The Chronicles of the Night Wing: The Case of the Missing White Toe Socks Ep1

The sound of clicking keyboards echoed through the facility's quiet, expansive living area, accompanied by the occasional buzzing of the washing machine in the nearby laundry room. It was past midnight, and everyone was already fast asleep. I was writing a report for the night shift when I suddenly heard a soft grunting sound. I stopped what I was doing and looked around. The dim lighting revealed a hint of movement, and I could hear soft snoring from room 216. I shrugged it off and returned to my work.

A few minutes later, I heard another whimpering sound, this time louder. It sounded like someone was trying to reach for something but couldn’t move. I grabbed my beeper; I had to check on this. The sound seemed to be coming from room 215. Just as I was about to stand up, the door to that room suddenly sprang open. I was startled to find no one behind it. Then, I heard another clear grunting sound—definitely from room 215. My view was partially blocked by the computer, but as I stood up, I saw Mr. T on the floor, his upper body half out the door, crawling and gripping the handrail with his right hand.

I rushed over and grabbed the wheelchair at the edge of his bed, helping him sit in it. I immediately checked for any possible injuries and asked if he was hurt, but fortunately, he was fine. I asked him, "What’s the matter? Why were you on the floor?" He replied, "I was looking for my tabi (toe socks). Have you seen them?" 

I was taken aback. Mr. T is one of the residents in our nursing care facility and has dementia. He has been with us for over a month and is in the early stages of the disease, experiencing confusion, memory loss, and other cognitive changes. At over 90 years old, he often displays the emotional instability typical of dementia patients. 

"I don’t remember you having tabi (toe socks)," I said. He immediately became worried. "I have a pair of tabi (toe socks). I need to wear them now. They were white," he insisted. His anxiety was increasing, so I offered to check his drawer for the missing socks, but there were no white tabi in sight. I suggested a pair of navy blue regular socks, but he firmly rejected the idea, insisting on the white tabi. His emotional state was becoming more unstable, so I decided to check the laundry area, thinking they might have been left in the tumble dryer. 

To my disappointment, the dryer had no sign of the missing socks. I found myself in a dilemma; the dryer had let me down in a critical moment. So, I struck a deal with Mr. T. "Mr. T, it seems like your white tabi (toe socks) got stuck in the dryer. Is it okay if I get you another pair of regular socks just for tonight? I promise I’ll bring your white tabi tomorrow morning." He was adamant at first, but eventually, he agreed when I showed him a pair of regular socks. 

"I’ll put these on you. You’ll like them. They’re white too. Look," I said, waving the socks in front of him. I placed the white socks on his feet, and he sighed with relief, saying, "Ahhh, yokatta (I’m glad). I don’t have to worry now." I then helped him back into bed, and within three minutes, I could hear his loud breathing as he drifted off to sleep.

Another critical episode was averted. I glanced at the time; it was already 1 AM. It was time for my rounds. I returned to my station, grabbed my flashlight and the master key.

As I walked around the unit, checking each resident's room, I thought about the white toe socks. They served as a beacon of comfort and familiarity for Mr. T against his fading realities. Isn’t life often the same? We all face moments when the ground beneath us feels unsteady, when uncertainty clouds our path and we lose sight of who we are. In those moments, it isn’t the grand things that keep us grounded—it’s the small, ordinary anchors that remind us we are still here. A dream we refuse to let go of, a promise whispered long ago, the memory of a hand we once held, or the presence of someone who believes in us. That one small thing is enough to remind us that even in the middle of loss, confusion, and fear—eventually, we will find our way back, and everything will be okay.