Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Dear Resident

Dear Resident,
Tonight was really rough. I didn't want to come to work. I wanted to sit in my pajamas, sipping coffee and spending time with my family.  But I put on the scrubs anyway, feeling like some kind of Martyr going out to make the world a better place.

 I kissed the bearded face of my husband before leaving, hugged my daughters.  Only to later that evening hear you crying because you didn't know where your family was.  That you wanted to go home.  Who was I to have the audacity to tell you that this place was your home? This room filled with a few choice items from your past.

We served dinner, I heard you tell the stories of owning a restaurant. I looked down at my plate, the food at least home made, but probably not what you had served.  What would you give to make recipes that your mother passed down? I was reminded to be grateful the next time I served dinner at home.

I took my shower for granted this morning. Loving the hot water steaming up the room.  My favorite body wash and shampoo.  I dread waking you up, removing you from your warm bed, and wheeling you to the shower room.  I try to be gentle, make sure the water is the right temperature,  But you don't want a shower. You have a perfectly working shower at home. Why can't you go home?

Dear resident, my heart breaks.  It breaks every time I tell you that this is your home now.  Every time your children leave and the tears start to fall. I see the role reversal, the daughter taking care of the mother.  Tucking her in and kissing her good night.  You mean that much more to me, seeing how loved you are outside of the home, and seeing them draw breaths and wipe away tears as they regain composure to return to their families.

I apologize for every time that I forget that I'm young, take my independence for granted, Every time I give a sigh when you say that you need to use the bathroom again, or when I push your wheel chair too fast, or I can't understand what you're trying to say.

You've lived a full life, mine is just beginning.  Thank you for teaching me all that you have.


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