I’ve been working at the Manson for more than three years now, I’ve come to know the place and the people well. In a sense, the work has become routine for me, it is no longer a big deal when someone disappears and is never seen again, or gets sick and loses their memory.

It is sad but somewhat routine now for me to see a suddenly empty room.

When I was a police reporter police officers talk about t all the time – how sadness and even violence becomes routine.

Yesterday, I received a very personal wake-up call, a trip to the other side of the mirror, an encounter that drove home the sometimes brutal reality of aging and separation.

I was taking Zinnia to the Memory Care Center when we passed one of the common rooms there, and I saw a couple sitting close together. The man was in a wheelchair, a woman – his wife, I thought – working a puzzle with him. She was trying to help him, but she looked stricken, he looked bewildered.

Suddenly, I heard my name called out, and I gave the couple a closer look. They knew me, and I recognized them. They are one of those inseparable couples, I see them together everywhere, all the time.

I  live in a small town,  I ran into these two at restaurants, plays, on the street. His wife is deeply engaged in philanthropy work and good deeds. I talked to him often. We weren’t close friends, but they were both very much a part of my world.

I walked over to say hello, I just assumed they might be visiting one of the residents. I saw her eyes fill with tears. She was bringing her husband into the Memory Care unit where he was going to remain.

She was going home without him, for the first time in their long and happy marriage.

I saw them just a few weeks ago, there was no sign of anything wrong. But that doesn’t mean something wasn’t wrong.

What happened?, I asked. He had a bad fall, she said, and then was in rehab, and was struggling with severe memory loss. In all of my work at the Mansion, I don’t believe I was ever actually present when a husband or wife left the other behind there. What a wrenching thing.

He looked up at me and I saw a flash of recognition. We saw one another often, I am sure he knew my face. He asked again and again if Zinnia was a boy or girl, but he just couldn’t retain it.

His wife came over to me, and I just put my arms out and we hugged quietly for the longest time. I can hardly imagine what you are going through, I said.

I am glad you are here, she said. I’ve heard about the work you do here. The sadness in her eyes was so strong and clear.

I know it makes the families of the new residents feel better if there no there is someone inside the facility who will watch over their wife or mother or husband.

This is a good place, I answered. The people here care, and I promise I will visit him regularly and keep an eye on him. The man loves animals and he was drawn to Zinnia, who cave over to him to say hello, tail wagging.

Zinnia picked up on the vibes and came over to him, wagging her tail.

The man’s wife thanked me several times and talked for a while about dogs and friends. But the pain in her eyes never faltered. I think she was talking to keep from crying.

I told him I would be back with a dog in the next day or so. But by then, he had already forgotten who I was.

I confess to thinking about the day Maria might have to say goodbye to me in that or some other way. I could feel the awful gut-wrenching twist if I  ever had to take her to the Memory Care Center, and then leave her there and go home by myself.

I thought of this good woman driving home alone after saying goodbye.

This brought the power of the work I am doing home to me. The people at the Mansion are loved and cared for, but I forget sometimes that there is a sadness and finality and deep pain embedded in the process of leaving our life and loved ones behind.

I know it, but sometimes fail to feel it. Yesterday I felt it.

Sometimes I see that sadness in the faces of the residents, but I get to go home every night to someone who loves me and cares for me, and whom I love in return.

Someone does need to witness this, to share this. It should no longer be hidden away, the people inside voiceless and forgotten. That’s one of the reasons  I started doing this work.

We all end, me, you, everyone reading this. I rarely think of that in the work than I do, and I don’t plan to dwell on it. But it is important to realize it sometimes, think about it, and make sure that my writing doesn’t present life at the Mansion as one-dimensional, all full of good feeling and good deeds.

It can be very hard on people there, and they needn’t be shut away and hidden from the rest of the world. I will think of this woman, a good person, often in the next few days and pray for her peace of mind.

I think I saw her the day her world fell apart.

Sometimes it is just sad, there is no way to cushion it.

Few people want to leave their lives behind and go to a facility. Everyone is somebody’s mother or father, sister or brother, friend or grandchild.

I started this work because I wanted to give these people voices, I wanted them to break through the Hippa and regulatory prison around them and be seen in the world.

(The photo above is of Nancy, wearing the new scarf Maria taught her how to make. I used the photo because I love her smile. She is happy living at the Mansion. She is not a part of this Memory Care Unit story.)