Bob, Douglas, Walter: Reporting for Night Shift - Part 2

My first night at Three Fountains Nursing Home was less “gentle introduction to elder care” and more “trial by fire with a side of existential dread.” I changed clothes in the car like a fugitive and sprinted off to teach sixth graders about simple machines, praying I wouldn’t collapse mid-lesson or accidentally refer to a lever as a “restraint system.” The kids were bright-eyed. I was vertical. That counted as a win.

Two days later, I returned to Three Fountains with the kind of courage usually reserved for horror movie protagonists who go back into the haunted house. Lance greeted me with, “You ready to deal with the crazies? It’s a full moon.” Denise nodded solemnly like we were about to enter a haunted corn maze. I dropped my backpack in the cafeteria—because nothing says “professional medical care” like storing your personal effects next to the pudding cups—and began my rounds.

Bill: The Prisoner of Room 12

Bill was asleep when I entered, looking like a man who’d seen too much and gotten too little. As I turned to leave, he stirred. “Is that bitch with you,?” he asked, referring to Nurse Lance with the kind of poetic venom that only decades of disappointment can produce. “Nope,” I said. “Just me.” And we talked. WWII, railroads, heartbreak, loneliness. He had no visitors, no family, no one but me and the occasional nurse with a grudge. He asked about my life, and I told him about the farm, college, and my dream of teaching—because sometimes, even in a place like Three Fountains, you get to be human.

Then came the straps. “I feel like a damn prisoner,” he said. And he wasn’t wrong. I’d heard Nurse Lance’s explanation, which was basically “because I said so.” So I made a plan. Two nights a week, I’d loosen the straps. If Lance popped in, Bill would play possum. I’d bring a washcloth and lotion, and he’d stop calling her a bitch—because survival requires strategy. “You’re a good friend, Doug,” he said. And for those two nights a week, Bill got a taste of freedom.

Gladys: Queen of the Caps

Gladys remembered my story about giving my mom a Danielle Steele novel and had waited to see me between catnaps. Her drawer was a rainbow explosion of handmade caps—thirty or forty, each one a tiny rebellion against beige institutional life. “Not from anyone related to Nurse Lance,” she clarified. Obviously.

She was joy in human form, the kind of person who made you feel like you’d just walked into a warm kitchen full of cinnamon rolls and gossip. She waited for me like I was the season finale of her favorite show. And when she passed away a month later, I felt something crack open inside me.

Miss Minny and the Great Breast Hoist of 1977

Minny greeted me with urgency and a request that would make most interns run for the hills: help with the rash under “my titties.” No time for small talk. She lifted one breast—using both hands and possibly divine intervention—and I gasped. Without missing a beat, she looked me dead in the eye and said, “Look, Walter!”

Walter. Me. I had apparently been renamed when I met her on my first shift, and there was no time to correct the record. She was right—the rash had become almost an infection. I told her I understood why she kept advocating for herself but hadn’t gotten help. I wasn’t a nurse, but I had common sense, a backpack full of questionable supplies, and a flair for improvisation.

I snuck scissors from the nursing station while Lance was busy charting doom. I cut strips from a sheet and fashioned a DIY breast hoist. Yes, I tied them to the bedposts. Yes, I worried about getting fired. And yes, Minny was thrilled. We cleaned the area, reapplied ointment, and gave the rash some breathing room. If iPhones had existed, I’d have documented the moment for science and comedy.

I handed off my patients that morning to sweet Nellie, explained the ‘tittie’ contraption, and hoped someone would listen. They did. Minny stopped complaining. Walter (me) had delivered. And I didn’t get fired. Victory.

The Call No One Wanted

When Gladys died, Nurse Lance—whose bedside manner had all the warmth of a tax audit—placed a hand on my shoulder and told me to call the family. It was 3:30 AM. I said, “Isn’t that above my pay grade?” She said, “Call them. I’ve got two headed to the hospital and a mess in Room 12.”

I found her daughter’s number. Gladys had always spoken of her with pride—an attorney in Belleville, too busy to visit. I called. She answered, groggy and annoyed. “Didn’t you read the chart? You weren’t supposed to call until she was dead.” “She is,” I said. “Well, couldn’t you wait until a decent hour?” Inner voice: “You sorry shit for brains excuse for a daughter”. Outer voice: “I thought you’d want to know.”

She told me to call the funeral home. I did. When they arrived, I placed Gladys’s favorite cap—red hearts—on her head. They zipped her into a bag and rolled her out of her room. I cried. And then Lance, ever the beacon of empathy, asked, “Did you get the gown off her?” I blinked. “Excuse me?” “We need our gown back,” she snarled.

So I chased down the funeral van in the parking lot. The guys laughed. “Lance working tonight?” they asked. I nodded. They unzipped the bag as traffic whooshed by on the busy street. I retrieved the gown and whispered, “Gladys, you look fabulous for your roadside farewell.” Then I went back inside and finished my rounds.

Before leaving, I remembered to grab Bill’s towel and lotion. Because even in the madness, I couldn’t let anyone know about what ‘Douglas’ had gifted Bill.

Closing Reflection: What We Carry

Three Fountains was a circus. But it was also an awakening. Bill, Gladys, Minny—even Nurse Lance—taught me how to show up, improvise, and care. They reminded me that dignity doesn’t come from policy manuals or perfectly charted vitals—it comes from listening, loosening straps, lifting breasts, and remembering the red-heart cap when it matters most.

These stories are etched in m heart and mind like tattoos I didn’t ask for but wouldn’t trade. They surface when I least expect them—while sailing on a cruise ship in Alaska, sitting with Michael in our recliner chairs with Maggie, our puppy, watching Wheel of Fortune, or enjoying a cocktail with friends at our favorite watering hole, Scandals Saloon.

So here’s my question for you:

Who was your Gladys? Your Walter? Your moment of unexpected grace in the middle of chaos?