I have been in Marseille for three weeks, working undocumented in the social care sector. There’s a heatwave and it is hard to breathe. I chose caring for older people because it is badly paid across the EU. Nevertheless, women from poorer eastern European countries often move for such jobs because there is a shortage of staff and wages are still higher in the west.
When I finally get all the paperwork together to get a legally recognised job, I approach two agencies in the city. Both call me immediately to arrange a date for a job interview.
I am adamant that I only want work as a stand-in, to do cover for a regular care worker who is on holiday or ill. This is because I am not sure how well I will handle this kind of work.
In any case I pass the interview, and the agency I sign up with arranges one home-help visit a day. But after the first shift, grocery shopping and cleaning for an old lady, Patricia from the agency calls, desperately pleading with me to work an extra shift the next day – apparently, another worker who started the same day I did has just quit. “And while we’re at it, could you also take on one other lady tomorrow, and the following days too?” she says. And because I had mentioned I wouldn’t mind working Sunday nights, she asks if I could maybe work a weekend shift too.
“It’s crazy; everyone is on sick leave. It would really help me out,” she tells me gratefully on the phone.
The most surprising thing is that I receive no training, although the agency promises it will explain everything. “You will be working alone, but you are not really alone,” Patricia says. I take that to mean that there will be a supervisor I can contact if I run into a problem. I find out later that you can’t phone the agency. If you need something you can send an email, and if you’re lucky they will call you back. As Patricia had warned me: “The job isn’t for everyone. You have to enjoy it.”
My first client, Rachel, aged 90, has Alzheimer’s and needs me to make her dinner. I am given the keys to her apartment. When I get there, shortly before 6pm, I head to the ninth floor and let myself into the flat. In the living room, I find a tiny lady. She asks me what I am doing there. I tell her I have come to cook her dinner. She informs me she doesn’t need anyone to cook for her. She takes me to her fridge to show me how much food there is. And there really are boxes of food. I call the number they have given me at the agency, but it doesn’t exist. Then I try Rachel’s son but get the answering machine. I am in a situation where I can’t contact anyone, and it occurs to me that I really am on my own.
But then Rachel suddenly says: “Why don’t we have a game of Rummikub.” I gladly agree. She brings out the game and explains the rules to me. We play for a bit, and we have a blast.
Always on the move
I set out in the mornings at 8am and don’t return until 8.30pm. There is never enough time to get from one household to the next, especially as the buses in Marseille seem to run to their own schedule. The agency also sometimes calls to assign new visits for the same day. I don’t always have time to eat.
I spend my evenings with Rachel, and soon get into the habit of staying longer than I am paid for. An hour is too short. Rachel always wants to play a game before dinner and it’s hard for me to leave – also because I enjoy her company.
On Sunday, I go to Dolores and her husband, José. Her daughter, Ada, who is my age, and Ada’s brother, greet me warmly. I get the feeling they see me as an equal, somebody helping them care for their ageing parents.
Ada works as an upholsterer. She visits her parents every day but she has three children and needs someone to take care of the parents’ lunch. I have two and a half hours to cook, clean and talk to her parents. I am also supposed to give them their pills after lunch.
Ada’s brother has come down from northern France because the agency struggled to find a care worker – they are both very glad to see me.
I finish making lunch and cleaning up, then go to Rachel’s who lives nearby. I fold her laundry, clean up after cooking her lunch, and then we have a game.
Back at Dolores’s place the next day, I find her sitting in an armchair in a good mood. I clean, heat up the boxed meals Ada has left in and help Dolores to eat. Having two and a half hours, rather than just an hour, makes all the difference. I am more relaxed as I have time to care. The family treats me with such respect that it is heartbreaking when I think about having to leave them. I haven’t told Ada – she will find out tomorrow from the agency, and I feel sick just thinking about it. I never wanted to be assigned to a family who would count on me. The emotional strain of this work makes me cry.
After Dolores, I go to see Marguerite, who also has dementia. Every time she sees me, she asks who I am and what I am doing here. I find a message, most likely written by her daughter, telling me to wash the windows. They are huge and the sun on the terrace outside is really hot. It gets so hot I almost faint. But I have to get the job done. From Marguerite’s, I hurry home to grab a bite to eat as I’ve not had anything since morning. Then, totally exhausted, I catch the bus to Rachel’s to make dinner.
I can’t forgive myself
The next day, as I am feeding Dolores, Ada calls, and Dolores tells her how nice I am to her. She is beaming with joy and likes what I have cooked for lunch. I clean up, hang the laundry, and José asks me to administer eye drops. I’m not supposed to do that, but I can’t say no.
From there, I head back to the agency and cry all the way. I tell them that I will be leaving the following week for family reasons. Patricia desperately shows me the work plan for the coming month and wonders who can take my place.
On my last day, Ada greets me when I arrive at the flat. She starts talking about what we will do on Sunday. That’s when I realise that she still doesn’t know I’m leaving. “They didn’t tell you?” I ask. “Tell me what?” she replies apprehensively. I tell her I am leaving, and that I thought she knew. Ada calls the agency and asks for Patricia. She doesn’t answer. Ada’s hands are shaking and she is obviously in shock. Saying my goodbyes to Dolores and José is almost too much for me. I feel like a traitor and can’t forgive myself.
The agency had given me a phone. When I return it to them, I ask Patricia why she hadn’t told Ada I was leaving, and she says: “I just didn’t have the heart. I have no one to replace you.”
When freedom of movement within the EU was established, the possibility for people in one country to hire someone from another, poorer country to look after ageing or sick parents – a job that used to be done by family members for free – must have seemed like a good solution to a difficult situation. The problem is that the French social care system relies heavily on agency workers who are poorly remunerated. In my case, I made just €500 for 10 days’ work; although I worked 10 to 11 hours a day, six days a week, the time spent travelling between clients wasn’t paid for, so I was only paid for six or seven hours a day.
Europe is getting older, and we urgently need a debate about why care work should be better paid, and why the women – and it is predominately women – who go into people’s homes must have proper supervision and support. The work is not only physically demanding but emotionally draining, and the lack of time to do it properly makes it incredibly stressful.
Until care work is better valued, domiciliary care agencies will continue to find it hard to recruit. And when there aren’t enough care workers for an ageing population, the quality of care suffers. Only when such a badly designed system is radically transformed will the situation improve.
Saša Uhlová is a staff writer at the Czech online daily Deník Alarm. Reporting for this series was supported by the The Endowment Fund for Independent Journalism. Names have been changed. The project’s accompanying documentary, directed by Apolena Rychlíková, is Limits of Europe
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