Confessions of a Bottle Washer
Confessions of a Bottle Washer
Alright, folks… buckle up. Let me tell you about my life, because apparently I’m living a version of “Groundhog Day,” but instead of Bill Murray it’s me—and instead of fun, it’s Granny.
Yeah… Granny. My 90-year-old overlord, master of manipulation, queen of passive-aggressive death stares, and the reason I understand the full meaning of the term bottle washer. Yeah, she called me that once. Just out of the blue. “You’re the bottle washer, period.”
And I knew. Oh, I knew. I was like, damn… she didn’t call me that like a cute nickname. No. That was a soul-crushing, lifelong sentence. Like I was born to scrub her ass, cook her meals,Get her on the bedpan before she shits herself, manage her medication, drive her to church, shovel her driveway in winter while she looks at me judging me like I just murdered a toddler, and all I get in return is… the occasional glare.
I’m basically a Swiss Army knife of misery. You need breakfast at 6:00 a.m.? I’m on it. Lunch at 11:30? Don’t even ask—because I’ll do it faster than Amazon Prime. Oh, and dinner? Yeah, let me whip up a three-course meal while juggling her medications andBeing a host to whoever she invites over sometimes without even telling me until the day off.
I’ve done more errands for Granny than FedEx. FedEx calls me for tips. “Hey, Steven, how do you get it done so fast?” And I’m like, “I have no choice. If I slow down, she’ll die—or portray me neglecting her.”
But let me tell you, being a bottle washer isn’t glamorous. People think it’s cute. “Oh, you care for your elderly grandmother? That’s so sweet!” Sweet? I’m basically a human Roomba with PTSD. I vacuum, I mop, I cook, I clean up after her bowel movement daily. and let me tell you something some days that's a pretty rough task for me and I'm not talking the physical work of it or dealing with someone else's fecesI can honestly say the horrific smell of her dumps have only gotten to me less than a handful of times and when I say they gotten to me I mean they made me ill two times I almost puked. and the last time was something different. probably just stuff going on with me. One of the least liked jobs, but I do it patiently and quietly gently with care and have never complained…Because the place where she was at would let her fill her pants and then she would have to have full pants for who knows how long. which is just wrong.
and you know what the kicker is? She’s got no respect for time. She calls me at 7 a.m. like it’s 2 p.m. She doesn’t sleep well. She thinks I'm a Personal bedpan attendant.I knew it was part of the job when I accepted this responsibility but never thought about all this extra shit.. My sleep schedule is whatever she says it is. My freedom? What’s that?
And yeah… she insults me . Not even mean insults, like funny ones. Mean, mean, soul-crushing insults. She has a PhD in it. “That's why I hired you.” “I'll just cut your pay.”Oh your next paycheck is going to get docked.” And the best? “You’re my bottle washer.” Just a few examples I don't mind sharing. trust me there's more.
I’ve literally done everything for her. I’ve been her chauffeur, her cook, her therapist, her advisor, her tech support.Every morning she makes the walk from her bed to her chair in the living room. I think it's 34 steps by her count and every day is nerve-wracking for me. There've been three or four incidents where her legs or knees give out and I was there to keep her upright and not hitting the floor.. You know what I got out of it? A sarcastic, “Thanks, bottle washer But I don't need you to walk to my chair.” That’s it. No medal. No trophy. Just a little mental abuse for free.
And let’s talk about the sacrifices. You think I’m joking about sacrifices? Nah. I’ve sacrificed my sanity. My social life. My sleep. My hope for a life. And all so I can watch her pick at me like she’s auditioning for Survivor: Family Edition, where I’m the first one voted off… every day.
Let me tell you something about shame: when you’re a caregiver for someone like Granny, you don’t just lose your free time—you lose your dignity. I’ve been yelled at for using the wrong spoon, forTo her first thing in the morning, for doing something but not doing it how she would do it or how she would want it done… like I’m supposed to be perfect, but I’m the bottle washer! The lowest form of human life. Clearly in the era when the term bottle washer was used it's basically a slur for a Slave.
You want to know what it feels like to be a bottle washer in Michigan winter? Picture this: snow piling up outside, driveway like a frozen river, your bones aching because you’re 45 years old, and she’s judging you like you personally caused global warming.And I better get it done before her friend show up so they don't have to walk through how many ever inches of snow. And you’re out there shoveling , thinking maybe I’m being punished for every bad decision I’ve ever made in my life.
And don’t get me started on the emotional abuse. Granny is like a human sandpaper. She doesn’t just rub against you—she slowly, piece by piece picks and picks and I take it. Because if I fight back, I’m a monster. If I cry, I’m a weakling. So what’s left? I laugh at my own misery.
Sometimes I think, maybe she’s right. Maybe I am her slave. Maybe I was born to be a human appliance. Because what else explains spending over a year doing every single thing for her, only to get insulted and called names with no respect as a man.
You know what’s funny? I’ve tried to be sneaky sometimes, just to see if I can get a win. I’ll do a chore, thinking maybe she’ll compliment me. Maybe she’ll say, “Good job.” Nope. She’ll find some way to make it an insult. I cleaned the windows the other day, and she goes, “I thought you were going to Do them last month, but I guess youJust put it off like everything else.”
And yeah… I’ve called her out sometimes. I said, “Granny, I’m your bottle washer, sure, but can you at least try to pretend I’m a human being?” She looked at me like I just insulted the Pope. “You are a human being.One that defies me.” Like I am here to obey her old outdated ways and outdated ideas. Remind me of a line I've said many times to many people probably more to remind myself than to inform them “ I'm not as dumb as I look And I'm smarter than the average bear”
And that’s the harsh reality of being a bottle washer. You love them, you care for them, you sacrifice everything, and at the end of the day… you’re still the human mop, the walking punching bag, the unpaid therapist. And you’re supposed to smile while you do it.
I’ve cleaned more urine, and feces,in the last year than some hospitals see in a month. I’ve carried a 90-year-old woman to church,got an xray,dentist office and, to the DMV. I’ve cooked, I’ve cleaned, I’ve driven, I’ve sacrificed. And all I have to show for it? A few eye-rolls, some passive-aggressive comments, and the honor of being called a bottle washer.
And you know what? I embrace it. Because if this is my life… if being a human bottle washer is my destiny… I will do it with pride. I will be the best damn bottle washer in Michigan. I’ll scrub, I’ll mop, I’ll cook, I’ll drive, I’ll shovel snow. And I’ll still be insulted by Granny, who is somehow still the boss of my life.
So here’s to all the caregivers, all the human mops, all the bottle washers. You’re doing God’s work. You’re sacrificing, serving, living through chaos, and somehow—somehow—you survive. And if you’re lucky, your Granny will call you a bottle washer. And maybe, just maybe… you’ll laugh, because what else can you do?
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