I was 19,
naive, idealistic,
thinking a nursing home
would be a fun, rewarding job.
I’d play bingo with the old people
and hand out smiles
like medication.
By the end of the first week,
I was elbows deep in **** and ****
***** coating my forearms,
wrinkled skin like crepe paper,
teeth that wouldn’t close right,
or none at all,
and blank eyes staring at nothing,
or glimmers of a life
they once had.
Dementia attacked their brains,
Alzheimer’s stole their identity,
but they still wanted my hand,
still needed a smile,
still wanted to matter,
even if for only a moment.
I learned to take blood pressures
and count respirations
and lift bodies like wet sacks
and wrap them in sheets
with gentle finality,
slide them onto gurneys
bound for the morgue.
I swore to myself
I would never forget
the weight,
the warmth,
the silence.
My back ached.
My shoulders screamed
like angry drunks at closing time,
my hands raw from soap
and oceans of hard water.
But I stayed,
because someone had to be there.
Someone has to care,
even when it smells like death
and despair
and ****
all mixed in with
old flowery perfume,
coffee,
and antiseptic.
The nurses taught me everything:
how to laugh at a **** in the hall,
the different ways to take a temperature,
how to hold a shaking hand,
how to keep your heart from breaking
while the ones you’ve grown to love
slip silently away.
I survived on caffeine,
laughter,
and cigarettes,
tiny victories —
a grin,
a whispered thank you,
a fleeting spark of recognition
in a broken mind.
By the end,
it made a semblance of sense.
I understood humanity
a bit better,
how cruel life could be,
how beautiful it could be,
and why people need people,
even when they’ve forgotten
how to ask.