I don't know how I will continue this job.

It's hard to work long term care. I have been there for two weeks? A little more? Already, two deaths. One was not a huge deal for me. She was on hospice. I knew she was getting ready to "go home". The one today? Hurt. It really hurt. I gave her the medicine she needs. She patted my hand. She gave a very half hearted smile. Mrs. P. is an amazing painter. She had her oil and water colors all over the room. Portraits of boats on a river, her cat, a bunch of geese swimming in a pond, a child with a bunch of flowers and my personal favorite, a self portrait of herself when she was young.

"I used to be a looker," she said to me a few weeks ago. I was brand new to the facility but easily fell in love with Mrs. P. She laughed and shook her head. "I used to be a blonde you know."

Her portrait was beautiful. Her eyes were green. Now, they are covered with grey cataracts. Her lips were full. Now they had lines running through them. She had glorious peaches and cream skin once upon a time. Now, her skin was cold, clammy and very pale.

I would walk into her room during my breaks, just to look at her paintings. One time, she startled me while I was looking at her works of art.

"I wish I could still paint," she said. "I can't see very well anymore."

"I know," I said. "These are beautiful. I love to look at them."

"Take one," she said.

"I can't, love," I replied, "facility rules."

"Well, when I die," she said with a laugh, "take one."

I was off for the past week. When I gave her morning meds, she looked so weak, so tired. She patted my hand. "I'm gonna go now," she said. I assumed she meant to sleep. I put her hair in a braid while she fell asleep. Then, I went out to continue my med passes to the other patients.

By 8:50 am, she was gone. The funeral home director came in shortly thereafter and took her body from the room, leaving me alone with all her exquisite paintings.

"Take one," she had said to me. I couldn't. I wasn't allowed to, but if I could have, I would have taken the self-portrait of her. She did it from an old photograph of herself. That one captures her when she was alive, healthy, beautiful. I got to give her a kiss goodbye on her ice cold cheek. I told her I would pray for God speed in her journey to Heaven. I teared up a bit, but was happy to know she would finally be at peace.

I got my cellphone after the funeral director left. I took some photos on my camera phone of her self portrait. I got to take one of her paintings home after all.

This job, I am scared to admit, is going to challenge my disorder. It is going to be work to stay stable, calm and understanding about my lifes work. I am so sad right now. I feel miserable, despite my belief that people go on to live beautiful and vibrant lives after death. I will look for Mrs. P., every single time I see a little girl with flowers in her hat, when a duck swims in a pond and when I see a youthful woman with peaches and cream skin and lovely light eyes.