graveyard gambles

Tonight is my second night in a row working a graveyard. In fact, today was a 16 hour shift.

Not exactly my favorite thing.

But I like to get a lot done and noc's are perfect for that.

Tonight: watched 4 episodes of "How I Met Your Mother", changed 7 people, painted toe nails, wrote in my journal, swept and mopped dining room and kitchen, deep cleaned the kitchen (down to the freakin toaster), 2 loads of laundry and started cooking for tomorrow.

And that's just since 11 pm.

No matter what I'm doing though, I hear her coughing and crying out.

Tonight is one of those nights where I have a hard time with death. A really rough time. I feel guilty for trying to avoid her son because I find myself nearly tearing up whenever he starts talking. It's 3 am and he's still here walking the halls; pacing and crying, pacing and crying, pacing and crying. He looks at me with empty eyes that are completly helpless. I say words like morphine, haldol, lorazapam and he just looks down rubbing his neck, and shaking his head. "Whatever you feel is best..." "What would you do?" "Just do what you think...." "I don't understand.." I feel like there is something slightly morbid about a twenty-one year old trying to decide how much medication to give a woman while she dies.

I think of Room 15. I think of how hard it was when he died. I remember breaking the cardinal rule and breaking down in front of his family. Telling him goodbye after his blessing of release. I remember the days where we sat and talked and he seemed to be fairly with it. I faintly ignored him and laughed when he talked about the guy I deserve and how I should never settle. I remember coming back the next day and finding EVERYTHING out of his room already gone. And crying again.

My least favorite day of my life was the first time I found a resident dead in her bed. It got that much worse when having to call the daughter and inform her that her mom had just passed away. "What do I say? How do I start that conversation?" She answered super cheerfully and I just went silent. She knew. I sat there speechless while she sobbed on the other end, asking what to do next.

The night my favorite got put into bed for the last time, was the last time she was lucid. Hillarie came in and we sat on the floor laughing at everything she said for almost an hour. Suddenly "the favorite" starting crying and driving the importance to make sure her family understood how proud she was. She couldn't stop telling us how much she loved them. When I handed her tissues she grabbed my hand and said "Make sure you tell them. Make sure they know I love them. You need to promise me Miss!" 13 hours later I found myself surrounded in the hallway telling 4 children and in-laws the conversation from the night before. 2 days later I got a call and shortly after found myself at work, doing post-mordem care.

Even when you know it's someone's time to go, it doesn't get easier.

For awhile it helps comfort you.

Whether it's hours, months, years, days or weeks...

You hear yourself talking about how good it'll be for them to finally be happy and peaceful.

But then that day comes and all of a sudden you don't care about what's best for them anymore.

You just miss them.