Rocking the Ranks
With Aimée

It was another day at the nursing home, a day of love and hope. Christmas was just a week away, after all.
I was cleaning a rope of poop on Miss O’Keeffe’s bathroom floor when Boy George’s Do you really want to hurt me started playing on the radio. If I had to list the top 10 totally rad 1980s love songs, Culture Club’s hit would be my number one.
Still cleaning the shit, I started dancing (listening to music rocks my socks).
Miss O’Keeffe had been the victim of what we, the nurses, call the shrimp situation. It usually happens after Sea Food Wednesday. While all of our patients love the taste of seafood, most of them have digestive tract issues that liquefy the oysters, lobsters, and prawns. If you add a glimpse of Autumn and a tad of flu, an ill-timed sneeze when your pants are already down, and you get a shrimp situation all other the floor.
The fight, flight, or freeze conundrum of writing a memoir is nothing compared to what our patients experience. We keep on telling them that it’s not too late to reach for their wildest dreams, but with a shrimp situation on the floor, they feel like Hamlet in the graveyard scene.
So we trade bodies with them so to speak. We tell them, “keep your head in the clouds; we’ll get our feet on the ground.” They go to our local yoga studio downstairs for a short guided nature meditation while we stay up there in the room and clean the mess. It doesn’t matter to me, I love stinky smells.
But it matters to them.
Being caught in the thunderstorm of aging isn’t easy. A seething inferno of anger is the only sane response to this crumbling empire that is their life. So, any relief we can offer is worth the hassle, even if we have to clean the shit out of these shrimps.
All the links above point to a piece by Aimée Gramblin. For the sake of recommendations, here are three of her stories I particularly liked.





