Meet Jean

I first met Jean soon after she’d been moved to assisted living, which is how I meet many of my clients. She’d had what I call a “mystery fall” at the supermarket near her apartment in Queens. One moment she was shopping, the next she was staring up into a bright light with an EMT asking if she was okay. She had no memory of what happened.

In the hospital, all the usual tests were done. Nothing alarming showed up, no stroke, no major medical event. Jean was in her mid-90s (“nine-five,” as she liked to say), walked miles regularly, lived alone, and was mentally sharp. Still, because no one could explain the fall, she was sent to rehab rather than home. From there, as often happens, the path led straight to assisted living.

By the time I met her, Jean was in a one-bedroom apartment in an assisted living facility with almost nothing in it. No TV, phone, radio, or books. Just a bed, a nightstand, a small bureau, and a lamp. This was during the early days of the pandemic, and she was quarantined to her room until she received her second vaccine dose. She had two outfits, the clothes she’d fallen in and one donated set from the facility. No family nearby, no visitors, and no stimulation.

The facility called me because Jean needed someone to assist with all the things they don’t do such as shopping, arranging, and transporting to medical appointments, dealing with her second vaccine, sorting out her finances, and getting personal items from her apartment. She had assumed, as many elders do, that the facility would “take over” and manage her money, bills, and practical needs. That is almost never the case. Assisted living provides room, board, very basic personal services and expects family to do the rest. Jean had no one.

I took her to get that second vaccine dose, neither of us realizing she’d gotten very sick after the first one, a detail she only remembered later. That omission led to a serious reaction and another hospital stay. It’s one of the reasons I insist advocates handle discharges and transitions because we make sure vital pieces of medical history travel with the person.

When we went to her Queens apartment for the first time in three months, it was neat and tidy but buried under piles of unpaid bills and past-due notices. No one knew she’d been gone and no one had stepped in. Together, we chose some clothes, a few pieces of furniture, and then I sat down with her to look at her finances. What I saw is tragically common: she had enough money to live in that private assisted living facility for less than a year, and that’s without paying movers or closing out her apartment. No one at the facility had checked whether her funds were sustainable. They were happy to sign a lease and hand her a key.

I became her Power of Attorney so I could help her navigate all of this while she kept full control over her decisions. She was sharp, opinionated, and very capable. We arranged a prepaid funeral so she could choose her final wishes. We applied for community Medicaid and prepared a move to a state-funded facility that offered small studio rooms rather than the crowded, substandard conditions I’ve seen elsewhere.

The Medicaid facility was “better than most,” but still a dramatic shift for a woman who used to walk to the supermarket whenever she pleased and eat what she wanted. Now her life was regulated: assigned meal times, assigned tables, limited food choices, and no ability to keep a fridge in her room. She couldn’t get something as simple as a ham sandwich because the facility was kosher. She was lonely, surrounded by residents with dementia, and grieving the independence she’d lost along with her friends and old routines.

Jean missed simple, familiar things like a properly mixed glass of Citrucel three times a day, a ham and cheese sandwich, cherry pie, a particular kind of toothpaste (“Arm and Hammer wash,” as she called it). I spent an absurd amount of time advocating over how thick her Citrucel should be mixed and whether she could keep it in her room. It took multiple conversations with administrators and nursing staff before we finally got permission for her to store and mix it herself.

These details might sound small, but they’re not. When someone has had almost all of their freedom taken away like where they live, when they eat, what they can eat, where they can go, being able to control a glass of Citrucel or a tube of toothpaste becomes emotionally enormous. I saw over and over how these tiny wins restored some dignity.

As my travel schedule got busier, I brought in my colleague Jackee, a board-certified patient advocate. She and Jean clicked right away. Jackee helped unpack Jean’s things, played Christmas music on a found CD player, listened to stories about church and old friends, walked her to meals, and guided her into social activities when she felt she didn’t “belong.” Over time, Jackee became the person who brought her ham sandwiches, sweets, new slippers, nail polish, and companionship.

Together, Jackee and I dealt with a maze of insurance problems like railroad pension rules that complicated her coverage, supplemental plans that didn’t include drug benefits, and medical bills that would ultimately be written off. We protected Jean from financial chaos as best we could, while making sure she still had some joy such as outings to the diner, haircuts, clothes bought online on the “little phone,” a small cactus for her windowsill, and a steady supply of journals and pens for her daily writing.

Today, Jean is 97. She still writes in her journal every day, keeps a meticulous “Jackee list” of things she wants to discuss, and remains mentally sharp. She is, undeniably, living with far fewer choices than she once had, but she is not invisible. She has advocates who see her, fight for her, and help her preserve as much autonomy and dignity as possible.

What I want you to take from Jean’s story

If you have an older loved one, or you’re planning for your own future, Jean’s journey offers important lessons:

• Don’t assume the facility will “handle everything.”
  Assisted living typically covers room, board, basic housekeeping, laundry, and sometimes a clinic visit. Bills, banking, shopping, medical coordination, and personal items are not automatically managed.
• Know the true costs and how long the money will last.
  Before signing a lease, sit down and calculate: monthly cost, existing assets, and how many months or years are truly affordable, including moving costs, closing an apartment, and small extras that matter to quality of life.
• Get legal and financial documents in place early.
  Power of Attorney, healthcare proxy, and a prepaid funeral plan can prevent crises later and ensure the older adult’s wishes are followed while they still have a voice.
• Be present at hospital discharges and transitions.
  Make sure medical records, vaccine reactions, and key history are clearly documented and transferred. Advocates catch details that get missed.
• Ask very specific questions about food and daily routines.
  Meal times, flexibility, ability to keep snacks or a small fridge, religious dietary rules—all of this profoundly affects day-to-day happiness.
• Respect the “small” preferences.
  Whether it’s Citrucel thickness, a favorite candy, or a ham sandwich, these things can be lifelines. They’re about identity and control, not just taste.
• Consider an independent advocate.
  Someone who understands the system and does not work for the facility can make all the difference in how an elder is treated, heard, and cared for.

Above all remember that advanced age does not erase a person’s ability to think, feel, and decide. People like Jean have lived full, independent lives for decades. Our job is not to turn them into obedient patients, it’s to protect their safety while fiercely preserving their dignity and voice.

December 10, 2025 Posted by Aging Icon | Uncategorized | books, business, Elder Law Attorney, Family, fiction, health, life, mental health, Senior, seniors, short-story, writing | Leave a comment