Fitting In

Long years in this business have taught me the art of great British understatement and by those criteria Jack is "not a coper".
The block is warden controlled. It is typical of it's genre, a pale brick one storey complex with block paving and neatly kept shrub beds and a box hedge leading you up the path to the front door. The intercom system lets you into a foyer with framed pictures of parties held in the communal lounge and vases of slightly dusty plastic flowers. Four corridors lead off from the main hallway, each with half a dozen neat identical doors. Most residents have added personal touches, a name plaque here, a wrought iron plant stand there. Jack's flat has no ornament unless you count the black finger marks around the lock and the stale smell that emanates from the broken letter box. He has lived in the flat for a little more than a year, moved there by social services when it became clear that he could not cope where he lived before. It didn't take long for his house proud neighbours to unite in a common cause of trying to get him evicted again.
Jack is in his seventies and his needs are simple - beer, bookies, basic food and ..err...beer. He has had a cva (cerebral vascular accident, commonly known as a stroke) and he uses a mobility scooter to get to the bookies and the pub. His flat isn't the worst I have seen by a long way but it is cheerless and grubby. He lacks the basics, changes of sheets, changes of underwear, decent towels, and the stuff he does have is bundled in a cupboard in his bed sitting room. We take his washing to the launderette when we can persuade him to part with the money but it is a constant battle and there is always a backlog of dirty laundry which is piled in his bathroom because he doesn't even have a laundry basket. The warden has banned us from using the communal laundry because of complaints from other residents about his heavily soiled garments.
We go in each morning and help Jack to wash and dress and make him some food. He doesn't see personal hygeine as a priority and getting him to shower is hit and miss. His clothes are raggy and stained with beer and urine and the chances of getting him to buy replacements are slim to say the least. We are supposed to go each evening too but more often than not he is in the pub.
We have several other customers in the complex and they are vociferous with their complaints about how we care for Jack. It's frustrating - we don't get time for cleaning or general maintenance, we get two scant half hours a day and often only do, and get paid for, one. I understand that, in the eyes of his neighbours, we are in there so we should be addressing the issues but that can only be done with Jack's co operation and Jack doesn't see anything wrong with the way he lives. He chooses to spend his income on beer and horses and the idea of paying for help to remedy the squalor in which he lives is just not something he sees as necessary. It's a small village and it is openly acknowledged that Jack has always lived like this, his stroke is incidental to his lifestyle except that it helped to secure him his warden controlled home.
The complex had a tenth anniversary party recently. There was a buffet and entertainment provided in the lounge and all the residents were invited by means of a notice in the foyer. Nobody thought for a moment that Jack would attend and indeed he did not. Uncharacteristically though, he was at home when the carers called in the evening. He was sitting in his room, cans scattered around him and with the lights off except for a dim table lamp which barely pierced the gloom. He was obviously feeling very down and he refused to let us get him undressed, this was going to be yet another night when he slept in his clothes. The carer made him a cup of tea, which she placed to go cold by his side and sat down to talk to him since he was refusing to let her do anything practical. She sat in the semi darkness and tried to make conversation with the old man but he was unforthcoming and after a while she filled in the communication book and said goodnight. As she reached the door he looked up from his beer can and said "Thanks for coming girl, it's good to know somebody cares" Jack doesn't have the tools to fit in, he never did, that's why he drinks and goes out of his way not to fit in. Jack's tragedy is that nobody noticed he wanted to fit in while there was still some hope of changing things and that he has become so adept at pretending he doesn't care.