Bob, Douglas, Walter: Reporting for Night Shift - Part 1

What more could I possibly cram into my senior year schedule at McKendree College? I was already juggling roles like a caffeinated circus act: R.A., Supervisor of Student Cafeteria Workers, Student Body President, and student teacher to a gaggle of twelve-year-olds who strutted around like they were auditioning for a show called Puberty with a Superiority Complex. Naturally, I thought, “You know what this chaos needs? A night shift at a nursing home.” Because sleep is for the weak.

Enter Three Fountains Nursing Home in Belleville, IL—just a 15-minute drive from campus if you ignore speed limits. I’d heard the overnight shift was chill: residents snoozing, me lesson-planning in peace. Spoiler alert: lies.

Night one, I met Nurse Lance. Picture Nurse Ratched, but taller, butcher, and rocking a snake tattoo that looked like it had survived two wars and a bar fight. She wore the standard-issue pink uniform like it was a personal insult. I nearly laughed out loud. She announced a one-hour orientation. Inner voice: “What the actual hell?” Then she would hand me off to Denise, a two-week veteran who proudly flashed her GRE certificate like it was a backstage pass to the nursing home rodeo. Why she brought it to work? No clue. Maybe she thought ICE was coming for her freckles.

Lance and I began rounds. Most residents were asleep—until we hit Bill’s room. He heard Lance’s voice and launched into a symphony of “Goddamn you!”s. She fired back, “Shut up, Bill!” I blinked. Did she just say that? She turned to me, deadpan: “He’s a pain in the ass. We tie his hands to the bed because he won’t stop playing with himself.” Cue Bill: “Goddamn you, bitch!” I stepped in, trying to channel Mr. Rogers. “Hi, I’m Bob. I’ll be here a few nights a week.” He was blind, missing a leg, and responded, “Thanks, Douglas!” Douglas? Sure, why not.

Next stop: Gladys, flashlight in hand, devouring a Danielle Steele novel like it was forbidden fruit. Lance barked, “Lights out, Gladys! You’re keeping your roommate awake!” (Note: roommate was snoring like a freight train.) Gladys apologized, called the book “sensual,” and I told her I’d gifted it to my mom. She lit up. Her beanie was adorable, and she had a whole hat collection—holiday editions included. I promised to check them out next time. Lance rolled her eyes. “Gladys is nuts. Damn hats.”

Then came the warning: Miss Minny. “She’ll complain about itching under her breasts. She has lotion. It’s all in her head. Just ignore her. She’s our only Black resident. This is Belleville—families notice these things.” My head spun. Racism, gaslighting, and boob cream in one sentence? Impressive.

Miss Minny cried out before we even entered. “Can’t you help me?” I rushed in before Lance could shame her. “Hi, I’m Bob. I’m new, but I’ll listen and do what I can.” She took my hand, tears streaming, and whispered, “Thank you, Walter!” Inner voice: “Walter? Really?” So far I was Douglas to Bill, Walter to Miss Minny. I turned around. Lance had vanished like a bad dream.

Denise was in the cafeteria, deep into the National Enquirer. I asked about vitals, wet bed checks, and toilet logistics. She shrugged. “Watch the call lights. You’ll figure out who’s serious.” Inner voice: “I’m not built for this.”

Three lights blinked down the hall. Bill, Gladys, and Miss Minny. All needed me. Bob, Douglas, Walter—reporting for duty.

Stay tuned for Part 2. Because when the world hurls chaos, confusion, and compassion your way, you write it down, steady yourself on the stones of experience, and offer it up—unfiltered, unshaken—on Empathy on the Rocks.