Henry came up to me in the lobby today. He looks so good now! This is a man who moved into our building less than a year ago, looking every moment of his 90 years and then some. Even though his kids did everything we advised – involve him in the decision, bring his own furniture and pictures, recreate his current living area as much as possible – he didn’t want to stay and begged them not to leave him in this strange place.

We had met a few weeks before the move, when they came to our spring open house to explore the option of retirement living. I offered to show Henry the view of our gardens through the window, and he needed help just to shuffle across the room. A frail man, he was so slight and… old. Although his children had suggested otherwise, Henry told me he and his wife were doing just fine in their own home until she died a few months before. He’d been staying with the kids since, but he wanted to go home, he missed his belongings, he missed his wife. He missed his life.

The problem was that his home was way too much for him to manage, and he couldn’t live there alone. His kids considered having someone come in, but the logistics of hiring, training and monitoring help were simply too great. They tried to take care of him in their home, but they were busy and he wasn’t happy. Beyond the fact that he just lost his wife, he was living as if waiting to join her. He barely ate, he slept all day, he refused everything, his spirit was wasting away. They didn’t know what to do, but they knew they needed to do something.

So, he stayed. He was okay. He had his belongings, momentos, and many beautiful pictures of his beloved wife. He had chosen an apartment with a large balcony that overlooked the gardens and river. It wasn’t home, but maybe it could be.

Henry settled in tentatively. At mealtimes, he was in and out of the dining room swiftly. He always smiled when I spoke with him, but I knew it was a social grace that he struggled to maintain for more than a few minutes at a time. I saw him sitting alone at a couple of socials, but he only seemed to stay long enough to tell his kids he went so they’d stop worrying.

He was new and most likely felt like an outsider in a place where everyone seemed to know everyone else, forgetting our reminders that we’d all been new at some point, too. Our team members were friendly and caring, they shared in daily huddles that people acknowledged him and some approached to say hello, but he didn’t engage much. I knew our Welcome Committee volunteer had introduced herself and tried to arrange lunch. Maybe he was just a shy, quiet man.

Things got worse before they got better. A couple of embarrassing stumbles in common areas let to delivered meals, and more and more time alone. Then a big fall led to a hospital stay. Antibiotics prescribed for an undetected infection, medications reviewed and adjusted, Henry agreed to come “home” without a fight. He simply didn’t care anymore. He had checked out and was counting time until he could reunite with his wife.

On the morning we learned Henry was coming home from the hospital, some members of our team got together to plan a little surprise. When the transport ambulance arrived, a call went out and everyone in the area – team members, residents and guests alike – gathered to give Henry a hero’s welcome, hoots and hollars, signs and balloons and all.

The look on that little man’s pale face is imprinted on my very soul. It was the spark of life, reignited by a community. He was valued, he was important, he was a part of something and it was good. It didn’t happen all at once, but Henry checked back into life.

We coached Henry to ask for the items on the vegetarian menu we had specially prepared for him, instead of only eating grilled cheese because he didn’t want to be a bother, and soon his hollow cheeks began to fill. We asked Henry for his advice when we were picking out new carpet for the lobby, he helped clear tables at happy hour, he hunted spilled popcorn after the nightly movie. Coming out of his apartment more, he got to know some of the other residents and soon found a core group of friends who welcomed him with open arms.

And today Henry asked me for a job. No walker, no cane, dressed for business with the brightest smile on his face, Henry walked across the lobby like a man on a mission and asked to be put to work. All I could see were his rosy cheeks and the buttons straining to keep closed a shirt that was once so terribly loose. Yes, my dear man, you can have a job. I’d even crown you King.