Gloria Frances Nickerson of Raeford, North Carolina wrote this of her experience as a volunteer working with disabled veterans. At the time this essay was written, Gloria had just finished nursing school after a 23 year career with the US Army in which she retired as a Major. She had been an air traffic controller and then a paratrooper. Gloria had major disabilities herself and yet, despite these, received no disability compensation from the VA. A few short months after being certified as a nurse, Gloria's health gave way and she was no longer able to work. Gloria left us on August 19th to go home to God and the following composition is her story of one veteran....

I fed a man last night. He could not feed himself; his arms did not work. When I first saw him, I thought his arms were folded in reflection across his midsection. It took me too long to realize that his arms never moved from that position. Nor, did he leave his wheelchair very often.

The shiny skin on his hands and smooth clean nails were a sharp contrast to mine; my cuticles dry, my nails clipped to an unfeminine utilitarian length. His pink clean hands had probably experienced far more in his lifetime, compared to mine, before they stopped working. He couldn't even talk to tell about it.

Now, with a plastic spoon, I fed bits of cake and ice cream into his mouth, beneath his neatly clipped mustache. I patiently waited in between bites while he sang Christmas carols, more with his heart than his voice. Me, with my dry, scarred, stubby fingers, not knowing if the man I fed had been a Private or a General; feeding a man who could not intelligibly reveal the story behind the dents and huge scars on his bald head.

It was very warm in the nursing home cafeteria. The dozens of volunteer carolers added to the temperature and sweat was visible on the singers' brows. Thankful that the sweat hid my tears, I continued to spoon ice cream and cake beneath the mustache of a man who could only express his appreciation with a nod. Every few bites, I would offer him the straw to his cold drink. Every minute or so, his hands would twitch uncontrollably.

He couldn't tell me when or where he had served his country. He couldn't claim a branch of service. His nods and difficult smiles showed he was grateful. My back ached bending over his wheelchair, my knees reminded me of my own oncoming age with aches and pains hastened by a military career believing I was invincible. Tears mixed with sweat and stung my cheeks.

Veterans deserve the dignity and admiration due a lifetime performance of unselfishness. One would rather imagine a cool green parade field with a mighty garrison flag billowing against a bright blue sky, while honors are rendered anonymously to "those who served." That would be far more pleasant than crying, bending over a wheelchair in a hot nursing home cafeteria. But, this Veteran could not feed himself. His arms did not work.

Gloria Nickerson

Veteran

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