"I sure look better with my shoes and my pants on," my ninety-one year old patient assured me at 5am this morning.
He's been trying to convince me for the last hour and a half to go get his shoes and pants, so he can walk around. What he won't understand is that his hip is broken.
He keeps mumbling as I leave, and I can still hear him across the hall.
He's made it completely clear to two nurses, and me, that we are all going to be reported to the authorities for trying to kill him. That he has a tape recorder under his bed, and "all of this is being recorded."

And I remember why I love doing what I do.