The Somali Elder Care Nurse
"She cares for elderly Somalis in a nursing home near Lake Nokomis—a thick ebony widow who treats every patient like family. When he visits his grandmother, she becomes much more than a nurse. Some care extends beyond the job."
Amran has been caring for the elderly for twenty-five years.
The Nokomis Care Home is home to dozens of Somali elders—people who survived war, crossed oceans, and now spend their final years in Minnesota's cold.
My grandmother is one of them.
"She's comfortable," Amran tells me during my first visit. Fifty-five years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of compassion. "She talks about you constantly."
"She talks about everything constantly."
"Ilaahay." She laughs. "True. But you—she talks about you with pride."
I visit every weekend.
Amran is always there. Adjusting pillows. Feeding patients. Talking to elders who no longer recognize their own children.
"You're amazing," I tell her one day.
"I'm doing my job."
"This is more than a job."
"Haa." Yes. She looks at my sleeping grandmother. "These people have no one. Their families are scattered. Their children are busy. Someone needs to care."
"Why you?"
"Because I know what it's like to be forgotten." She straightens my grandmother's blanket. "My husband died twelve years ago. My children moved to other cities. I understand loneliness."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be present." She meets my eyes. "That's all any of us need."
I start volunteering.
Weekends at first, then evenings. Amran teaches me how to care—how to lift patients safely, how to calm dementia fears, how to sit with the dying.
"You're a natural," she says one night.
"I had a good teacher."
"Waas." She waves dismissively. "I've been doing this so long, I forget there's anything else."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—" She sits heavily. "I care for everyone. No one cares for me."
"I care for you."
She stares at me.
"Come to my apartment," she says. "After shift. I want to talk."
"About what?"
"About—everything." She doesn't meet my eyes. "Just come."
Her apartment is small but warm.
Photos of children and grandchildren she rarely sees. African art on the walls. The smell of uunsi.
"Twelve years," she says, pouring chai. "Twelve years since my husband touched me. Twelve years of giving care without receiving it."
"Amran—"
"I know it's unprofessional. You're a volunteer. Your grandmother is my patient." She sets down the cups. "But I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of giving everything and getting nothing."
"You deserve everything."
"Then give me something. Anything."
I set down my cup.
I worship the caregiver.
My hands learn her body the way she learns her patients—gently, carefully. She gasps as I undress her.
"Twelve years—" She's trembling. "I've forgotten what it feels like—"
"Let me remind you."
Her body has given comfort to thousands.
Now I give comfort to her.
I kiss down her ebony flesh—her heavy breasts, her soft belly, her wide hips. She moans as I spread her thick thighs.
"Alla—" She gasps as my mouth finds her. "No one has—"
I lick her slowly. Reverently. She deserves reverence.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—twelve years of need releasing. Her hands grip my head.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "Coming—"
She floods my mouth.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—let me feel something—"
I strip. She watches with hungry eyes.
"Subhanallah—you're—"
"Yours. Tonight and every night."
I position myself.
I push inside the caregiver.
She cries out—twelve years of emptiness filling.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—dhakhso—"
I make love to her.
Slowly. Gently. The way she cares for others. She comes twice, three times.
"Ku shub—" She's crying now. "Fill me—please—"
I release inside her.
We lie tangled together.
"Your grandmother," she whispers. "She knows something has changed."
"She sees everything."
"Haa." She laughs softly. "She told me today—take care of my grandson like you take care of me."
"What did you say?"
"I told her I would." She kisses my chest. "I always keep my promises."
One Year Later
My grandmother passes peacefully.
Amran holds her hand at the end. Holds mine too.
At the funeral, no one questions why the nurse stands so close to me. Why she cries as hard as I do.
"She was my family too," Amran tells curious relatives. "They all are."
But I know the truth.
I'm her family now.
"Macaan," she moans that night, as I comfort her grief in the only way I know how.
The nurse who cares for everyone.
Finally letting someone care for her.