This morning, I was talking to another resident, and I had to leave. rolling away, I heard him say quietly, “Oh, that’s okay… I’m always alone.” As the day went by, that stayed with me.

Because it’s true.

We are alone. Not just sometimes — but for most of the day. I sat down and did the math once. There are 1,440 minutes in a day and on average, residents spend over 1,100 of those minutes alone. Alone in a chair, alone in a bed, alone in a room.

Yes, there are the meals — breakfast, lunch, dinner. That fills some time. There are activities once maybe twice a day if they interest you but a lot of the time, they don’t. Basically, they feel like something to pass time, not something to live for. And then it’s back to your room, back to being alone.

But there are the people who make a difference. There’s one woman here and to me, she’s wonderful. Every day she checks on me and if I am going out, makes sure I have my hat and gloves with me. She likes to make sure I’m okay and that goes both ways. We will sit and and talk for a few moments, it’s a small thing, but to someone living this life — it’s everything.

That’s what people don’t see. It’s not the smiling faces in brochures or videos if a loved one comes to check out the care home, it’s not the set up that the home wants you to see.  In long-term care, your world becomes very small and the smallest moment becomes noticeably big. There are small moments. You pass someone in the hallway, you stop, and chat for a minute. Those moments matter more than people realize. Because they’re rare.

You try to find joy where you can. You create meaning out of moments. But there are limits to what a person can do alone, in a room, day after day. I’ve tried to come up with ideas. Simple ones like a book club or a current events group. Three or four people sitting together with a coffee, just talking. Nothing complicated, just new ways to make connections. But those ideas were pushed aside by the powers that be.

And then there are the people who try. The PSWs and Nurses do try. You see it in the little things — a quick smile, a hand on your shoulder, a few extra seconds of conversation when they can steal it. They care, But the harsh reality is they don’t have time. They are rushing and care becomes a checklist:

• Get them up.
• Get them washed.
• Get them dressed.
• Move on.

It’s not because they want it that way but because that’s what the system allows. And that’s where something gets lost, not care but connections, moments.

But to someone living this life , it’s everything. That’s what people don’t understand or fail to see or allow themselves to see. In long-term care, your world becomes very small. the smallest moment becomes very big. And the absence of time… becomes everything.

Here’s the unfiltered truth that the homes, policy makers don’t want said out loud. That this is not really living, it’s existing and it’s incredibly hard not to slip into depression, not to give up. But the sad part is, they do give up as I see it everyday.

So, I’m left with this question, what are we supposed to do with all this time? How do we fill a life…when most of it is spent alone?

Because at the end of the day, I keep hearing that resident’s voice. Not angry. Not complaining. Just stating a fact with quiet acceptance:

“I’m always alone.”

And that’s the part that breaks me — because he’s right.