On the surface, one might think the residents of Sunrise Senior Living at Pinehurst as weary, time-worn citizens simply coasting through their latter years. Many are physically challenged, some struggle with dementia or Alzheimer disease, still others live at Sunrise because advancing age has rendered them incapable of living alone. But beneath the surface lie amazing stories and great wisdom.

As a Professional StoryKeeper I have been privileged to sit with many of them, to hear and, with their permission, to record the stories of their lives for their family members to enjoy for years to come. Some among us have advanced to high rank in the military, one was a prisoner of war during WWII, another interrogated German prisoners of war in Africa. One gracious, quiet gentleman was awarded the key to the city of Corpus Christi. Many of our residents lived through the Depression, a time of devastation and great need where they struggled just to get through one day at a time. One resident was a dancer par excellence known far and wide for her ability to jitterbug. I listened and was reminded by another of the importance of integrity as she shared about the small mom-and-pop grocery she and her husband owned in Montana. My heart was moved as she told of their love for the people they served. Some served the judicial system, others taught, some reared families who grew to be men and women living out the values they'd been faithfully taught.

Everyone has a story to tell. All they need is someone to ask and listen. Often, when I ask for the privilege of doing an interview, I'm told, "Oh honey, I haven't done anything special." Sometimes it takes some cajoling before a time is set for us to meet. Tom Brokaw said it well, "As they now reach the twilight of their adventurous and productive lives, they remain, for the most part, exceptionally modest. They have so many stories to tell, stories that in many cases have never been told before, because in a deep sense they didn't think that what they were doing was that special, because everyone else was doing it too."

We have many hidden heroes at Sunrise. They're special not so much because they've done great things, but because they are great people. If asked, they would modestly deny, but I see their greatness lived out every day in the little things they do. They move quietly among their peers, encouraging, loving, sharing, caring. Their bodies may not work as they once did, their minds may fuzz, their hearing dim, but they are strong. It has been said that the essential is what cannot be seen. They are strong where it matters most - on the inside.

For the most part, except for mealtimes and mail, Mr. Samuels* keeps to himself. When he stops by the front desk, he squints to see if I am there and if I am he rolls his wheelchair close and we visit for a minute, maybe two. He cannot see well, but he recognizes my voice.

"How are you feeling today, Mr. Samuels?"

"Oh, all right." He hesitates then quietly speaks, "I just can't see."

My heart goes out to him, as it does every time he mentions his rapidly failing eyesight. When we first met eleven years ago, he could see well enough to drive; now he is virtually blind. I do not know what it is like not to have my sight, I only know that such a loss would be devastating to me.

"It's hard not to be able to see, isn't it, Mr. Samuels?"

"I can't even see your face," he laments sorrowfully.

"Well, that's not such a big loss," I quip.

Mr. Samuels chuckles, just the response I was hoping for, and then he takes my hands in his. I feel as though they are being held by a modern-day knight. He is an amazing man - tough yet tender, strong yet weak. He is chivalrous through and through. I lift his hand to my lips and tenderly kiss his frail fingers. He is my hero.

Day after day they keep going, even when it hurts. Aging is not for wimps. Most days they challenge the pain, choosing to control it rather then letting it control them. They have a unique understanding of suffering borne out of their own.

When Ms. Jackson* suffered from a flare-up of arthritis, I watched as first one then another of her peers laid a caring hand on her arm. Some gave a gentle pat or a tender hug as they walked by where she sat propped against a pillow meant to ease her pain. The words of comfort they spoke were sincere - there are no platitudes here, no meaningless words. As much as they would like to fix her pain, they know they cannot. Instead, they speak simple words of solace, "I'm sorry you are hurting." "I hate it when you're sick." "I care."

Mr. Conklin* wheels by in his chair and offers, "I haven't walked in two years." Sweet Ms. Brown* follows on his heels, leaning heavily on her cane as she shuffles by, "I'm just hobbling along," she offers with a slight smile, "It's better then not being able to walk at all."

When Ms. Jeffries* spent an extended time in the hospital someone invariably asked, "Have you heard how Ms. Jeffries is? Will she be home soon?" When Ms. James* walked for the first time in a long time it was cause for celebration, "Look at you!" "I'm so proud!" "You go girl!"

Ms. Daisy can do virtually nothing for herself. Like Mr. Samuels, she stays to herself most of the time. When she is where I can see her, she sits alone, bent over in her wheelchair. Who knows what goes through her wizened mind. Often while waiting to be taken to the dining room she can be heard to say, "I need a drink of water." Invariably, before I can respond, a fellow resident walks gingerly to the water cooler and fills a cup with cold water. Then, balancing it carefully in one hand, she steers her walker across the room. Holding the cup to Ms. Daisy's lips, she waits patiently while she drinks and her thirst is quenched. To the casual viewer it's not much. To the one who cares to see, it is everything. This is the stuff of heroes.

A cup of cool water, a tender touch, the courage to go on. They walk among us and often we do not recognize them - the extraordinary hidden heroes of Sunrise. I salute you. Well done.

* names have been changed

© rjknuth, 2009