Mr. Feltman: Finding Joy in a Nursing Home Room AN OMBUDSMAN STORY

I was walking the halls as a long-term care ombudsman when I passed a room and noticed a man in a wheelchair, his back to the door.

On the counter beside him sat a glue gun. Scraps of felt were everywhere, on the bed, the counter, the chair. It looked like a craft store had exploded in his room.

I knocked and asked if I could come in.

He smiled and motioned me forward.

I introduced myself and asked his name and what he was working on. When he pointed to a book on the table, I realized he could not speak.

I picked it up.

It was a scrapbook, decades of photos, a younger man with puppets. Elaborate handmade creations, page after page of extraordinary work, carefully recorded.

“Sir,” I said, “this is incredible.”

He smiled.

On the table in front of him was a small felt figure, layered, detailed, beautifully constructed. Around the room were plastic drawers, neatly organized, full of felt, glue sticks, pens, and tools.

Someone, his family, I assumed, had made sure he had everything he needed.

He made small felt pins. Little animals. Flowers. Abstract shapes. Bright, joyful things.

He handed me one and gestured, trying to pin it on my shirt.

For a split second, my ombudsman brain kicked in.

I am not supposed to take anything from residents.

But there was no universe in which I was turning this down.

I put it on, thanked him, and wore it out of the building.

As I walked through the facility, I noticed other residents and staff wearing felt pins. Little handmade creations sat at the nurses’ stations.

From his scrapbook, I could see that he had been spreading joy for decades, and it had not stopped when he entered a care facility.

I do not know his diagnosis. I do know that at one point he could talk and walk, and now he cannot.

But none of that stopped him from creating.

It made me wonder what it is about some people that even in the smallest space, even with so much taken away, they still manage to live in unmistakable joy.

He couldn't tell me his name. And even if he had, I probably would not have remembered.

But I will never forget the man I remember as Mr. Feltman.

To protect resident privacy, identifying details in this story have been changed. The situations described reflect real issues encountered in long-term care.