Reflections

When I arrived for a routine ombudsman visit, I thought I was looking at a resident sitting on the roof. My first instinct wasn’t panic—it was advocacy. That moment, brief and mistaken, became a quiet lesson in how easily assumptions form and how essential it is to question them before taking action.

A vintage green Pyrex bowl from the 1940s prompts a reflection on family heirlooms, memory, dementia, and why some things are meant to be used.

When a vintage Duncan & Miller glass finally breaks, a grandmother reflects on heirlooms, memory, and the quiet freedom of letting cherished things be used.

A childhood writing assignment during school integration revealed an early lesson in race, class, power—and why I never stopped writing.

My first CASA case was a seven-year-old boy named Eric. On one of our early visits, I took him to an ice cream shop. He studied the choices carefully and ordered an ice cream sandwich. It wasn’t the kind most kids expect, and I could tell right away he didn’t like it. Still, he kept eating it. “Eric, you don’t have to eat that,” I said. “Yes, I do.” “No, you don’t. We can throw it away and get something else.” His face changed. “THAT WOULD BE WASTING!” When I said I’d throw i

A new nurse aide was instructed to inhale a cigarette for a resident. A real story about unsafe delegation, scope of practice, and systemic failure.

My younger brother just turned 60 and has been living with Alzheimer’s for several years. Before the disease, he was a successful, award-winning chef.

My brother-in-law has taped signs and reminders all over the house to help my sister be as independent as possible.

A daughter rediscovers her mother’s unfinished quilt, started in the 1970s and set aside after Alzheimer’s changed the family’s life. Decades later, with help from a long-arm quilter, the quilt is finally completed—transforming a forgotten project into an inheritable family treasure.

Lily’s world became one room, rotating staff, and the occasional visit from a DCFS worker. Her tracheostomy is suctioned. Her seizures are treated. Every heartbeat and breath scrolls across monitors at the nurses’ station. Her body is kept alive.

Standing on a cruise ship balcony at sunrise, I decided to see what my body could still do. One leg surprised me. The other required a rescue. Aging isn’t about pretending you’re young—it’s about continuing to try, misjudging your abilities, and laughing anyway. I’ll take the sore hip for that moment of wondering: how high can I lift my leg?

Six weeks before my father died of Alzheimer’s, I held him while a nurse moved his mattress to the floor so he wouldn’t be hurt when he fell. He was seventy-two and suddenly weightless in my arms, the man who once held me now being held by me. I knew even then that those few seconds would stay with me forever—a quiet reversal of time, love, and care that does not fade.

In most nursing homes, death is not acknowledged. There is no announcement, no shared moment, no ritual of remembrance. One day a chair is occupied; the next day it is empty. Residents notice. They count how many friends have sat there before. They wait through breakfast, then lunch, then ask the front desk. Silence does not spare them grief—it leaves them to carry it alone, doing the math in their own heads and wondering, quietly, if anyone will notice when they are gone.