A couple days back, Rose passed at the facility. She was only 87. That used to mean something to me, but unless a person is in their mid 90's anymore, I don't pay much attention. I didn't know her very well. But Rose knew me. Every time I walked down the hall I was a different man in her life. I was Bill, her husband who had passed 8 years before. I was her son, Robert who never came home from Vietnam. I was her brother Jim, who never came home from France in WW2. Being the only white, male in the facility, I was many people to Rose at different times. I would kneel before her wheelchair for a couple of minutes and be whomever she wanted me to be right then. She would say over and over, all day and night, " Please, help me " like a tortured mantra. Rose, you were our #1 pick of the person who needed to move on next. You did during your afternoon nap, as peacefully as they get. I went in to give her last respects and it was the first time I ever saw a smile on her face........

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