This essay is the first in a regular series by Steven Littlehale for the SNF Digest section of Park Place Live. Steven is the chief innovation officer at Zimmet Healthcare Services Group. He is an accomplished author and influential speaker in healthcare and post-acute care. Throughout his career, Steven has excelled at simplifying complex information to inspire strategic and tactical excellence, while maintaining a focus on the lives of the residents behind the data. We are more than excited to welcome Steven to the Park Place Live stable of contributors!

In healthcare, statistics often overshadow stories. Headlines tell us how many older adults live with dementia, how many will need long-term care, and how many face isolation. The numbers are sobering; depending on your source, nearly one-half of nursing home residents and one-third to one-half of all Americans over 80 experience some form of cognitive impairment. But behind every number is a life, a name, a story waiting to be remembered.

I learned this lesson young. At 18, I was working as a nurse assistant on an extended care unit of a hospital unit. That’s where I met Helen.

Helen was 90, living with Alzheimer’s disease. Her hair framed her face in wisps of white, and though she was mostly non-verbal, she called out one word, over and over:

“Nurse! Nurse! Nurse!”

We tried everything to soothe her, folding towels, holding dolls, but the calling always returned. One day, weary from the repetition, I called back, “Patient!”

Without hesitation, Helen responded:

“Is a virtue.”

The corridor fell silent. Staff turned to look. I was humbled by her clarity, her humor, her humanity in that moment. At first, I thought she was reminding me to be patient, a lesson I certainly needed. But over the years, I’ve come to hear it differently. Helen wasn’t just echoing a phrase; she was reminding us that she was a virtue. Even in confusion, even in decline, she remained a person of dignity and worth.

Helen taught me that memory loss does not erase humanity. Her lesson has stayed with me my entire life.

Years later, I returned to this truth while working with my late husband, Rabbi Howard A. Berman. Together, we created a program at an adult day center for people living with dementia. We called it “Creating a Spiritual Moment.”

The idea was simple: could we foster meaning in the present, even when memory was fragile?

Every week, we transformed a recreational room into a place set apart. Candles, soft music, symbols from many faiths. As participants entered, some withdrawn, some restless, something shifted. Their agitation eased. Tension softened. They became present.

We sang the same song each week, a prayer about dwelling together in peace. To our surprise, people began remembering it. Even those who were usually silent would tap their feet, sway in rhythm, or mouth a word or two.

I’ll never forget the day we introduced the tradition of Día de los Muertos, inviting participants to speak aloud the name of someone they loved. I specifically chose this knowing that it was unfamiliar to all the participants. Candles were lit for each name. Some who hadn’t spoken ever whispered, “Mom,” “Lois,” “Gertrude.” Others sat with tears streaming. Staff who had been standing at the back moved closer, joining in.

What happened in that room was more than memory retrieval. It was presence. Connection. Holiness in the broadest, most human sense of the word. Even if the moment lasted only seconds, it was real, powerful, undeniable.

Howard and I eventually shared our findings at professional conferences and published reflections in journals. But no paper could capture the stillness of those rooms, the power of tears, the beauty of a whispered name.

Today, when I read reports about aging populations and the prevalence of dementia, I think of Helen and of those sacred moments. The data matters, it helps us plan, allocate resources, and advocate for better care. But numbers alone can make us forget the individuals at their heart and soul.

Helen is not a statistic. She is every voice that calls out for connection. Every person who deserves to be seen not as a diagnosis, but as a human being.

So, the challenge before us is this: can we slow down enough to see the person behind the numbers? Can we hear the humor, the courage, the longing, even in fragmented words? Can we witness dignity where the world too often sees only decline?

I believe we can. More importantly, I believe we must.

The truth is, meaning doesn’t vanish when memory does. Worth is not measured in recall or productivity. Our humanity lies deeper, unchanged, unshaken, waiting to be recognized.

Helen reminded me of that with three words: “Is a virtue.”

And so, behind every data point about aging, behind every percentage of cognitive impairment, is a person of virtue. A story. A soul. A spark of divinity. And our job, our responsibility, is to remember, to honor, and to bear witness.

Because every patient is a virtue.