Norman

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.