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Poem
There was a man I once knew.
His name was Norman.
You know how there’s a first for everything?
Well, he was my first.

Despite my visits to the nursing homes with my grandma,
I really didn’t know anything about them.
I had to learn what an Ombudsman was.
Despite having a little one,
I had to learn how to properly tend to people.

At the time, I was a virgin in every sense of the word but one.
I knew nothing.
I knew of no one.
I was made to keep my head down and learn.
Ask questions, but don’t argue.

I saw you there.
I would walk with you around your bedroom.
Somehow you changed bedrooms.
I was so happy to see you.
I was sad for your condition though.

All the hurts would spill forth from your dry, chapped lips.
Believe me, you had a lot of hurts.
It’s as if you’ve spent years in a trench.
Weren’t you a World War veteran?
You’d know what I’m talking about.
How people would get holes in their bodies?

I saw a lot of painful holes.
Oozing, goopy, gooey and painful holes.
You endured so much.
When you finally fell into an eternal sleep,
When I finally saw you in your black body bag,
As you were being rolled along the hallway,
I couldn’t help but feel like you’ve had a good, long life.

Until that moment,
I once again referred to myself as the medical virgin.
That was my very first time.
No, not with death in general,
But with being that close to a person’s final moments.

I would watch and wait patiently.
You would scream in agony.
Those deep, dark holes couldn’t have been good.
They oozed a smelly liquid.
I don’t take offense.
This was always something I never had to learn.
I’m the type who would talk about poop at the dinner table.

From that moment on,
I knew I was in for quite the adventure.
Mr. Norman.
Sir. Captain. General. Sargent. Colonel. 
Whatever you were,
Father. Grandfather.
You were my first.
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