Our Shared Reality

A woman came in the other day for a tour of our facility  with her daughter. They were looking for a place for her husband who is in mid-stage Louie-body dementia and she can no longer care for him at home. Louie-body is now the second most common form of dementia behind Alzheimer’s and one of the many symptoms the victim has is hallucinations. I’m not often surprised due to the nature of the population I deal with daily but what I heard from this woman was truly a first.

She was talking about a recent incident when her husband woke her up very early in the morning and told her that he needed to go to work but he couldn’t take the children. His arms were to his side and out as if he were holding hands with small children. This in and of itself is not abnormal with this type of dementia, but, she took a step toward me and a vivid color of fear swept across her face as she whispered. “I worry that I’m losing my mind, I didn’t see the children but I saw two small shadows against the bedroom wall on either side of my husband's shadow.”

I recall another woman many years ago who was on the brink of suicide after losing her husband. At the time I worked for another company that made Memory Bears for loved ones out of the clothing of the deceased person. I was new to the job and had noticed several weeks a bear with no information. I got a call one morning from a woman inquiring about a bear she was supposed to have received months prior so I asked her to describe the material it was made from and she did. It matched the orphaned bear in my office. The normal process was to have a chaplain deliver the bear to check on the person but none of our chaplains were available until the following week. I felt bad that she had waited so long so decided to take the bear to her myself.

Arriving at the home with the bear, the woman grabbed it from my hand and began weeping as she smelled and hugged it tightly. She invited me in and then shared that just the night before she had reached a decision to end her life. That night she was awaken by her husband playing the harmonica like he did every night in an adjoining room. She sat up on the bed thinking it was just a dream when the playing began again and she was completely awake. She froze and opted not to enter the room but simply sat and listened. When she got up the next day she remembered the bear and called me. She is convinced that her husband came to save her life. He did! I got her in touch with mental health services and the last I checked she was doing much better and enjoying her life again.

A more personal story is of my dad. He had a dream after my brother and mother died that two cloud like vapors appeared in this room and after a few minutes one formed a man dressed in white and then the other vapor formed a woman and he innately knew it was Paul and mom. The image was so powerful that it woke him up. He went to get a drink of water and then wet back to bed. As he lay there awake, two cloud like vapors physically appeared in his room and turned into human forms and then slowly dissipated. He’s had a few visions since the death of Paul and mom and each one carries a message for him to not be grieved about their loss; they are still with him. When he recounts these visions to me, tears of joy swim down his face and he smiles in a deep peace. The visions have changed him. Instead of being the stoic recluse he once was, my dad now goes door to door checking on his neighbors and helping them whenever he can.

There's no judgement on my end for anyone who has experienced the phenomena of being thoroughly shaken from the foundation of their worldliness. I've have my own stories as well as those I've collected from others to make me fully aware that our understanding of the world we're in is greatly compromised. I liken it to a recent conversation with Autumn, my 5 year old granddaughter. I have a coffee cup of the famous painting of Salvador Dali of the face of Abraham Lincoln. Dali was using this painting as an exploration into the subconscious mind's ability to perceive things as well as the science of optical spacing. Within this painting there are other images. The first time Autumn saw my coffee cup, her sister giggled and then pointed out that it has a naked woman on it. Autumn is so focused on that image that she cannot see past it to make out Lincoln's face (I've since put the coffee cup out of their reach). It stands to reason that many are too focused on what is right in front of them to be open to the potential of a completely whole peripheral world.

Lastly, we only need to look as far as the hints left by the Great Spirit when trying to understand our world. Like with color for example. When we look at something that is red we are not correct in that assumption. Color is not inherent in objects! The surface of an object reflects and absorbs color and we only see what is reflected. I feel the same dynamics are at play in our shared reality.

Mona

Bold and Beautiful

Talking with my dad this morning it triggered a memory from a time when I was about 8 years old. My grandfather was a farmer and we lived only an hour away from his farm for a brief period in my childhood. On one particular day he summoned my dad out to look at a horse he had purchased in hopes that my dad would break her.

Stepping out of the car I spotted her instantly in the distance. She was a solid black dot amid the sea of a yellow field. From where I stood it looked like she was as far back as possible against the barbwire fence at the edge of my grandfather's property. I walked behind my dad and grandfather through the tall grass overdue for hay baling and found myself lost in daydreaming until my grandfather's hand stopped me. She was just in front of us. I looked up for what seemed to be miles completely stunned by the biggest horse I'd ever seen; my eyes nor my body could move as her big black eyes starred down at me. She gave a warning neigh that almost caused me to bolt from my grandfather's grip and I could feel my heart pounding in a panic.

My dad positioned the rope in his hand and told me that no matter what happened to stay close to my grandfather. Her sharp ears, like sonars, turned side to side trying to anticipate my dad's approach. He took his pipe out of his mouth and secured it in his front shirt pocket. I watched my dad slowly inch toward her. the rhythm of the rope angled in a circular motion at his side gaining momentum. Her eyes fixed on his every move, she neighed again but with much more force and raised up on her back legs tripling her size. I was frozen in my steps. She was majestic and strong, the scariest and most beautiful animal I'd ever seen. My grandfather said that she was full of spirit and wanted her broken but made it clear to my dad not her spirit. Something in that statement felt important but I was too young to understand what he meant.

Three tries and dad had the rope loosely around her neck. He pulled her close to get the bit into her mouth and in what seemed like one motion, my dad grabbed her mane and hopped up on her bare back. Not even a second later his body was flying through the air much like Wile E Coyote's mishaps with the Road Runner minus the explosions and ACME boxes in the background. My dad disappeared in the tall grass. It felt like an eternity as my eyes walked back and forth atop the field searching for movement. Finally, shaking his head and dusting the dirt off of his jeans, my dad appeared. Immediately he felt his front pocket and realized that the casualty of the day was his favorite pipe. After a few minutes of looking for it my dad gave up and walked toward us telling my grandfather that he'd not be trying that again. 

Standing in the field with that horse; I had one of my first philosophical epiphanies about the inner dwelling of our essence. The essence of spirit in all things. Too young for words to describe what it was, I was left with the feeling that there was something special in that horse, and, too, whatever that was... it was in me as well. She was not the only horse I had been around; she was the first with her spirit intact. Other horses could be felt by their conscience deep stares and some even seeming inquisitive as I walked among them. This horse was nothing like the stable horses. She was the Joan of Arc among her kind holding an invisible space that kept anyone from getting too close without permission. I felt small and insignificant looking up at her but knew she was aware of me being aware of her. The weight of that ominous feeling was like meeting greatness expectantly.

It was a powerful lesson that gains more depth in me as an adult. Native Americans believe in the Great Spirit housed in all things. It walks among us adding fragrance and meaning to every encounter we have. Feeling it is unforgettable. Knowing it unimaginable. Yet, we touch it each moment that we breathe. I am aware of it being aware of me no matter how insignificant I am in the world, and, yet, one small step on my part in it's direction and it rushes to rise up on its back legs daring me to be as strong, bold and beautiful in my life as it is in the world. 

Mona McPherson

Senior Care Done Right!

This past week I had the privilege of meeting two remarkable women that started a free adult daycare run by volunteers at St. Mark's by the Sea Lutheran Church. The church opens it's doors from 10:00-2:00 every Thursday. Families meeting their criteria can drop off their loved one secure in the knowledge that they will be entertained and well cared for in a locked area. The majority of the visitors to this daycare have beginning dementia/Alzheimer's and cannot be left alone anymore for safety reasons. As you can imagine, constant supervision of a loved one with dementia/Alzheimer's can feel overwhelming. Programs like this daycare allow the caregiver time to replenish their emotional, physical and mental reservoirs by getting the regular break that they need.

Sandy, one of the volunteers and founders, is a woman small in stature but big in personality; she bounced around the room beaming about the program and excited to share. The large room had work stations set up with various projects being supervised by a volunteer. She took me to a table where 6 men where folding used plastic sacks for the church's food drive. This saves the food drive volunteers time as they must prep bags of food to be sent home for 1800 school children each weekend. I was astonished at that staggering number but impressed that her visitors has such purposeful work to do and some were happy to say that it made them feel good to help. Sandy then took me to a table that they dedicate to one on one time. Each visitor has a memory box and in the box there are pictures of important people and events with note cards that are used as conversation starters. The visitor sits with the volunteer and gets to talk about their life then and now. It was quite moving to watch them share. The note cards have their previous occupation, loved ones names and tidbits about them personally so that the volunteer could steer them into the conversation.  The last table was an art project where they were coloring tiles with different magic markers. Later a solution was poured over the tile making a kaleidoscope of colors that were quite impressive once dried.

Sandy called Mary over to meet me and introduced her as the brainchild of the operation. Mary had gone through a season of being the caretaker for her mother in law who had dementia. That experience gave her thorough understanding about the need to be able to take a break from round the clock care. She spoke of her own need to replenish mind, soul and body before she reached the point of having nothing left to give to her mother in law. Mary shared that her vision moving forward is to have a coalition of churches join hand in hand so that there is a daycare being offered every day of the week in our community and not just on Thursday. She told me that the daycare has been been open since January and has waiting list. "This need is not going away!" I had to agree with her statement. Mary told me that she doesn't advertise and that out of the 12 regular visitors, only one is a member of their church. 

This is such a fabulous idea that I asked Mary if she'd help me get things started in Ormond Beach. My job will be to find churches willing to listen to how Mary's program works and her job will be to come in and educate them about how she made it work. Like Mary, those of us who have been through this journey, have gained much wisdom and need to reach back and share that wisdom with those just starting out. Mary said that the families of her visitors, without any prompting from her, started meeting at the church once a month as a support group and they have created a new community of assistance to one another. This is what happens when a great idea meets a true need, it begins to bless all involved. Look out Ormond Beach --- something spectacular is on the way in senior daycare!!!

Mona McPherson

Excuse me God, I lost my Stylus

As I was walking out of my facility the other day, my new phone chimed and suggested that I not forget to return my stylus. I turned it over to discover that it, INDEED, had a stylus slot, and, too, it was empty. I instantly started to look on the ground around me thinking it must have dropped out. After a few minutes of searching--I accepted the futility of my actions. As a student of all things spiritual, I did what any red blooded philosopher would do and summoned God for assistance. "You know I don't have time to crawl on the ground looking through all these weeds for a stylus ...please find my stylus!"

As I was getting in my car that "Still Small Voice", which, by the way, is NOT so still or so small, began badgering me about my audacity in summoning the Creator of the Universe for such a ridiculous matter. The image of God in the "Situation Room" in Heaven as Archangel Micheal bursts through the door began to play. Micheal's wings flaring in majesty of his position in the room and then folding inward on him in reverence as he kneels before the throne. "Excuse me, GOD, it's her again," Micheal respectfully interrupts and the room goes completely silent. God turns his head away from the zillion screens playing on the wall depicting famine, plagues and pestilence; his brows furrowed says, "Jesus!" (Although, I suspect he's probably the only one among us that wouldn't use that name as the ultimate for feelings of frustration). "Michael, why does this woman continue to interrupt me in the midst of all this CHAOS for these trivial matters???!!!" "Sir, if I may speak honestly; it's that, *ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE,* clause; remember me begging you to omit it." "Oh yeah, you did remind me that I was bringing a Mona into the world and she would have that -- The World Revolves Around Me -- complex." Micheal gives a heavy sigh, nods and shrugs his shoulders. 

When I got back to the facility, I went into the office to update things on the computer. One of our residents came into the office and sat down in a chair behind me. I looked puzzled at the administrative assistant who typically doesn't allow residents in the office. She quickly assured me that it was okay because he had been having a very bad day. I turned to the resident and I smiled saying that it was good to see him. He stood up, moved a box that was between us and picked up my lost stylus. instantly, I pictured the Creator of the Universe leaving heaven and all the world's issues to come to the back patio of Sarah House 4 to back track my steps.

My apologies if anyone lost a loved one that day, or, if humanity lost some great leap of consciousness. It's not my fault --  Micheal warned him.

Mona McPherson

  

The Closest Call

A f

e

A few weeks ago my granddaughter went through a very horrific event when she along with 3 other young girls were almost abducted. Layla is visiting us over Christmas break and I asked her if she would mind sharing what happened so that I could remind others that sex trade in our country is alive and well no matter how far removed from our radar it is, or, how much we don’t want to think about it in our neighborhoods

The following is her story.


Layla had been out with a friend who had brought along her younger sister and her sister's friend. The destination was a store in a neighboring smaller community. The girls began to notice a car behind them driving erratically by speeding up to tailgate them and then backing way off several times. Layla said she was feeling nervous but was not panicking like the other girls and tried to keep the younger ones calm. Her friend began taking different turns to see if the car would follow. Once they realized they could not shake the car, Layla suggested that they find a place to stop and seek help.


The car steadily kept pace with the girls continuing to drive erratically. Soon they found a store that they could stop at and the car pulled in alongside them. Three of the girls bolted into the store but Layla stayed behind. She got out of the car and so did the driver of the other car. Layla described this woman as looking like a methamphetamine user with deep pitted sores on one side of her face. The woman began yelling reasons as to why the girls needed to go with her but her story kept changing. Layla said that she felt the need to stall the woman so that her friend could get help and call the police.


Long story short, Layla made it into the store and the store manager locked the girls inside. The woman began screaming at the manager to keep the girls there and that she would be back with others to get them. She left. At that point the police had been called and they arrived to take statements from the girls.


The woman was captured in the parking lot of another store. We have since learned that this woman is part of a human trafficking ring in Utah. She is currently being charged (from a different incident) with 4 counts of human trafficking, child abduction and drug possesion.


Human trafficking is a 32 billion dollar a year business. Our family is very aware that had this ended any other way, life as we know it would have come to a screeching stop. My sharing is a simple reminder to myself and others that we should be more alert when we’re out. This happened to my granddaughter in a public mall type setting with dozens of people around. Layla is doing well but the other three girls are now having a difficult time processing what happened to them that night..


There are more humans in slavery today than any other time in history! Layla is visiting us over Christmas break and I asked her if she would mind sharing what happened so that I could remind others that sex trade in our country is alive and well no matter how far removed from our radar it is, or, how much we don’t want to think about it in our neighborhoods

Hanging by a Moment ... Letting GO

“It’s better to come from a broken home than to live in one!” I’m in total agreement that sometimes the absolute worst thing you could do to your children, and, or, yourself is remain in a dysfunctional relationship. Although I believe that many people rush to the court steps in an emotional haste to divorce, there are also those who pick up every stone along the way to weigh its value with a slow realization of the choice to be made. Our daughter, Brei, is one of those people. I had wondered to myself before her wedding if her proposal might have been an overlooked omen of things to come. She got lost on a Mountain that night during a scavenger hunt that was supposed to end in a romantic proposal; her ex miscalculating the time needed to solve his cleaver riddles. Imagine our reaction to a search party being called to find and rescue her?! Years later the search party was called again but lacked the dramatics of helicopters, flashlights and ropes. It was a simple phone call from out of the blue. “Mom, I can’t take this anymore!” She asked if we would come to support her when she told him. We did.

Brie’s dad and I have been searching for her for years. Not because she was ever estranged from our family but more that she got lost in a life that no longer supported her worth which over time caused that sweet spark of hers to dim. There are many things that are harder for a parent to endure than a child losing the essence of who he or she was meant to be, but, losing Brie’s spirit in our family had felt like an amputation in many ways. The day we pulled up to her farmhouse in Texas there was visible evidence of her inner struggle. Her exhaustion peeked at us behind her beautiful hazel eyes and revealed to us that her decision was a greater relief than we expected. She told me recently that she believed God placed her in her Texas country home in preparation for that last chapter. Brei said when she thinks on those times she finds much peace attached. I'm inclined to feel that it was that place that gave the richest environment for laying out her thoughts and being able to look at them with an honest assessment of her future. 

Wayne and I anticipated that it would take at least a year for her to settle her divorce and move to Florida, but, like the scavenger hunt, life is quite unpredictable. Instead of 12 months we had a few weeks. With little time to modify our home and figure out how to utilize the space available for 5 children, their mom and a three legged dog, we reorganized as best as we could. The decision to convert our downstairs office into Eden’s bedroom was a good call; separating the moodiness of a 14 year old girl from the shenanigans of her younger siblings has allowed me to keep most of my hair; and her to keep her life -- as of this writing. It has also been a season of re-modifying our life plan. There are issues that come with this life adjustment but all involved are getting the help and the tools that they need to heal and move onward. Wayne and I are no longer resigned to worrying from hundreds of miles away about their well being. We only have to listen to the chaos that ensues when they all try to get ready for school in the hall bathroom that's right next to our bedroom door---I would like to meet the diabolical genius behind that design flaw. On second thought, that’s probably not a good idea.

Brei is coming full circle. She has always been my hippie artist and food guru. She often threatens to ferment me when I die telling me it’s better for the environment. I laugh, nervously, as I think if it were legal she might attempt it. I also can’t clean out my refrigerator without her permission because some of the things growing in there, much to my surprise, are supposed to look like that. Yesterday when I came home, she excitedly exclaimed, “I found a guy with good aged manure!!!!” I shot back, “How can you tell its good manure”? She replied, “OH mom, when you dig your hands in it it’s like the best feeling soil you can imagine and it smells amazing!” The image of her great grandfather, who was a farmer, high five-ing her great grandmother streaked across my mind. We have all agreed that she will be a stay home mom for now so that she can have the time needed to de-clutter her emotional closet as well as assist her children in doing the same. She’s going to the gym, making time for self-care and takes the kids to church every Sunday creating new routines. I've noticed a renewed youthfulness and her sassy sense of humor has returned from a long time in hiding. She’s also back to painting and other artwork. This has earned her some extra money and given her a feeling of accomplishment.

This is our eighth month and we have faced some significant hurdles along the way. like the unmasked horror the day Anna and Autumn came running to me after their mom said they could not watch another cartoon. "But you're our mom's mom--SHE HAS TO MIND YOU!" Each collapsing in complete shock when I had to say no. I make light of it knowing that it's self evident that this has been a great change in our family dynamics Yes. There are issues. Some have been bigger than I ever imagined and some have been smaller but I know the value in creating a structured loving environment where they will all have the best opportunity to thrive.

We have a great family and some truly amazing friends that have made their support known in so many ways. Each leaving us with a warm gratefulness to know that so many of you care.  

Mona McPherson

Night Shift

Embracing a little stillness everyday has become important for my peace of mind as the world has not been the same since my mom’s diagnosis of end stage Alzheimer’s. It’s difficult to set eyes on her bedridden frame with me being so unsure of what her life must feel like imprisoned by a dying brain.


It began to unravel quickly when we noticed her mental slippage in everyday things such as forgetting her computer password constantly which then turned into forgetting to turn off the stove burner catching her sleeve on fire one day. Then there was the trip to the emergency room due to her passing out from what we would learn was low sodium. During the course of her hospital stay it was suggested that a brain scan be done to rule out other things that could be contributing to her mounting confusion. The results showed evidence of mild strokes, or, TMI’s. With more consultation the doctor suggested that we take mom to a specialist. It was two weeks later that I found myself seated in a small room with my dad listening to the Neurologist’s thick Spanish accent beautifully roll out the official diagnosis. It’s no secret that I have questioned that diagnosis ever since we found a stroke had occurred. Mom has never entered many of the symptoms associated with the slow moving effects of Alzheimer’s, instead, her declines have been immediate and life altering. I’m inclined to believe that it has been these small strokes she keeps having, but, can’t lament upon an argument that will never have its day in court since once the diagnosis has landed in a medical chart it takes an act of congress and energy that I don’t have to get it removed.

The stillness that I speak of sits next to me about a half hour before my shift begins. I say shift because my sister and brother, Paul, moved here to help take care of mom and due to our conflicting work schedules, it became necessary to formulate a plan. That plan soon hit a brick wall when my brother’s health took an immediate dive and he was no longer able to work. The family decided that it would be best for him to move into our parents’ home and help dad by taking over the tasks of cooking meals and keeping an eye on mom; at that time she was forgetting to use her walker and ending up on floor.

There was no way to predict how fast my Paul’s COPD would incapacitate him. My brother died just a few months later. Walking into the house that day, I passed my mom who smiled at me oblivious to the fact that her only son lay dead on the floor in the very next room. It was decided that we’d never tell her about my brother since here memory was all over the map. If she ever inquired, which she hasn’t to this date; we would say that he simply moved out and was doing fine. I found it odd and even upsetting to watch mom wildly picking at her clothing that day as Dad, my sister and I waited with her in another room while the funeral home removed my brother’s body. It was as if she knew something was terribly wrong but had no words or understanding.

This symphony of change was a complicated composure but we soon settled into a new schedule with my sister taking the morning shift, the hospice help taking afternoon and me taking the night. I’m slower to open the door to their home these days knowing, again, I’ll be painted into a landscape that I wish I could crawl out of. End stage anything is not a casual walk by quiet streams, but, rather; a typhoon in the middle of your life where the only time you’re away from it is when you’re in the eye of the storm. With Alzheimer’s (or any other brain killing disease) it’s as if the storm never passes; it can only circle back again and again gaining momentum. What it doesn’t destroy the first few times, it will be sure to destroy on its way back through until every structure in the mind has been leveled and all that is left is insurmountable confusion.

The room is dark with ritual as I begin cheerful small talk waiting for her to notice me; and when she does, I lean down and kiss the cheek of the stranger who wears my mom’s face. Her furrowed brow shows signs of her searching for the file that contains who I am; that file has been deleted and she only knows that I’m a nice lady who is kind to her in that moment. The blinds are pulled shut and the gloves go on. She waits in the hospital bed for me to disrobe her and get her ready for the night. Dad gave away the bed they had shared for decades and replaced it with a twin to make more room for us to bath and change mom.

It disturbed me the day I walked in and noticed the bed was gone but it was understandable and unavoidable; mom had reached the stage of incontinence. He refused, however, to take down the wrought iron decorative scroll that he mounted above their bed at her request. That was before her mind slipped away. Dad had started an odd habit of placing and replacing random pictures of him and her into the crevasses of the iron scroll on the wall until he landed on two pictures that he must have an affinity to. The faces staring back at mom in these paper reminders fall like a leaf upon a mind that no longer retains their importance. I’ve found it best to leave dad alone about it as he has enough weighing on him. He is quieter lately. Hints of his distress showing only on his sagging clothes; the weight peels off his body one week at time. A man lost in mourning his son and taking care of a wife who doesn’t know him. Never one to express his feelings, his body is left to scream them at the top of its lungs in a silent holocaust of the heart.

Some days I just want to stay in bed and pull the covers over my head. Fifteen months of hard labor in this push against my exhausted heart have me only going through the motions. My grief for my brother is complicated. How does one grieve a brother when they’re stuck in a vortex about how to grieve a mother who is living but dead?! Mostly I feel fastened to this genuine clash between mourning the living and mourning the dead. I don’t even care to fight back anymore. The numb isolation is a warm place, almost needed to hold the pieces of me together. Friends ebb and flow as I grow tired of being caught off guard with questions that throw me against the wall of my reality. Yes, I know they care, but, I don’t want to be asked how my mom is doing, and, yet, on any other given day when they haven’t asked in a while; I wonder how they can care so little. It’s not fair to these beautiful people who line the wall of my life. No one can win with me either way so I repose for their peace as well as my own.

One day, when all of this is behind me; I’ll reenter life and we’ll pick up where we left off. Right now, I struggle under the dead-lift of my new conversations that bind the hands of my mind and toss me into an emotional ocean. Will we be able to manage mom at home? Will dad be able to follow her wishes of no feeding tube? How long does it take a person to starve to death? The DO NOT RESUSCITATE sign watching me from the refrigerator seems a mild precursor to what we’re facing soon. My saving grace is my ability to squeeze out of these conversations and swim to the surface before they drown me. That first quenching breath is so divine but there will be a day when I won’t reach the surface. Tough decisions will have to be lived through. My phone has become a game of Russian roulette. Gone are the smiles that crossed my face when my caller ID read, “Mom Calling.” I’m not even sure why I’ve not changed the contact to dad’s name. No more will I face chastisement about when I’m coming to visit her or how much she misses me. All of that has been replaced with a concealed panic that knows the bullet is locked and loaded and each call might be the one that summons me home; like the unexpected one from my dad that pierced my flesh October 17, 2016 the day my brother died.


The night shift ends with mom being fed a few tablespoons of baby food and given her allotted dose of morphine. Dad will gather up the adult diaper to be thrown away, empty the blue basin in the bathroom and then I’ll hear him washing his hands. After that he’ll head into the kitchen and warm up the dinner that I stopped by my house to pick up for him; my crockpot and I are having quite the affair since the plan for my brother to be the cook didn’t work out. I’ll stay with dad long enough to watch him eat and engage him in conversations being sure to monitor his every bite. When he’s done, I’ll rise and kiss my mom goodbye wishing her sweet dreams. Dad will turn on the porch light and walk me to my car. He will thank me for all my help that night and for bringing him a home- cooked meal. We will hug under the stars and say I love before I get into my car. My promise of returning the next night will roll out the window as I drive away. Some nights I cry on the way home, some nights I’m lost in faded memories and some nights I wonder what life will be like when the night shift ends.


Mona McPherson