Choosing a care home – trusting your instincts

This article is written by a member of our Lived Experience Advisory Panel (LEAP). It shares a deeply personal experience of choosing a care home, and reflects on the practical and emotional decisions involved.

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Before I begin, I want to say something important.

What follows is the story of how I chose a care home for my husband. There is less here about unanswered questions than you might expect because, quite by accident, the approach I took gave me many of the answers I needed.

The way I went about choosing a care home may not work for everyone. I was retired and had the time to do what I did. Many families simply do not. But in sharing my story, I hope that something in it might help you.

I had been my husband’s sole carer for several years. I will call him J.

I remember the moment clearly. The day I thought, I cannot do this any more.

His health had been gradually declining, and with it his needs had grown. When I reached that point, I was overwhelmed. The guilt was immediate and consuming. It took time, and a great deal of soul searching, before I could begin to think clearly.

Eventually, I allowed myself to consider the options. After much thought, I came to the conclusion that residential care might be the best solution. For him, and, if I was honest, for me as well.

I did not know where to start.

I contacted Adult Social Services, and a social worker visited us at home. She explained that because J had savings over £23,000, we would need to make our own arrangements. At that point, I had not yet found The Good Company People. So I did what most of us do. I went online and began searching. And reading. And reading some more.

My first challenge was finding a home that could meet not only J’s current needs, but also those he might have in the future. That meant a home offering both residential and nursing care.

Next, I looked at location. I wanted somewhere close. I could drive at the time, but I knew that might not always be the case. That decision alone narrowed the options significantly.

During my research, I discovered the Care Quality Commission (CQC), which inspects care homes and rates them on safety, effectiveness, care, responsiveness and leadership. I decided I would only consider homes rated Good overall.

Then came the financial reality. While fees did not vary dramatically, some homes required proof that you could self fund for up to five years. I simply could not meet that condition, so those homes had to be ruled out.

In the end, I was left with just two options. One much closer than the other. I had started out thinking I would have plenty of choice. The truth was very different.

I had so many questions I wanted to ask the care home manager. And I am sure there were many more I had not even thought of.

But I also had a strong instinct.

I knew I would be given all the factual information. Costs, services, facilities. Yet the most important question, how well are people really cared for, was something I needed to answer for myself.

So I did something slightly unusual.

Instead of arranging a formal visit straight away, I asked if I could spend a couple of hours a day at the home over a two week period. I wanted to join residents for lunch, sit in on activities, and talk to residents and their families.

The manager was hesitant at first. I understood why. Homes need to maintain privacy and routine. But I promised to be respectful and discreet. Eventually, she agreed.

It was the best decision I made.

Those visits gave me a real insight into daily life.

I watched how staff interacted with residents. Not just what they did, but how they did it. I saw the activities on offer, and whether people genuinely engaged with them.

Eating lunch with residents told me more than any formal discussion ever could. Not just about the food, but about the atmosphere.

And the conversations. Those were invaluable.

Residents spoke openly. They took the lead. I listened carefully. Many mentioned small frustrations, delays in answering call bells, food that could be bland. But overall, the picture was positive.

I did consider taking J with me.

To this day, I am not sure if I made the right decision, but I chose not to. Perhaps, deep down, I was afraid he would say he hated it, and I would be back where I started with no solution in sight.

In the end, luck was on my side.

After my informal visits, I arranged a formal appointment. I had the official tour, discussed finances, and learned about staffing levels, activities, outings and family meetings.

By then, however, I already knew far more than any formal meeting could tell me.

A week later, J moved into the home.

He settled reasonably well. There were good days and bad days, but that had always been the case.

I remember one Sunday when he came home for lunch. He ate, sat quietly for a moment, and then said, “I think it is time we went back now.”

It made me laugh. It made me cry.

The home was not perfect. No place is.

Clothes were sometimes lost in the laundry. Occasionally J was not washed, shaved or dressed until late morning, though I later learned this was often because he had asked staff to let him rest.

Over time, I learned to distinguish between what truly mattered and what did not.

Mismatched clothes became unimportant.

What mattered was that he was safe, cared for, and treated with kindness. And for the first time in a long while, I could sleep at night.

Before I finish, there is one more thing I want to share.

It does not fall under questions I wished I had asked, because in truth, these particular questions I never stopped asking.

From the day J moved in, I worried about what would happen when the money ran out.

Again and again, I asked:

Would he be allowed to stay? Had residents ever had to leave because they could no longer afford it? Were any residents supported by Social Services or the NHS? Would the home help negotiate if the time came?

The answers were always careful, never definite.

They said there were no guarantees. They would offer support. And they told me they had never lost a resident yet.

As it turned out, my husband died before the money ran out.

So I never did get an answer to those questions.

But I did get something else.

The knowledge that, whilst I had stumbled my way through, I had done the best I could.

In the end, he was safe, cared for, and not alone.

And knowing that still makes me laugh and cry to this day.