Day 35
My shift starts at 7am. Getting up early has become a habit, and easier now that the sun is up, too. And honestly, leaving the house in quiet, without all the breakfasts and backpacks, hurry-ups and daycare drop-offs, has been kind of nice.
I enter the building, scrub my hands with sanitizer - front, back, between fingers, nail beds, wrists, thumbs - and take a mask from the box in the entrance. There aren’t many left, so I go get a new box from the supply closet. The receptionist greets me and we chat for a few minutes; she brought doughnuts for our last day.
The donning station where I spent so many hours has been dismantled. It didn’t take long to pack up; it was never more than a folding table holding boxes of supplies. The stairwell looks empty without it; all that’s left is the shelf for uniforms, bare today except for the largest sizes, which aren’t getting much use now that the army’s pulled out. I hang around until the laundry comes back, then I fold and replace the clean scrubs, then finally I can get changed.
What next? The social worker has been called back to her original job, so there’s a list of family members who need updates. On the phone I get a full range of reactions: anger, sadness, gratitude, relief. I feel like anything is valid at this point.
At lunch, staff around one table are exchanging covid symptom horror stories; another table is musing over what will be left of their regular jobs, once they return. I’m chatting with someone while I eat; she looks a bit puzzled - “do I know you?” I put my mask back on. “OH! There you are!”
Residents are allowed to go out in the garden in small groups now, and the recreation coordinator has planned a pizza party for a select few. Entertainment is provided by yours truly on the ukulele along with my colleague, an audiologist who is inexplicably brilliant on the piano, and who dug an old electronic keyboard out of a storage room. Squinting at an ancient songbook, we sing You Are My Sunshine, It’s a Long Way To Tipperary, and Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue.
My shift is over, but I have one thing left to do, and it’s the part I’ve been avoiding all day.
I don’t try to visit every resident, just the ones I’ve particularly connected with. One woman informs me that she just came in from outside: “We had a nice time, but I think last year’s barbecue was better. There were more people, and better music.” Thanks, bud.
I tell them all I’ll come visit, and I mean it, although I don’t know when that will be possible. By then I expect most of them won’t remember me; some of them don’t remember me today. I’ll remember them, though.
Not quite done. I have an appointment for a Covid test, at the same hospital where my initial training session took place. I’m reliving the anxiety of that day as I pull into the parking lot. The testing centre is actually in what’s usually a daycare, in a separate building. Bright primary colours clash with signs reminding me not to touch the walls; I guess they don’t have soldiers to clean them twice a day.
The test is definitely uncomfortable, but it’s over quickly. My eyes tear up, not for the first time today.
One last time: come home, strip my clothes off and into the washing machine, step into the shower and let it wash away the day. Get dressed quickly and slip my rings back on, hopefully for good. The toddler calls out; he’s up from his nap. I lift him out of the crib and his small, sleepy body folds into mine. We settle in the chair, and we rock.
Well. I’m back.
Final Thoughts
I enter the building, scrub my hands with sanitizer - front, back, between fingers, nail beds, wrists, thumbs - and take a mask from the box in the entrance. There aren’t many left, so I go get a new box from the supply closet. The receptionist greets me and we chat for a few minutes; she brought doughnuts for our last day.
The donning station where I spent so many hours has been dismantled. It didn’t take long to pack up; it was never more than a folding table holding boxes of supplies. The stairwell looks empty without it; all that’s left is the shelf for uniforms, bare today except for the largest sizes, which aren’t getting much use now that the army’s pulled out. I hang around until the laundry comes back, then I fold and replace the clean scrubs, then finally I can get changed.
What next? The social worker has been called back to her original job, so there’s a list of family members who need updates. On the phone I get a full range of reactions: anger, sadness, gratitude, relief. I feel like anything is valid at this point.
At lunch, staff around one table are exchanging covid symptom horror stories; another table is musing over what will be left of their regular jobs, once they return. I’m chatting with someone while I eat; she looks a bit puzzled - “do I know you?” I put my mask back on. “OH! There you are!”
Residents are allowed to go out in the garden in small groups now, and the recreation coordinator has planned a pizza party for a select few. Entertainment is provided by yours truly on the ukulele along with my colleague, an audiologist who is inexplicably brilliant on the piano, and who dug an old electronic keyboard out of a storage room. Squinting at an ancient songbook, we sing You Are My Sunshine, It’s a Long Way To Tipperary, and Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue.
My shift is over, but I have one thing left to do, and it’s the part I’ve been avoiding all day.
I don’t try to visit every resident, just the ones I’ve particularly connected with. One woman informs me that she just came in from outside: “We had a nice time, but I think last year’s barbecue was better. There were more people, and better music.” Thanks, bud.
I tell them all I’ll come visit, and I mean it, although I don’t know when that will be possible. By then I expect most of them won’t remember me; some of them don’t remember me today. I’ll remember them, though.
Not quite done. I have an appointment for a Covid test, at the same hospital where my initial training session took place. I’m reliving the anxiety of that day as I pull into the parking lot. The testing centre is actually in what’s usually a daycare, in a separate building. Bright primary colours clash with signs reminding me not to touch the walls; I guess they don’t have soldiers to clean them twice a day.
The test is definitely uncomfortable, but it’s over quickly. My eyes tear up, not for the first time today.
One last time: come home, strip my clothes off and into the washing machine, step into the shower and let it wash away the day. Get dressed quickly and slip my rings back on, hopefully for good. The toddler calls out; he’s up from his nap. I lift him out of the crib and his small, sleepy body folds into mine. We settle in the chair, and we rock.
Well. I’m back.
Final Thoughts
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