The vulnerable elderly who are at the mercy of care home sadists

By Sonia Poulton
Last updated at 11:44 PM on 08th August 2008

A while ago, I decided to pursue a life-long ambition and took a break from journalism to study psychology. I have always been fascinated by human behaviour  -  and the underlying thought processes that drive it  -  and I yearned for an academic understanding.

Three years later, having studied the full span of human development, I was particularly drawn to the psychology of people in the later stages of life. Seeking more practical knowledge, I applied for a job as a carer in a residential home for the elderly.

When I was asked to go in for a job interview, I was thrilled. The role would enable me to put some of my academic learning into practice. In fact, what I witnessed during the following six months still haunts me. Residents were bullied and treated with contempt. Their physical and mental frailties were cruelly mocked and some were singled-out for particularly demeaning treatment.

The notion that I, too, may end my days in a residential care home is terrifying. By 2030, it is estimated that almost one in ten of the elderly population will live in a residential care home. It is a bleak prospect.

According to one expert, abuse of the elderly is ‘alarmingly common’ (picture posed by model)

But I had little idea of what was to come when, on a frosty Tuesday morning, I arrived for an interview at a converted Victorian house in a leafy Gloucestershire street.

I was greeted by Annette, a 50-year-old divorcee who bore more than a passing resemblance to Olive from On The Buses. She was jovial and welcoming.

Annette was very talkative. She informed me that there were nine ‘service users’  -  the sterile term for residents  -  with ‘varying needs.’

Some were incontinent, others had dementia ‘or else they’re just pretending to be stupid’, she laughed.

The home was privately-run with its own fund-raising committee (‘a bunch of toffee-nosed do-gooders who stick their noses where they’re not wanted’, according to Annette).

She couldn’t understand why I wanted to work there. ‘Why,’ she asked, ‘would anyone want to do this job if they didn’t have to?’

She offered me several shifts a week as a carer. She needed a previous employment reference and said she would have to apply for my Criminal Records check to verify that I didn’t have any prior convictions.

Two weeks later  -  before my criminal record check had come back  -  I did my first shift. Annette ‘felt good’ about me and, even though she could ‘get shot,’ she would let me start without it.

I hadn’t been in trouble with the law, but Annette didn’t know that.

I soon settled in. My main responsibilities were to prepare lunch and dinner and assist the residents during the day. This could involve helping them to the lavatory, wiping away food or drink spills from clothes, or looking for a missing jigsaw piece.

Over the next month or so, I looked forward to my twice-weekly shifts. I grew up without grandparents  -  they all died before my birth  -  and I found the company enlightening.

The men regaled me with wartime stories of military camaraderie and the women recalled how they would draw lines down the backs of their legs to simulate the seams of highly desirable stockings. I felt rejuvenated, and grateful, after time with them.

One day, Annette called me over. She commended my ‘cheery personality’, but told me to be careful. ‘Some of them are very manipulative,’ she warned. ‘Don’t get drawn in by the pity-seekers.’

As my time there progressed, Annette became more openly derogatory about the residents. Privately, they were ‘Granny’ or ‘Granddad’. Those who endured incontinence were ‘Nappy Needers’, and residents who required more extensive medical assistance were ‘Frequent Flyers’.

Her disdain infected other staff and I noticed how, in Annette’s presence, carers would show similar hostility  -  as if seeking her approval.

Frequently, Annette and other staff would talk to each other over the head of the person they were discussing, as if the person wasn’t there. And there were two women, in particular, who suffered directly from Annette’s contempt.

Agatha, at 73, had numerous agerelated issues. Her joints were worn, her legs weak, her eyesight failing and she had advanced dementia.

When we were introduced, she couldn’t recall her name, but she smiled warmly and commented that my hair was ‘the colour of gold’.

She spent much of her time in a wheelchair staring into space or sleeping, and she frequently dribbled food and drink down herself.

Agatha had been incontinent for four years and, despite the fact that she had little bladder control, Annette blamed her for this.

I once saw Annette hold her nose, as if trying to block out an unpleasant smell, when she stood behind Agatha.

This greatly amused two of the staff members who witnessed it.

But not me. I was appalled that Agatha, who had sold her home to be here, was so derided. It seemed utterly unjust.

Why, in the first place, had these people  -  who had spent their lives working and paying taxes  -  been forced to sell the rewards of their hard labour to pay for their care? Clearly, the State should be responsible for providing decent retirement care for its elderly citizens if they need it.

It is doubly insulting that the elderly pay so high a price for the sin of growing old and are then treated so badly. Agatha’s lack of daily clarity may have been a blessing in disguise given her living environment.

Annette had another target for her scorn. Maud was 80, mentally alert, physically able and I never saw her without her crimson lipstick. She said it reminded her that she was alive.

Maud was often tearful. She would grip my hand and her requests were often whispered in shaky tones, her eyes darting about, scared of who might be listening.

Annette frequently scolded Maud. She criticised her for ‘being too needy’ and she told me that Maud was ‘a hypochondriac’. Maud would spend hours staring at old family photos but, except for the occasional visit from her granddaughter, she seldom received any guests.

Annette claimed it was because ‘her family had tired of her  -  and rightly so’.

I didn’t agree. I found Maud engaging and vivacious. She once grabbed my hands and showed me how to do the lindy-hop, a 1930s dance. Despite Annette’s warning that I should not get too close, I wanted to help her.

One afternoon, when I knew Annette was out, I took my daughter, Shaye, then seven, to meet the residents  -  Maud, in particular.

Shaye described her ballet classes and Maud’s eyes shone with joy as they swopped dance stories across the generations. For once, I saw Maud come fully alive. It was delightful, but other than these brief moments, life for Maud was grim.

Mealtimes were a nightmare, accompanied by Annette’s dripdrip criticisms. ‘Don’t take too much mint sauce, Maud.’ ‘Watch your knife, Maud.’ ‘Maud, the bread is for everyone!’

The atmosphere was uncomfortable. The residents stared at each other across the table and held meaningful gazes, but no one dared comment. One resident later told me that they were ‘scared’ to protest lest they incur Annette’s wrath.

Fear is part of the problem in gathering a true picture of the abuse of the elderly, according to a recent Health Committee paper. According to the report, abuse often goes undetected because many older people are ‘unable, frightened or embarrassed to report its presence’.

It is estimated that 500,000 elderly people in England are abused by relatives, carers or strangers. The real figure may be significantly higher.

Much of it, however, is intangible. Annette was a skilful bully. She undermined Maud in ways that were hard to pin down. It was a withering look here or a disparaging remark there. Maud constantly sought approval from Annette, only to have it rejected yet again.

During the six months I was at the home, Maud gradually withdrew from conversations which involved Annette.

Yet some thought Annette was ‘a model manager’. Cards and letters of appreciation hung in the kitchen and office. She was charm personified to other residents and their visitors.

There was something disturbingly chilling about the extremes of her nature. It was unbearable to witness and I dwelled on it even when I was not there.

Finally, I could take it no more. One Sunday morning, just after breakfast and another routine humiliation for Maud  -  this time about her wanting another spread of jam on her toast  -  I confronted Annette about her behaviour.

Her eyes sparked with anger, but she calmly denied my accusations. Still, she knew I was on to her and I hoped it would improve her attitude towards the residents. Instead, she began to reduce my shifts.

Within weeks, I couldn’t take any more; I was so traumatised by my experience that I decided to leave. To my immense relief, just before I went, Maud’s granddaugher took her away from the home and found accommodation elsewhere.

I bumped into Maud recently. She was bouncing along a cobble-stone Cotswold street on her motorised scooter. She stopped to tell me that Annette had recently been fired from the home, then she gave me a crimson smile and waved goodbye.

All Annette’s attempts to crush Maud’s dignity had failed. Sadly, not everyone is as fortunate as Maud.

Nor is Annette’s behaviour an isolated aberration. According to Paul Cann, director of policy at Help The Aged, it is ‘alarmingly common.’

During the past few years, more than 400 carers have been prevented from working in elderly social care because of negligence or abuse. A report into care home practice for the elderly claimed that eight out of ten workers have seen colleagues being abusive towards residents.

Is this an exaggeration? Spin by charities for the elderly who always need funds? Nothing of the sort. Having witnessed such behaviour, I believe this to be a valid, even conservative, estimate.

While there is no justification for anything less than exemplary care for the most vulnerable members of our society, we must also re-address our view of the caring profession.

If our treatment of the elderly is to improve, we must first look to the people who care for them.

As a social care worker  -  my official title  -  I soon realised that mine was seen as a menial job, not much better than sweeping the road or emptying bins.

Carers were unskilled, poorly paid and ill-equipped to cope with the physical and mental demands of the elderly. The pay was appalling  – £5.20 an hour  -  and it didn’t require any qualifications.

Working as a carer is a highly skilled job  -  it requires knowledge and commitment  -  and should be respected as such. Until we attract the right people to this vital role, we will continue to fail our elderly population.

Public perception must also change. It is as if our elderly are inconsequential to the rest of society and have had their time.

This was illustrated by a recent survey where only six per cent had heard of Margaret Panting, a 78-year-old woman who died in Sheffield after suffering 49 different injuries  -  including cuts made by a razor blade and cigarette burns  -  five weeks after moving in with her son-in-law’s family.

But 37 per cent were aware of Victoria Climbie who died, aged eight, of injuries at the hands of her great-aunt.

The difference was that Mrs Panting was 70 years older than Victoria Climbie. Both Margaret and Victoria suffered horrendous deaths by people responsible for their care.

Age, apparently, is more than a number. It also appears to confer invisibility and cheapness to our lives.

Until we, as a nation, treat our older people with the respect and consideration they deserve, their suffering will continue. It is time to speak up. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1043061/The-vulnerable-elderly-mercy-care-home-sadists.html