Sharing my story for posterity.

I used to work at a medical center for old folks with varying disabilities. It was a great job all things considered, just didn't pay very well and the scheduling was a mess.

Anyway, one day I'm cleaning tables on the dining room when I hear on my walkie talkie that one of the new people need help with a guy in the bathroom. Usually "they need help" means "something has gone awry, please unfuck the situation" and, since I was the supervisor on shift, my job frequently involved untucking a situation.

I arrive outside the bathroom door and the new employee tells me that she walked into a situation that she wasn't prepared for. I figured it was some poop, or the guy fell asleep on the toilet or something.

I walk in and the walls were all painted with poop. The sink was painted with poop. The floor was painted with poop. The paper towel dispenser had poop all over the front of it.

The poor guy had gone to the bathroom, got confused and tried to remember what toilet paper was. He saw me and knew I was there to help, but he was nonverbal. His way of saying thank you was to gently take his hand and rest it under your chin.

He did so, but his hand was also still covered on poop.

I'm used to poop. It's a normal job hazard in that line of work. But something about having to clean myself and every surface in the room from caked poop while somebody else gave the poor guy a shower...that kind of story sticks with you. To this day I can't look at finger paints without feeling a little queasy.