The Providers

or, two gentlemen in a care home

“I provide 18 meals a day. That’s my job,” Papa bear once declared proudly. For him, it was his greatest achievement: to be the provider. As long as we had full bellies and a roof over our heads, he was happy.

Photo by Ricardas Brogys on Unsplash

These 18 meals were the 3 square meals a day for all of us, the fam. He worked long hours for them, often in distant places, and he was absent more than he was present. I don’t remember him ever not working. Instead, I remember how in demand he was. He was a Northern grafter with an exceptional brain, so he was a golden asset to the companies he worked for.

I don’t know why this memory surfaced, but it made me think of the Papa I used to know. The one with ironed shirts and polished shoes. The one drinking a G&T after a long day and snoozing on the sofa late at night. The Papa I sit next to now is so different, wearing old comfy slippers and ill-fitting polo shirts. Drinking a G&T that this time, has no ‘G’ in it.

There are many men like him here in the care home, some I know, some I don’t. All stalwarts of their generation, and today, it is Ben that sits on the other side of me.

Ben was my boss for one hot, work experience summer. I loved working for him. He was always cheery, had a brilliant smile, and created an atmosphere of camaraderie and respect in the office. He gave me the experience I needed to take flight into the world of work and showed me that leadership could be firm yet avuncular. Now, this Ben of old has changed, chameleon-like, into a Ben that is totally lost in a world of his own, needing help with even the most basic of tasks. He has no idea that it’s me, the teenager he once knew, that is sitting with him.

These men worked until there was no work left for them to do. They lived for their families. The gave us a safe and plentiful haven, a safe harbour in which to land. They are still here, they are still with us, but they are buried beneath a haze they can’t find their way through. They look into the distance as if seeing other lands, speaking their words back to front and upside down.

I have yet to see Ben smile the way he used to. And papa bear, he doesn’t recollect those 18 meals.

Now it is we, the fam, that are the providers. We are the providers of 18 smiles a day; of hugs, of soft hands to hold, of reassuring words. We provide presence and continuity; a familiar scent and voice, warmth and soft touches. By the hands of fate our roles have reversed, and it is our chance now to provide for the providers.