Two years later, the group home moved
into a larger house. The group home coordinator and caregiver showed us our
house before we moved in and asked if I wanted the downstairs. I did want to live downstairs but the
half-bathroom down there didn't include a shower. I would have to go upstairs to shower and then
back downstairs which would be too much for me. I also received my own phone line and that was
fun. A new roommate moved in and she fit
in easily; we got along very well.
While in that house, my caregiver went
on holidays for three weeks but never returned. She had been my caregiver for
about four years and I think she wanted to switch jobs because she did
everything on her own, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I took it very hard that she left without
telling anyone. When she left for
holidays she gave me a big hug and said, “Take care of yourself,” and I knew in
that moment that she was leaving.
Over the next two years, our house
had five different caregivers. It was
hard because my last caregiver and I had been very close and now I had to live
with someone new every couple of months. Finally, we had a caregiver who looked as if
she would be staying longer than a few months. All of us moved into a bungalow where I could
use my wheelchair.
In the eleven years I lived in a
group home, I'd moved three times, had eight caregivers, and had three roommates.
Being in a group home has opened my eyes
a lot. I have nothing bad to say about
where I'm living, but as I grow older I want to do more with my life. My sisters have lives of their own and can do
whatever they want. I'm jealous of them. I had originally planned to stay in the group
home for a couple of years, but time passed quickly.
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