Like water to the thirsty is laughter to my soul. Without it I would shrivel and die. Life is heavy; times are hard. A hearty laugh lifts the spirit, lightens the load, breathes courage to a fainting heart. It's been said by some unidentified jolly soul that, "Laughter is a tranquilizer with no side effects." I look for it daily finding humor in the mundane every day occurrences of life. Laughing with others, laughing at myself - I'll take it however it comes.

Lettie* is terrified of riding in an elevator. Her greatest worry is being trapped inside. In an attempt to alleviate her concern, I sometimes make use of quiet moments at the front desk by riding the elevator with her. We've ridden the elevator up; we've ridden the elevator down. Over and over and over again. One afternoon we rode together to the 2^nd floor. Once there, we took a short leisurely stroll exercising her stiff legs. All too soon it was time to head toward the dreaded pulley. On impulse I slipped my arm through hers and we matched our steps in stride. Grinning from ear to ear, Lettie launched into a hearty rendition of the bridal march, humming loudly, and I joined her. She scarcely noticed when we stepped into the elevator. My elderly friend is in her 80's and I'm not, still we laughed like school girls all the way to the first floor. For just a moment, laughter eased her dread and she walked through her fear unscathed.

I'm never quite certain of Fred's* involvement in a prank until he looks my way and winks. One day he sat in the cushy chair near the front desk talking with Ardie* who was sitting in her wheelchair near by. Sometimes Ardie is given to bouts of melancholy. Doing his best to lift her spirits, Fred told first one joke and then another. She didn't crack a smile. Finally, tired of the banter, Ardie readied to roll to a quieter location. Placing one hand on each wheel of her chair she pushed forward. Nothing happened. She tried again; her wheelchair wouldn't budge. That's when I noticed the wooden cane someone had slipped from side to side through the spokes of her wheels. I looked at Fred with a raised eyebrow, he winked and Ardie started giggling. Life is heavy, but not so heavy that laughter cannot pierce the gloom.

Nettie* is just as sweet as she can be. She's a chatterbox and is easily confused. Part of her confusion comes from her inability to see beyond the end of her nose. Breakfast, lunch and dinner she wends toward the foyer and on into the dining room carefully prodding with her cane lest she lose her way. One afternoon, on her way to dinner, Nettie strolled toward the front desk. The maintenance coordinator, John, was busy changing light bulbs in the chandelier hanging from the cathedral ceiling in the foyer. To reach the fixture, he had to climb a very high ladder. Concerned that Nettie might not see him and would inadvertently hit the ladder sending John sprawling, I cautioned her to stop. It had been a rather mundane day until she squinted upward and loudly declared, "So that's where you've been hanging out!"

Sometimes Sabra sits next to the desk and colors pictures from the folder kept for that purpose. She has a crush of sorts on Nick* which is no surprise since he ranks at the top of my list of residents who regularly reach out to others with gentle kindness. I'm glad he is at Sunrise. He's sharp as a tack with a ready wit.

Sabra is years older than Nick. Sometimes what she says doesn't make a lot of sense, but Nick doesn't care. He watches out for her, just like he does for so many of the others who are feeble. His feelings toward Sabra are paternal - nothing more. When she needs a hug, he gives it. When she needs direction to the dining room, he points the way. When she struggles to learn the words to a new song the resident choir is attempting to master, he sings along with her until she gets it right. For the most part she sits in a chair near the desk and sings a melody without words, "Ta-da, ta-da, ta-da." It doesn't bother me; I'm just glad she is happy.

Toward evening Sabra begins to wane. Her mental capabilities dull and she is easily confused. One evening she asked over and over, "Where's Nick?"

"Nick's upstairs, Sabra."

After a momentary pause she asked again, "Where's Nick?"

"He's upstairs, Sabra."

She asked a third time, and then quieted for a moment. The house dog crossed in front of her chair and she followed him with her eyes. Then she said to the dog, "Nick, is that you?"

Ahh yes, I may come to Sunrise tired and weary from the day, but while I am with the residents I love so much the thirst in my soul is quenched. They lift my spirit, lighten my load and breathe courage to my fainting heart. I am, above all others, most blessed.

"I don't like it here!" declares Dana*, her measured pacing keeping tempo with her anxious words, "I want to go back to the other place?"

I'm confused. It's not unusual for Dana to feel restless toward the evening hours, but this is mid-afternoon. "What other place, Miss Dana? This is where you live."

"I know," she counters with conviction, "but I don't like it here. I want to go to the other place, the one just down the street. I just came from there a few minutes ago."

Dana frets, paces, then frets some more. There is no other place down the street; her home has been at Sunrise for a long time. "It's not far from here," she counters trying to convince me of her need for a change, "I walked it in a few seconds!"

Her anxiety is increasing in noticeable increments. I haven't taken a break, so I find a replacement to take my place at the front desk and a willing care manager with a few minutes to spare to join me on a walk.

"C'mon Dana," I say, not at all sure I should be offering my services, "Let's go find it."

It's a warm January day so we don't need a wrap, with any luck we'll be back in a few minutes. I watch as Dana turns and gathers three bags of popcorn from a nearby table.

"You sure you need those, Dana?" I question.

"Sure," she patiently explains, "they might not have any at the other place." That's true. They might not.

The three of us walk out the front door together. "This way," Dana points. I convince her to let me carry the popcorn in one hand so I can hold her hand with the other. Like the good sport she is, her CM takes Dana's other hand in her own. Now we're holding hands like school girls on the playground. We sandwich our charge safely between us and start down the sidewalk nearest the street. Neither the CM nor I have a clue where we are going, but Dana's not concerned. She walks with purpose, delighted to finally be on her way. There's no question as to who is in charge of this adventure.

At the end of the Sunrise sidewalk I hesitate, hoping she will realize the futility of her quest. Dana never wavers. "Now which way do we go?" I ask.

She looks this way, then that before settling on a direction. "Turn right here," Dana instructs pointing to the parking lot of a condominium complex bordering the Sunrise property. We chit-chat about this and that as we march to her cadence. Momentarily her step slows, "I don't remember it being quite this far!"

"Are you getting tired?"

"A little." Good! I'm thinking. This is good. Very, very good.

We pass one condo and then another. Dana walks on like a woman with a mission. Soon our path dead-ends as we run out of parking lot, "Now which way?" I query.

"Well, we could take a short-cut," she muses, obviously deep in thought, "but we'll get wet from the snow." Momentarily a decision is reached, "Let's turn here." As one, we make the turn and start up the incline. I'm getting nervous, hoping she doesn't realize we are simply circling the Assisted Living we left moments before. What's going to happen, I worry, when she finds out we're right back where we started?

Dana steers us to the right once more and we start up the home stretch. "Whew," I say. "It'll be good to get there, won't it? We can get a nice cold drink and relax for a little while."

"Sounds good," she concurs as she marches on placing one tired foot in front of the other. It's a good thing we are almost there. With a burst of fresh energy we take the final steps on our quest.

At the front door, Dana exclaims "Well, here we are!" She's excited. I am baffled. We are right back where we began. I open the main door and we walk past the rocking chairs set neatly on the enclosed porch. One more door and the moment of truth will be upon us.

We step into the foyer and I know in an instant that all my worry has been in vain. With an air of pure delight Dana exclaims in wonder, "Look! I like it so much better here. It's quiet and it's laid out just like the other place. Now be honest with me! Don't you like this place better?"

"Yes, Dana. Yes, I do."

Dana sets off to explore her new surroundings and I take my place behind the desk. I had not envisioned this particular ending. She's at rest, and I'm in awe. Not only did Dana find her other place, but I learned a valuable lesson: When a problem appears insurmountable, try looking at it from a different angle. Now be honest with me . . . don't you like that perspective better?

* not her real name

Something as Simple as Touch

by Ronda Knuth

At times the tyranny of the urgent bullies its way to the top of the daily to-do list extinguishing even the most rudimentary kindness. Indeed, in our desire to conquer our categorized index of mandatory responsibilities, we often leave little room for even the most basic regard for the people in our lives. Self-imposed ideologies become exacting roles. Rigid schedules scripted for robotic movement within pre-described structure intimidate even the staunchest among us. In the living out of such prescriptive dogma, those actions most needed to sustain healthy emotion, thought and relationship are vanquished.

In other words, simply spoken, we forget to care.

The day Connie* stopped by the front desk to get her mail I was reminded that the smallest expressions of kindness is huge to one who is alone. A thoughtful word, a listening ear, a simple touch.

Touching is as much a part of me as the color of my eyes and the size of my feet. I like to give an appropriate touch - a hug, a pat on the arm, a tender back rub.

"Here's your mail," I spoke gently laying my hand on her arm. She paused, looked at me through wizened eyes, then spoke words now permanently etched on my heart, "You're the first person to touch me today."

It was mid-afternoon. The day was nearly gone. Was it really possible that in a place brimming with busy people scurrying here and there I was the first to touch her? My heart broke.

If we're not careful, it happens in settings such as Sunrise. The focus becomes the residents' basic needs. Those needs may be met with the utmost efficiency. Clean rooms, healthy food, daily exercise, a shampoo and body scrub. Yet a need just as important, possibly more so, may remain unmet. The resident may be literally starving for the nourishment that comes through one-on-one attention and skin-to-skin human contact.

The mere act of touch is a form of nonverbal communication which delivers a poignant message, "You matter to me. I care about you." The opposite is true as well. The mere act of NOT touching delivers a distressing message of its own, "You're unworthy, unlovely, a pariah." One response soothes and heals, the other pains and debilitates.

Studies show that many of our elderly are touch deprived, either because they are alone and isolated where touch by others is curtailed, or because they lack the soft, wrinkle free skin our society requires to be one of the touchables.

Research at the University of North Carolina shows that a simple hug can lower blood pressure, reduce stress, and bring comfort and calm. For a brief moment, it can be a shield against the world.

I made a mental note as Connie walked away that day to take time to touch the seniors in my life. Now many months later I watch as Nan* slowly pushes her walker in my direction, her gait halting and slow. To my delight, she settles into a chair near my desk and simply waits. Remembering my resolve, I set my work aside, reminding myself as I do, that nothing is more important than her.

Nan's the quiet type, pleasant but firmly hidden behind a wall of self-imposed silence. Most days she does little more than nod and say hello. Her sad eyes seem to ask, "Why am I still here with no one to love me?" I reach for a nearby bottle of lotion and slide my chair up next to hers. "Nan, may I put some lotion on your hands?"

She hesitates, suspicion in her eyes. This is something new to her. Slowly I reach my hand toward hers and she allows me to pull her taut hand tenderly into mine. Her hands are wrinkled, tiny, dry. I warm the balm in the palm of my hand and then begin to massage the cream into her own palm, then the back of her hand, then each fragile finger, careful lest I tear her delicate paper thin skin. She relaxes and I can tell that the pleasurable, sacred touch is quite simply doing a miracle for her spirit. The touch is sweeping the loneliness and isolation away.

As I work, I speak quietly to her, "You know, I love these hands. They've fixed many a meal, washed lots of clothes, cared for others for an awfully long time." Her fingers relax in mine as I talk on oblivious to the world, concentrating solely on her, "Your hands are beautiful."

I know why she's chosen to isolate her heart from the rest of the world. While her mind is sharp, it often short-circuits before she can speak and the words come out in a muddle. To my surprise she speaks. Though a word here and there is jumbled, I find that if I listen carefully I can understand exactly what she is saying. "I don't feel pretty," she offers. I understand. In a world that places value on outer beauty and unblemished youth it's difficult for senior women to feel that they are lovely. Nan does not understand that she is valued simply because she exists.

She shares that she is frustrated because she can't talk clearly, because she can't make others understand what she is trying to say. I smile and tell her that, because of my Fibromyalgia, I too have moments when what comes out of my mouth sounds nothing like what I intended. And, some days, when my body is hurting, I too wonder about the fairness of life. In the sharing, something happened, something shifted in her trust. We made a connection because of our mutual pain. Halting, as though measuring my response, she tells me that she feels she has no value and is simply waiting to die. I remind her that her very presence has purpose, that she is still alive because there is still work for her to do, people for her to touch, lives that only she can encourage and breath hope into.

Finished with the first hand, I reach for the other. This time there is no hesitancy. She lays her hand in mine and I am honored by her trust. It only took a few minutes and the willingness to listen and to care. It's amazing what a small, rudimentary kindness can mean to one who is alone.

* not her real name