The Kevorkian Clinic

They transferred me to a house called The Kevorkian Clinic.

“Why?” I asked the HR lady, who looked much like you’d imagine an HR lady looking: plump, motherly, full of malice.

“Changing things up. It is our medical house so many of the clients do not live long.” She smiled.

“Oh.” I said.

Whether she noticed my frown or my parted lips or whether she was one of those rare breed of psychic HR ladies, she could tell this bothered me because she said, comfortingly,

“Just think of them like money.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Like a bank teller handling money. If they kept thinking about it as money, well, they’d dash off with the lot, wouldn’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

“So you understand?”

I hesitated. “So, I shouldn’t see the clients as people?”

She frowned. “I wouldn’t put it that way. Just try not to get to upset over it is all.”

Not psychic after all.

“Okay.”

“Good, there are five clients. You will be assigned as the primary caregiver to John.” She passed over a thick old folder.

“He has down syndrome and dementia. He has been with us a long time. Very sweet. You won’t have any trouble from him, but he does have a fair few medical issues you’ll need special training for. We can schedule those now if you’d like?”

“Okay.”

She muddled about in her computer for a minute or so to a sound track of hmms and umms. I waited.

“Tuesday? At, hmm, three?”

“Okay.”

“You’ll be meeting with our head nurse. She is very nice, good teacher.”

“Great.”

“Any other questions?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Great, welcome.” She stretched out a plump little hand locked onto her arm with a thin silver watch. I shook the hand gently.

“And remember,” she rubbed her fingers together.

“Money, got it,” I said.

She smiled warmly.

 

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