We don the same scratchy uniform daily. We go to bed early, generally when our toddlers fall asleep. We get up at four-thirty in the morning (on a good morning). We rush to shower, get coffee, make sure we have cigarettes, name badges, key cards and lay out our families clothes without waking them in the early twilight morn and we get to work before the sun makes its appearance.

I ask, to do what? To gently wake our elderly, who do not want to get woken up let alone can not see or hear us. We gently prod and pry them out of bed. For what, I ask? We guide them to the bathroom to change their throughly soaked adult continent products and change their sweaty nightwear. We wash their weathered skin as they moan and groan at us, telling us how much they hate us. That is - if you are lucky not to be thrashed upon.

We get them dressed in the best outfit we can find in their closet. A closet full of clothes that would otherwise be thrown out. Isn't it sad to see their flimsy clothing. It makes me ask daily to myself, "What do their families do with their ill gotten money when they placed their feeble elderly away in this place. They never visit them, left them off to forget them, but I bet they are spending all that they have... or rather had".

When we have finally broken their spirits and convince them that going to the dinning room is so much better then eating in their rooms. Which we all know that we place them at dinning tables with all their mortal enemies. They go, mostly quietly. It is sad, really.

As I try and fake love and emotion along with complete gratitude as they hand me a wet, snotty tissue that you swear they did intentionally, I just feel sad and afraid.

I am afraid that this will be my fate. Will my three boys feel pity on me as I grow old and fragile? Will they drop me off at a fake community or will they lovingly take care of me just as I have lovingly taken care of them? Will the mardism I suffered for those many years making sure that they had food on the table, the latest technology, the latest fashion fads, been the taxi of them and their soccer buddies, the early mornings, the holidays that I had to work and missed their smiling faces or the time I was there when they were sick - will it mean anything?

But my mind is jerked away from these thoughts as I overhear one of my residents say to her neighbor, "Thats the funny nursing assistant! Thats right! My boy must have known that I would get her every morning. She hugs me, takes care of me, and is always there to hear me. She needs a raise. She loves me!"

Then - just then - is when the four-thirty in the mornings makes sense, the hugs are really real on both sides and all is right with the world. Because I am in a rewarding career. On the way back from breakfast, I stop and hug my resident. She responds in kind. I do love her, I love them all. They are my family. I just guess... I love people – old people.