They’re Playing My Music in the Nursing Home

For decades, walking through a nursing home meant hearing the same soundtrack: The Lawrence Welk Show, MASH, and The Andy Griffith Show. Music piped through the halls included Frank Sinatra, The Andrews Sisters, Elvis Presley, and The Beatles.

Recently, I was in a facility and heard Pink Floyd.

Pink Floyd.

In a nursing home.

I assumed it was a mistake until the next song came on: the Bee Gees.

That’s when it hit me.

They were playing my music.

There was a time when I was the same age as my students. Then I was old enough to be their mother. Now, I’m old enough to be their grandmother, maybe even their great-grandmother.

The age gap between my students and me is now wider than the one between the residents and me.

That realization landed harder than I expected.

Lately, I’ve found myself wondering how to keep up, not with technology, but with relevance. With energy. With shifting expectations for those entering the profession.

And then I remember why I’m here.

What I teach isn’t just skills.

It’s respect. It’s care.

My students teach me as much as I teach them. And introducing them to nursing—watching them discover what it truly means to care for another human being—still feels like an honor.

The music may have changed.

The needs of the people being cared for have not been met.