha Campbell (she/her) - Ngāti Ruanui, Taranaki Iwi, Te Atiawa | Contributing Writer

Illustrated by Gabbie De Baron (she/her) | @gabizzlesizzle | Graphic Designer

I got called the n-word on my first day of a new job.

It was 2022 and I was in my final year of high school. After experiencing unpleasant scenes behind a McDonald's counter, I was thrilled to have landed a new job as a kitchen hand at a retirement home. 

This first shift was a training day where I tagged along with a long-time employee. The environment at the retirement home presented a comfort I could have only dreamed of during my time at Maccas (AKA satisfactory working conditions). The cooks, carers, and cleaners greeted me with sincerity and there was an absence of a repressive hierarchy. My trainer and I revelled the first of many coffee breaks only thirty minutes into the shift, accompanied by leftover dessert. The job was task-based meaning you left upon completion; no more dwelling in boredom wishing the clock would accelerate. ‘I’d cracked it’ I thought. 

A couple of hours later we’d finished most of the tasks. It was time to cease the night by giving out supper and I was to interact directly with the residents for the first time.

As I traversed around the different wings of the building I met the various characters that made up this interesting nest. Bernadette in room 48 relentlessly requests milk for the cereal she’s not meant to be eating on her diet. Tom in room 4 wants to discuss (in detail) the latest Top Gear episode and I must make sure to shut the door so his cat doesn’t escape. Shirley in the lounge room is dairy-free, gluten-free, and needs reminding she lives in room 36. 

Knowing I had to remember these intricate details was becoming overwhelming…and then we visited room 42. 

“Hello Ian, it’s supper time,” my trainer says whilst knocking on the door. 

“Come on in,” Ian replies. We are met with a grinning man behind the door who is surprised to see two people. He looks at my trainer. “I see you’ve brought a little n-word along with you to help out.” 

Did I hear that right? Surely not. Yes, I did. He just called me the n-word. He really did. Should I tell him to say that again? Should I lash out? Should I leave? My body is ignited with a burning rage. But the fire is quickly quenched by the dampening feeling of defeat that leaves me stunned and silent.

I stand outside and my trainer proceeds to pour Ian his tea: a splash of milk and no sugar. Four vanilla wafers, his favourite biscuit, are placed on his table and we leave in a hurry to finish the supper round. 

“They say stuff like that sometimes,” my trainer tells me. His voice is subdued. His head is bowed. His coloured skin was stinging just as much as mine. 

I impatiently awaited the night's end, eager to escape the venom of a passing comment that had poisoned a nearly perfect first day. 

The following night when I returned to room 42 to deliver Ian’s supper he couldn’t even remember that I’d met him the night before. An encounter so stark for me had departed his mind in a moment. 

“Welcome,” he said, “I hope they’re treating you well!”

The job quickly proved that out-the-gate interactions were certainly not an anomaly. Winnie from Room 34 would hide cups in her purse and tell me she didn’t know where they were. Shirley once stole a loaf of wheat bread off my trolley and began having a munch (remember she’s a coeliac). But no matter how distressing, absurd or ignorant this behaviour might have been, my duty to care for the residents wasn’t going to be interfered with. 

Dementia wants nothing more than to be the boss. Dementia wants his employees —the vulnerable residents—to do his dirty work. He wants to exploit their vulnerability, and then make them bear the consequences of his behaviour.

I don’t excuse the unacceptable behaviour but when it transpired in the retirement home, I often had to excuse my instinct to react with resentment. I had to learn to put my own discontent aside; there was no one in more need of compassion, gentleness and understanding than the residents themselves. 

Over time, visiting Ian became one of my favourite parts of the job. He’d show me the latest puzzle he’d completed and we’d have a yarn about today’s news. He would talk about his family, and his weekends away at dancing competitions. He proved to be polite, intelligent and analytical - always making sure his empty cup was right at the door so it was easy to pick up at the end of the night.

During the few years I worked at the retirement home I watched as Ian slowed down. I would find him asleep on his chair at supper time and soon enough he began going to bed before supper time even rolled around. Ian passed on early this year. I think fondly of him; the lessons and the laughs he bestowed from room 42 during my supper rounds. He was a sweet man who left me feeling quite bitter on my first day.