Reflections

She wasn’t confused. She wasn’t asleep. She was listening. And she felt invisible.

worst motel experience while traveling

A long-term care ombudsman meets a nursing home resident convinced she’s moving to London to marry Paul McCartney—until a romance scam emerges.

“This is my mother’s arm, I thought, staring at the torn skin on the side of the road. Except it was me. And in that moment, I realized my body had crossed into a different stage of life—without warning.”

When you’re three, you don’t expect your body to change overnight. Sometimes growing up surprises you—literally.

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

When my father, who had Alzheimer’s, came home without my three-year-old son, we lived twenty minutes of terror—and learned the hard truth about dementia and driving.

When my brother calls, his aphasia makes speaking hard—but we still talk. Naming dementia, laughing together, and saying the hard things keeps us connected while we still can.

When my brother’s Alzheimer’s took away our ability to talk and connect, I lost access to him—not because of distance or choice, but because of disease. It is a different kind of grief.

In 1990, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. We lived together for years, yet we never talked about what the diagnosis meant to him. Looking back, the silence around his illness is what I grieve most.

On formal night aboard a cruise ship, everyone dressed up. I dressed down—and discovered the unexpected freedom of being invisible.

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.