To my supervisor:

I wonder how much we remember about each other before formally meeting. Predicting what happens next is less difficult. Working with you at the underfunded rural nursing home every Sunday made sure of that. I can count the times on one hand when I walked onto the floors overflowing with wheelchairs and the malodor of overcooked eggs, and it was not a staff member’s first day. I loved meeting new people, so I never minded.

You knew my hours as an activity assistant were long, but also that I couldn’t just leave when my shifts properly ended. At first, the motivation was to finish up tasks, like charting attendance, wiping up spilled juice, or finding missing puzzle pieces. As time went on, I found myself staying on my own accord. When commuting home, I would give myself a headache thinking of all things I wished I would have done or said. I never knew if or when I would see the residents again. Many were old and received treatments in the adjacent hospital. When one left, it tended to be for good.

Staying late let me provide companionship to the residents, who welcomed me into their family. In the literal sense, they all were family. The nursing home was in a town with more general stores than stoplights. You would know better than anyone. You were once babysat by that husband-wife couple who always threatened to break off their marriage through the paper-thin walls separating their rooms. Other residents worked at the hotel together. Still, some were retired professors, who no doubt passed down notes to my instructors who taught me at the college nearby.

Knowing about the interconnectivity among residents made me want to stay even longer. An aspiring healthcare provider then, it was devastating to witness residents interact with each other one week and then ignore each other the next. Dementia stole their abilities to recognize and remember. There was only so much “Good Old Days” magazine reading I could do to help them know who I was until my efforts became futile too. But it felt impossible to just stop caring. Sunday could never come fast enough. My weeks were preoccupied not with my chemistry homework but with thinking about what our favorite fiery, retired pharmacist would want for her manicure or if the sunroom was spacious enough for all residents to enjoy a magic show.

On occasion, the break room was my retreat. Located off the busiest wing, it provided little reprieve from resident squabbling, therapy dogs barking, and nursing demands. What is did give me was a place to collect myself after noticing a cart with a basket of bananas, water, and a note scrawled with “Processing the death of a loved one” parked in front of an octogenarian’s room. As my shifts went on, I noticed you and other staff members slipping in silently to do the same. The sadness and stressors of it all made us quickly turn from strangers to friends.

You and I grew to share a special bond. Each morning, I would find you shuffling through shelves and writing down learning objectives. Planning and executing the perfect activity were paramount, even if we were the only ones who noticed. I soon understood the sense of purpose and satisfaction your job gave you after you tearfully explained the hard times that you experienced in your financially unstable, misguided younger days. “I just want to own a house for me and my kids,” you said. I would agree as my eyes swelled with tears.

I grew up in a privileged family. My parents’ house large is enough for me and my five siblings to each have our own bedrooms twice over. I attended that well-funded college miles down the road. Working at the nursing home showed me how malleable my life was. When working, I was someone who cared about people who barely knew me and worked alongside people like you whose life experiences were so far removed from mine. But, nowhere else would I have been able to gain the depth of perspectives on the things that really mattered.

I cannot remember my last day working. I always thought I would be back after my spring break, but the COVID-19 pandemic had other plans. However, I do remember the day of my interview, when I toured the community space to the chorus of fifty feet thumping out “When the ants go marching home.” You, even before you became my supervisor, looked up as I entered and grinned widely, never missing a beat.

Now, I stay awake at night thinking of all the stories that not meeting you and everyone at nursing home earlier would ensure would never be told.

In hopes we meet again soon,
Jaya