Reflections on Care

At lunch in a beautiful assisted living facility, four women were delighted. Five men were not. The difference wasn’t the food—it was history.

A long-term care ombudsman meets a resident who can no longer speak—but still creates joy through handmade felt pins and quiet resilience.

Our conversation restarted again and again. Each time was new to them. And each time, her brilliance quietly appeared.

A long-term care ombudsman reflects on “puzzle masters”—residents who find purpose, pride, and identity through caring for shared puzzles.

They stand quietly with their feelings. And they honor the person as they leave the building for the last time.

When I heard Pink Floyd playing in a nursing home, I realized the soundtrack had changed—and so had my place between my students and the residents. The work hasn’t changed. The people haven’t changed. Only the generations have.

A woman with advanced dementia is told—again and again—that her son has died. Each time, the grief is fresh. A reflection on memory, mercy, and when silence is the kinder choice.

Residents reported a missing shower grab bar and followed the process. A long-term care ombudsman shows why their voices still needed amplification.

Long-Term Care Ombudsman Stories Today’s issue might sound trivial to someone not living in an assisted living facility. Residents were frustrated that when CNAs wear their name badges on lanyards, the badge flips over. When it flips, residents can’t see the CNA’s name. That means they either have to wait for the badge to turn back around—or ask. Several staff members were in attendance. The administrator suggested something simple: ask the CNA their name. The residents were

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.

I ran into the living room, thinking something had gone terribly wrong, and found her frantically pushing buttons on her phone while a rap song blared. I turned off the music and asked what she’d asked her phone to do.

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.