10 Acts of Kindness From Hospitals and Nursing Homes, From a Missing Necklace to a $10 Gift Card

I work in a nursing home where an 82-year-old resident named Marta had a son who visited every Sunday, and they seemed close, the kind of family that brought the same pastries each week and argued gently over the TV remote.
After his latest visit, though, I found her shaking by her dresser, and she grabbed my sleeve and said, “Please don’t let him in anymore. He stole my necklace.” She wanted to wear it for her late husband’s anniversary and found the box empty, and when she asked him, he only mumbled that he’d bring it next week, which she took as a confession.
I had no authority to stop him, so I wrote it up and called him that evening, but the call went straight to voicemail, and then he didn’t show up for two weeks.
When he finally came back on a Sunday, he walked past the desk with a small paper bag in his hand and went straight down the hall to her room, and before I could get around the counter I heard a loud bang from her room.
I rushed in and found her walker on its side on the floor, Marta on her feet gripping the edge of the dresser, and her son on his knees beside her with a small glass-lidded case open next to him. The moment he came through the door she had tried to stand and push him away, the walker had gone over, and he had set the case down to catch her arm.
Marta was shouting at him to get out, so I stepped between them, helped her back into her chair, and asked him straight out where her necklace was. “I was on a job site abroad, and my phone was left in a taxi on the first day, so I never got your calls,” he said, and he took a jeweler’s receipt out of his wallet and handed it to me.
She had given it to him a few weeks before because the clasp kept opening and she was afraid of losing it, and the jeweler had to order a part, which took weeks. Marta had forgotten, and he had wanted it to be a surprise.
The receipt showed a drop-off date from more than a month back, around the Sunday Marta remembered complaining that the clasp wouldn’t hold, so the story added up, and I told him he should have let someone on staff know. He nodded and said he knew, he just hadn’t wanted to give her one more thing to worry about.
Then he lifted the necklace out of the case, polished and fitted with a new clasp, next to a photo of Marta and her husband on their wedding day, and he fastened the chain around her neck with the patience of a parent doing up a child’s coat.
Marta touched the pendant and frowned for a moment before asking, “Well, this is mine, isn’t it? Who fixed it?” “I did, Mom,” he said, and she patted his cheek twice, quickly, the way you do with someone you can’t stay angry at.
I added a note to her chart so the next shift would know the story behind it, and I never did find out whether she remembered it by the evening.

She was in her 90s. I was working on a gen surg/ICU step-down/trauma unit. She had had a major surgery (I honestly don’t even remember what — but definitely bowel-related) which resulted in complications, multiple ORs, pigtail drain placements, etc.
No one ever thought she would make it. She was with us for nearly a year. She recovered from her surgeries and complications and went through extensive physio to get her strength back.
She had been living independently prior to her hospitalization, but it was determined she would need an assisted living facility to be discharged to. She remained on our unit while awaiting a room to open up for her.
She had such a great personality. She was so sweet and kind and saucy all at the same time, my absolute favorite combo.
She hated showers and often pretended to be sleeping when I would come around on shower day. During regular rounds to check on her, she often kicked me out of her room, telling me that she was fine: “I know you’re busy. Go take care of the people who actually need you.”
Her family was spectacular. A literal reflection of who she was as a person. They were dedicated; they visited every day, they respected the staff, and they often brought us coffee to show their thanks.
When they found her placement, she got really anxious. She opened up to us about how she was worried the staff at the new facility wouldn’t be as kind; she wanted her home back; she didn’t want to go. We tried to reassure her as best as we could.
On the day of the “big move,” her family came briefly in the morning to tell her they were spending the day moving her furniture into her new place. They wouldn’t be there to visit. They would come back the following morning to collect her for discharge.
On one of my rounds that morning, I asked her if she needed anything, and she told me, “It’s been a good life.” She didn’t tell me to leave; instead, she told me about her life. How she had grown up, and married, and built her family. The conversation felt so significant I sat and listened, even with a million things on my to-do list.
When she was finished, I was left with the understanding that a “good life” was simply a matter of perspective. Finding the good even through the rough times. I got a text from a co-worker later that evening. My favourite patient had passed away peacefully.
I think about her often even after all these years. Not with sadness but with admiration and awe. She got me right in the feels.

My first shift off of orientation, I worked 3 nights in a row. I was terrified, of course, but I was given a good group of patients. One patient stood out, though.
Was this older woman, I’d say in her late 80s, and her daughter who stayed with her the whole time she was in the hospital. I forget what she was admitted for exactly, but she was basically bedbound.
Both the patient and daughter were so sweet. The daughter helped me with her mom with cleaning her and getting her on and off the bedpan. They told me funny stories about their families and life growing up.
I didn’t reveal to them until the last hour of my 3rd shift that I had just graduated, and she was one of my first patients. As I was finishing giving the report, the daughter came up to me and handed me a card. She said, “It’s all I have to offer, but you’ve made my mom’s hospital stay go smoothly, and you’ve helped us a lot. You’re a wonderful nurse, and any patient is lucky to have you.”
I thanked her, and I opened the card when I got to my car. In it was a $10 gift card to the cafe downstairs in the hospital. I smiled the whole way home.

Our unit got a formal complaint from the daughter of one of my residents, Walter, who was convinced someone on staff was taking his clothes. She had labeled every sweater and counted them when she brought them in, and every visit, two or three had vanished from his closet, so she handed the charge nurse a printed list and said she was going to the director.
The laundry goes through our hands, and nobody wants to be called a thief over wool, so I checked the logs, the lost-and-found, and the hampers and found nothing.
Then one morning at 7 a.m. I was helping Stan, a retired bus driver, in the room next door, change out of his pajamas, and when I pulled a gray cardigan over his head, I saw Walter’s name inside the collar. Stan had come to us from the hospital with one plastic bag of belongings and no family, and no one had shopped for him since his retirement.
It turned out he had been rinsing the cardigans in his bathroom sink at night and drying them on the radiator, which is why none of them ever reached the laundry. When I asked where they came from, Walter didn’t try to deny it. “He’s always cold, and I have too many. I told her once I had enough, and she came back with six more.”
He had been passing sweaters to Stan a few at a time and hadn’t said anything when his daughter complained, because he was at physio when she came to the nurses’ station and only heard about the formal complaint from me.
I told her before she opened the closet on her next visit, and she was quiet for long enough that I started drafting an apology on behalf of the whole building, but she only asked what size Stan wore. The following week she brought four sweaters, two with Walter’s name and two with a strip of masking tape on the collar, and asked me to make sure those went to Stan’s room.

A 5-year-old girl was flown to our trauma unit from 100 miles away with a huge neck laceration (that, fortunately, was not life-threatening). Her dad got there about an hour later. He checked in with his daughter and saw that she was okay.
I told him that I stayed with her the entire time and made sure she knew that Daddy was coming; then I filled him in on what was going on and reassured him she was going to be okay. He hugged me and started crying.
He told me, “The whole time I was driving here, I prayed for 2 things. That my baby was going to be okay and that someone like you would be taking care of her.” Nicest thing anyone has ever told me! 20 years later, and I still smile when I think about that.

I want to spread a little positivity and share what happened to me tonight amidst the many (understandable lol) frustrating things we have to deal with in healthcare. It was a bit of a frustrating day, so it absolutely made my night.
Had a very sweet older gentleman today as one of my patients. He was hoping to go home today; unfortunately, he couldn’t, but he was understanding when he was told he’d be staying. Was on continuous pulse ox, and we were monitoring his HR closely as he was remaining tachy despite interventions.
Gave the report to the night shift, and afterward, as I was standing at the nurses’ station, he called me into his room. He says, “You’re leaving me?” I said, “Yes, sir, it’s that time of day.” He took my hand and said I am the sweetest and kindest nurse he has ever had, and he will always remember me, and tried to slip me a fifty-dollar bill! Said to buy something nice to remember him by.
I was absolutely flabbergasted; all I could do was tell him, “Thank you so much, but [sir], I really cannot take this.” He said to buy everybody pizza with it if I couldn’t buy myself something! I said I was honored, but I truly could not; it wouldn’t be right.
He very meekly accepted that and said he would pray for me instead. It honestly was enough for me that he even thought of that. I thanked him then, but I really wasn’t able to really tell him that his compliment (and even the idea of him wanting to tip me because he appreciated his care so much) meant so much to me as I was so taken aback...
I’ve never had anyone do anything like that. I try my hardest to be a nurse they can respect and show I really care, and sometimes it feels like no matter how hard I try, it’ll never be enough. Through all the horrible days and mean patients, it’s pts like him who remind me of why I want to care for people. It’s cheesy lol but true!!
He was right, I certainly am gonna remember him!! Trying to pull a stunt like that lol!!!

The best moment in my nursing career was when I was able to take one of our long-term BMT patients outside to sit in the sun after he’d been inpatient with us for, at that point, at least ten or eleven months.
How many times had he been outside in all of those months? Probably less than three or four, max. He was so, so sick. He was so deconditioned that he could only sit in the cardiac chair for 20 minutes or so, and he had an insane amount of pain from a whole host of issues.
He was scared to be away from the floor because what if he was in too much pain and I couldn’t get him back and medicated quickly enough? So I premeditated him, got him dressed in the sweatshirt that all of the staff had gotten him for his birthday (which he also spent inpatient), and his mom and I pushed his cardiac chair down to the elevators and outside.
When we got outside and the breeze hit his face he said “it smells so sweet.” We sat outside in the sun for about ten minutes before he was in too much pain and had to go back to the floor, but his mom and I got a bunch of pictures of him outside, smiling, with the breeze pushing his little wispy hairs around.
It’s been a few years since then, but I walk by the area where we sat together on my way into work every morning and I think a quick little thought for him.

I worked on a cardiac intermediate care unit, and we got all the heart failure patients. As it’s a progressive disease, we had many frequent fliers.
My favorite was actually a couple, as they were NEVER separate. She just moved into his room (we had liberal visitation at the time) for the duration of his stay. She doted on him, and he would tell us how wonderful she was.
They played cards and never asked for too much. They were just simple and happy, and I loved them. I always spent too much time in their room, but I didn’t care if I ran behind on my charting in exchange for the joy they brought me.

So, the September before last, I went to visit an old best friend and ex of mine in psych. Hadn’t seen him in a long while, and frankly I had cut contact with him. Anyway, he contacted me again and asked me to come visit him, so I did.
Got there and was told that he’d just gone to sleep, so I couldn’t go in, and I’d have to wait or come back another day. I chose to wait, as I didn’t want to take the trip again.
As the hours went by, I sat and began to think about memories we had had, and I was hit with this wave of “I actually missed my best friend a lot more than I thought.” So I sat there after 10 hours and began to cry. I was tired, hadn’t eaten for several hours, hadn’t been talked to by anyone, and I just felt down.
Then the heroine of the day tapped my shoulder and said, “Hi sweetie, I’m not supposed to do this, but here you go.” With her she had her dinner that she gave to me, because she’d noticed that I hadn’t eaten. She then sat and talked to me and let me cry for a bit.
Two hours later, he woke up and we spent a few hours talking like no time had passed. It may have been a small act of kindness to some people, but she saved my day and helped a lot.

I’m a night nurse on a medical ward, and one night security called me to the room of an 81-year-old patient whose husband refused to leave when visiting hours ended.
He wasn’t being difficult: she had delirium from a urinary infection and screamed whenever he stepped out, and no one had told security or put it in the care plan, so they had been sending him home every night, and he kept coming back.
I checked her chart, saw the same pattern in the nurses’ notes, and told security I’d take it from there. Our policy allows one family member to stay overnight when it supports the patient’s care, a kindness the rules already make room for even though nobody had offered it to him, so I wheeled in a recliner and told him, “Stay, but sleep; you’re no use to her exhausted.”
She slept through the night, he slept sitting up, and in the morning I wrote it into the care plan so nobody would call security again.