When I was thirteen years old,

I thought the worst thing in the world

Would be to wake up one morning and be unable to recognize my parents faces,

To be unable to remember my last name,

Or to recall what I got for Christmas that year.

I didn’t realize that

There was something much worse to fear.

 

When I was thirteen years old,

My mother began working for a retirement home,

And I didn’t think much of it.

My parents were born workers,

And had worked their entire lives without fail.

That being said,

It was of little to no surprise when I came home to my parents one evening

And announced to them that I had gotten a job.

My friend needed some assistance with caring for her grandfather,

Who lived with them full time at the moment,

While her parents worked over the weekend.

I’d watched my mother go to work plenty of times,

And knew what this meant,

What this asked of me,

But I felt up to the task.

 

When I was thirteen years old,

My mother began working for a retirement home,

And as a young and foolish child,

I was naive enough to think that it would be easy.

I worked for one consecutive weekend, just one.

My friend’s grandfather was a quiet man;

I don’t recall him speaking louder than a whistle,

But then again I was young.

He held himself upright in a way that reminded me

Of someone who carried a heavy burden,

And because of this,

I always perceived him as sad.

 

We cooked for him,

Tidied up the house,

And did everything we were asked of

While we stayed with him that weekend.

It seemed to be an average work day,

Up until he asked my friend and I to help him dress.

While this startled his granddaughter,

I thought little of it; it came with the occupation,

As I’d presumed.

My mother was employed to assist patients with using the restroom,

And was even required to help them bathe on occasion,

So this seemed dim in comparison.

And we did as we were told;

We helped him into his loafers and went about our business.

 

When I was thirteen years old,

My mother went to work for a retirement home,

And I assumed it would be painless.

It’s odd how the wisest words are often recalled

From the blank expressions of total strangers.

I distinctly remember a woman telling my young and incomprehensive ears,

“We are children twice in our lives; once as infants and again as elders.”

 

As you age,

You lose what dignifies you as a person.

Your hearing isn’t what it was,

Your skin is more fragile than usual,

And your eyesight dims in comparison to what it had been.

You could never be quite as you were;

If you were once a painter,

Your hands might begin to tremble so much that

You couldn’t even hold a paintbrush.

If you were a singer,

You might find that your voice grew weaker as time ebbed on,

And if you were a dancer you might find that

Your muscles could no longer bare to support your weight in old age.

 

My mother gave off the impression that

Asking for help wasn’t something to be ashamed of,

Because that’s what was expected of the elderly where she worked.

It was okay to ask someone to help you walk across the room,

Because they understood that even the simplest of tasks

Are much more difficult than they seem.

It was okay to ask someone to help you use the restroom,

Because they understood that it wasn’t your fault you were struggling with it now.

 

They understood;

That was a part of the job that I was never informed of.

It was more than just exerting your time and effort,

It was being able to sympathize with these people.

 

But I saw it change him,

The moment he realized he couldn’t get dressed by himself;

The look of shame and defeat on his face is one I can’t forget.

 

When I was thirteen,

I thought the worst thing in the world would be to wake up one morning

And be unable to recognize my parents faces,

To be unable to remember my last name,

Or to recall what I got for Christmas that year.

I never thought that it would end up being unable to dress myself in the morning

On my own.

 

Two days later,

That quiet old man decided to take himself out on a walk,

And on the way,

He pulled out pistol,

And shot himself.

He shot himself,

Over what I thought was a pair of pants.

 

When I was thirteen,

I realized that there was something worse

Than the terrible fate I’d imagined before;

It was the humiliation of being stripped of my independence,

Of being unable to walk,

Eat,

Or bathe on my own.

I never thought that it would end up being unable to dress myself in the morning

Without it, I don’t think I could bear life itself.

 

And apparently, neither did he.