Live In PCAs

Shortly after graduating from college and securing a real job at a Center for Independent Living, I decided that it was my turn to strike it out on my own. And why not? I was helping other people with disabilities achieve the same, and besides, I was the Personal Care Attendant Referral Counselor -- I had first pick off the list of attendants I recruited and interviewed.

I approached my quad buddy Kirby Shaw on the notion of renting a two-bedroom apartment somewhere in the Honolulu area; some place we could call our own; somewhere we could invite girls for sleep-overs. (We never had any girl sleep-overs; a few drunk guys, maybe, but never any girls.)

Kirby and I conducted our search for both a place to live and a live-in attendant with diligence. We were conscientious about physical access and clear that we were open to a cigarette smoking, beer drinking attendant willing to wipe our butts. And then we compromised on a more-than-less accessible Liliuokalani Avenue apartment in Waikiki and an attendant named Jay.

Jay was a great attendant: strong, willing, and able. He was attentive to detail, including finger/toe nails and rouge nose hairs, and he liked his double gin and tonic cocktails. Perfect for the 2003 up-coming holidays.

Oh, he liked guys too. Kirby flipped out when he learned this after we were all ready moved in, but later accepted the difference, mainly due to peer pressure, frat-house badgering, actually.

Jay was the first of 6 different live-in attendants I had before getting married. And there were also 4 other PCAs I hired throughout the years. (I’ll talk more about these relationships in future blogs.)

All of the live in attendants I hired had some kind of “instability” in their life. They were either newly relocated to Hawaii, newly divorced, newly sober, newly humanitarian, or newly reborn -- and my need/situation was perfectly void of material things and non-taxable income.

Looking back, some 35 years later, it all seems logical. They were available to accept a live in job as a personal care attendant BECAUSE of their instability.

Were these going to be long-term work-relationships? Of course not.

One Bible-thumping guy even told me as we were breaking up, “... you need to find a wife, someone that loves you as a person, and she’ll be your PCA for life.” SOB was right! I hate when those guys are right.