George likes cream in his coffee. Emily likes it black. Lou hates white bread. Coach listens to Johnny Cash. Mabel loves bingo. And Dave. Dave loves it when I sit on the floor of his room and visit.

Fourteen out of my fifteen residents have dementia. Every time I work, I reintroduce myself to them. The sentence, “Hello, my name is Mae” leaves my mouth fourteen times each day. The one time it doesn’t is with Dave. Dave remembers me. He waves at me every time I pass his room. He calls his family to tell them about me when I stop in his room to chat. He tells me about his love of cars, about his wife and kids, and smiles so wide when I bring him sundaes at the end of his supper.

I never minded my residents having dementia. It is a hard thing to watch, but I do my best to comfort them. I reacquaint myself with them as many times as needed so I can take care of them and make sure they feel safe. It affected me, but it never hit me hard until Dave.

On a random Thursday in October, one of the CNAs approached me. “Dave doesn’t know where he is. He keeps trying to call his wife to come to get him. Do you think you could sit with him while I grab the nurse and call his son?” I immediately agreed as worry filled my chest. I spent the rest of my shift talking to him until his son arrived. He repeated the same information over and over again. He showed me the same objects over and over again. When his son finally arrived to speak to him and I left the room, Dave called for me to come back. I told him I would soon. But my shift ended, and I had to go home.

I couldn’t stop my tears. I worked there when Dave first moved in. I worked there when he was sick, when his family came to visit, when he was grumpy. I found ways to connect with him, and we could see his quality of life growing. But now, I didn’t know what would happen. 

Anytime someone asks about my job, “whys” and “ews” meet my ears. I work in a nursing home. I tell people my favorite parts of the job: connecting with residents, giving them treats, making them smile. I never talk to them about the harsh reality of what I do. I have to see these people get sick.

Favorite songs, drink and food preference, favored activities. These aren’t facts I need to know, but I remember because it allows me to connect with my residents. The residents I work with are important to me. My job may not be luxurious, but I enjoy getting the opportunity to influence and make these people’s lives better, just like they have influenced mine. Even if the action is as small as putting cream in their coffee.