"He's a Nice Baby"

I don't often work the night shift at Russell House, but I really enjoy it every time I do. There are a few people who wander at night. They come into the living room, occupying recliners and watching old reruns of "I Love Lucy" (boy, does that lady get up to some hilarious highjinx!). Inevitably, someone asks for food. Last week, I made Violet a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The review? "I've had better."

But really, what makes me happiest about the night shift is that when the residents are half-asleep, you get a glimpse of what they used to be like, and I think, a little of what's really in their hearts.

For example, while I was doing bed checks tonight (we check the residents every two hours, making sure they are dry and repositioning those that are not capable of moving) I lightly touched Teresa on the shoulder to wake her. This is a woman who, during the day, will often randomly mutter "Shut up, bitch," and paces the hallways counting steps in sets of twelve. But when I woke her up tonight, she breathed sleepily and smiled. She rolled over and opened one eye, saying "What wrong honey? Did you have a bad dream?" Then she scooted over, and pulled back the covers, patting the space beside her on the twin bed, "Here, you can snuggle in with me." I'm not a person who is really given to sentimentality, but I found my eyes welling up as I hugged her and told her that I was just in to check on her. She reminded me so much of my mother, and the nights when I was young, and I would crawl into bed with her after a nightmare.

It's easy to forget that the people I spend my days caring for have lived lives outside of Russell House. They, too, were once caregivers, and being reminded of that at night makes for some of the most poignant moments of my job.