The director was impressed with the facility, a home for veterans who could no longer care for themselves.  It was the first time he had been there, the first time we had been called upon to assist the family of one of the residents.  When he looked at the call sheet, that slip of paper we complete when someone reports a death, it said “Come in the front.”  That seemed a bit odd.  Most of the time facilities such as nursing homes and hospitals try to slip us in and out so as not to cause undue stress for the other residents.  So when he arrived, he walked in without the cot, believing they would route him to another entrance, but no.  He was to come in the front . . . and exit the same way . . . down the hallway . . . and across the lobby . . . in full view of anyone who chose to watch.

Quietly he went about his work, placing the gentleman on the cot and preparing to make what seemed like a very long walk through a very public place.  But as he opened the door to leave the room, he understood.

Lining the hall and forming a corridor across the lobby were the employees of the facility, standing quietly, their hands placed over their hearts.  Many of the residents had joined them, standing, as best they could, at attention, their hands raised in a salute to their friend.  As the director approached the exit he noticed one very elderly gentleman, confined to a wheelchair.  With tears streaming down his cheeks, he was struggling to raise his hand.  It was the last thing he could do for his friend . . . the final measure of respect and honor . . . the final goodbye.

In our profession we often witness acts which touch us deeply, but as professionals we strive to hold those feelings close so we can continue to serve as a guide and source of comfort and strength for those who have called upon us.  But on this day, as he looked upon an old soldier saying his last farewell to a friend and brother in arms, his step quickened and he moved a little faster toward the door and the light and the fresh air.  It was one of the most touching—and gut-wrenching—acts he had ever witnessed.  As he told the story upon returning, one employee commented on how sad it was to put the residents through that.  But they didn’t understand.  These men didn’t view it as a reminder of their own mortality.  It was an honor . . . and a privilege . . . and a duty they bore willingly.

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