Nine or Ninety, We All Want a Choice
Submitted by Carol Lindsay MSN, RN
As a clinical instructor at a nursing facility, I was supervising RN students during their rotation when I noticed a young boy, no older than nine, sitting on the floor reading to a resident in a wheelchair. His back slumped against the wall, a children’s book splayed open on his lap. He was working his way through the sentences one slow, stuttered syllable at a time. His cheeks were flushed, and tears pooled in his eyes.
Bessie, a long-time resident, stared down at him without smiling. Her gaze flicked between the boy and the book. She opened her mouth, then shut it again as he stumbled over another word.
The boy looked up, Bessie looked down, their eyes locked. Bessie’s lips pressed into a firm line. The boy’s cheeks streaked with tears. Annoyed, Bessie looked down on the boy, shook her head, and said, “You can’t read worth anything.”
“Bessie!” I blurted before I could stop myself.
She shrugged. “Well, he can’t.”
It was true, reading didn’t come easily to him, but her bluntness startled me. This was the same Bessie who laughed at staff jokes, complimented visitors on their clothes, and remembered the names of every CNA. I could not imagine why she would speak to her young visitor that way.
“Who is your friend?” I asked her.
“I don’t know who he is,” she replied flatly.
I turned to the boy, now sobbing.
“Who brought you here?”
“My teacher,” he sniffled.
Bessie wheeled herself toward the hallway. Over her shoulder, she called, “I’m on hospice, and this is not how I want to spend my time.”
Confused as to what I had just seen, I led the boy down the hallway in search of his teacher. I found her in a small conference room, where she was speaking with the activity director. She looked up, surprised to see her crying student. I explained what had happened with Bessie.
The teacher looked horrified, and the activities director was shocked. The teacher explained that the elementary school had recently partnered with the nursing home for a “reading buddies” project. Every other Friday, third graders were paired with assigned residents to read aloud. The goal was to give children extra practice with reading, while helping them connect with older adults, especially those who might be lonely or miss having family nearby.
On paper, it was a win-win. The teacher believed the visits would provide the children with a safe place to practice reading and create connections. The activities director hoped it would give the residents a sense of purpose, and they would look forward to helping the children read.
But I kept hearing Bessie’s words: “I’m in hospice… this is not how I want to spend my time.” And I thought about the crying boy, forced to be read to by a stranger who didn’t want to be read to. No one won.
Intergenerational programs can be powerful. Research shows they can reduce isolation for older adults and improve reading fluency in children. But they work best when participation is voluntary and when the match between participants is thoughtful. Without that, both sides can walk away feeling misunderstood or rejected.
That Friday, I saw how easily a good idea can falter in practice. It wasn’t a failure of kindness or effort, only of choice. And choice, whether you’re nine or ninety, can make all the difference.