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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.
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Jan 20
Jan 20, 2026 at 10:17 PM UTC
Someone Had to Be There
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.
I recently recorded a full spoken word reading from Seedy Town Blues, along with a new piece from my upcoming collection Searching for Nod. You can listen to the full reading here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aTaWIxuXrLY All of my books are available here: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Thomas-W.-Case/author/B0CL2RKDGX?ref=sr
thomas-w-case
Written by
thomas-w-case
59/M/Clear Lake
Jan 20
Jan 20, 2026 at 10:17 PM UTC
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