Edmonton Home Care Aide
"She cares for elderly Somalis in Edmonton—a thick ebony divorced woman who treats every patient like family. When his grandfather needs care, she becomes essential. Some care extends beyond visiting hours."
Hani's Home Care is the only Somali service in Edmonton.
She started it nine years ago, after working for agencies that didn't understand the community. Now she cares for twenty elderly Somalis across the city.
My grandfather needs help.
"Dementia?" She assesses him gently. Fifty-two years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of compassionate strength. Ebony skin, scrubs that have seen years of work, hands that know how to comfort.
"Early stage. He gets confused."
"He called me by his wife's name." She smiles at him. "That means he remembers love. That's something."
She comes every day.
Bathing, feeding, talking. She treats my grandfather with dignity he deserves but rarely receives.
"You're amazing with him," I say one afternoon.
"He's easy to love." She adjusts his blanket. "The hard ones are the ones who've forgotten how to be loved."
"Have you known many of those?"
"Everyone I've cared for." She looks at me. "Including myself."
We talk while my grandfather naps.
About her work, about her life, about the nine years since her divorce.
"He said I cared too much about strangers." She sips tea I made. "That I gave everything to my patients and nothing to him."
"Was he right?"
"Maybe. But care is all I know how to give." She shrugs. "Some people aren't built for holding back."
"That's not a flaw."
"Tell that to my empty bed."
"Your grandfather asked about you."
We're in his room. He's sleeping.
"He said—" She hesitates. "He said you should marry me. Before it's too late."
"He said that?"
"In Somali. He thinks I don't understand that dialect." She smiles. "I understand everything."
"And what do you think?"
"I think—" She looks at the sleeping old man. "I think he sees what I try to hide."
"What's that?"
"That I care about you too much. That I've started hoping you'll be here when I visit. That—" She stops.
"That what?"
"That nine years is too long to be alone."
I find her crying in the kitchen.
"He's getting worse," she says. "I've seen this a hundred times. It never gets easier."
"But you keep doing it."
"Someone has to." She wipes her eyes. "Someone has to hold them when they forget everything."
I take her hands.
"Let me hold you."
I worship the caregiver.
In my grandfather's kitchen, while he sleeps peacefully. Her body is comfort—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Nine years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've cared for everyone—"
"Tonight I care for you."
I lay her on the kitchen table.
Where she prepares my grandfather's meals. Her body deserves nourishment too.
I spread her thick thighs.
Give her what she gives others.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—nine years of one-way caring finally reciprocated. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I care for her until she comes three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—heal me—"
I strip. She watches with those caregiver's eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Your turn to receive."
I push inside the home care aide.
She cries out.
"So full—" Her arms wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I give her everything she's been missing.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's crying. "Complete me—"
I release inside her.
We lie tangled on the kitchen floor.
"He's still sleeping," she whispers.
"He told you to marry me."
"Haa." She laughs through tears. "Smart old man."
Six Months Later
My grandfather passed peacefully.
Hani held his hand at the end.
Now she holds mine.
"Macaan," she moans. "My beautiful patient."
The caregiver who gave everything.
The woman who finally received.
Love as medicine.