My father was a role model for me – his profound sense of right and wrong amazed and inspired me my whole life.Brent Mitchell, Founder
My father Donald Ray Mitchell is the inspiration for Aurora Commons–our first assisted living and memory care community where we use our talents to create meaningful, enriching social interactions and an inviting home for our loved ones.
My father had Lewy Body dementia, one the most severe forms of Alzheimer’s disease. My stepmother Janice- his wife of over 30 years- cared for him tirelessly. I remember visiting them and seeing her exhausted and distraught, not knowing how to proceed. My father wouldn’t eat and was extremely thin. He would push the peas back and forth on his plate before just not eating anything. She would plead; “Please Donald eat something. You are going to die if you don’t eat.” She had to sleep in a separate bed or be woken with blows and get bruises because he thrashed in his sleep with no memory of it when he would awake.
She would find him crying because he didn’t have a wife. She would be gone a few minutes and his tears would come. For all he knew she was gone forever, and he was alone, confused and scared.
Janice loved him dearly and cared for him with patient dedication and love above and beyond what I imagined was possible for a human being. My respect, admiration and gratitude grew immensely as I witnessed her selflessness. She is a hero.
I witnessed the vulnerability and frailty of a man I knew as a strong, hardworking, honest family man with a quick sense of humor, easy smile and profound sense of integrity. I don’t know that I have met a man with such unwavering principles as my dad; a man who stood tall by keeping his word and doing the right thing. I cannot remember him saying a bad thing about anyone or elevating himself above others. The joy, peace or freedom that emanates from a clean conscious has been his treasure and gift to me. He was always making jokes and delighting in seeing other people laugh and smile. What the disease had done to this great man of heart, humor and integrity was almost beyond belief.
Janice was suffering as well. The heartbreak, loss of sleep and nonstop giving was getting beyond any mortal’s capacity. She had no choice but to bring him to a professional care facility.
When I brought my wife and two children to Utah to visit him at the facility, we were surprised. It was a new building with a large portico entrance like a hotel or resort. Just inside the entry was a cafeteria with round tables and comfortable looking chairs. It seemed like a cross between a school lunchroom and a cruise ship dining hall. People could self-serve water and soda, but the food would have come from behind the counter by a food service worker. There was a large door that could swing both ways that clearly led to a commercial kitchen where low cost factory food was heated and served. Everything pre-made to one degree or another- canned vegetables and industrial food products made in a factory with fillers, refined flour, corn syrup, preservatives, additives and thickeners. My guess was the staff never ate it. I certainly didn’t want to eat there either.
In the common areas, the picture frames and matting around the artwork all matched the heavy-duty furnishings as you would expect to find in the lobby at an accountant or doctor’s office. Clearly, they had an interior decorator orchestrate the decor and furnishings. Most prominent of all was the workers station/nurses’ station.
It did not feel like anyone’s home that I had ever been to. It didn’t feel comfortable, homey, inviting or relaxed in any way. The uniformity of carpet, paint, tables and chairs felt very institutional. Organized around the caregiver’s workflow. Little to no attention was paid to the lived experience of the residents. All the interactions revolved around the workers tasks and it felt dehumanizing. We all felt awkward and in the way.
When we came to my dad’s tiny room there was a curtain down the middle separating him from his roommate. There was one chair and barely enough room to stand next to his bed. My kids fidgeted not finding a space for them or room to interact with grandpa. I couldn’t hear my father over the roommate’s TV with volume at or near the loudest setting. The family visit was not possible in that frigid environment with blinking lights and the beeps and buzzes of who knows what going off incessantly. Blinking, beeping and buzzing. Eventually, after some searching, we were able to find an area where we could sit and be with my dad. It shouldn’t be that hard.
I looked around the place and thought this is unacceptable. Yes, the building was new and decorated attractively but the lived environment was institutional; a place that housed the old and frail. I felt powerless. I didn’t know how to improve my father’s lot in this prison with a pretty wrapper.
Shortly after that visit my father broke his pelvis in the middle of the night trying to escape. With degenerative diseases the oldest memories are the last to go. My father was a veteran and the constant beeping and buzzing that were an annoyance to us on our visit were a nightmare for him. He was trying to escape because he was convinced the place was going to blow up. He thought it was a bomb.
I knew we could do a better job. A much better job. As a homebuilder, my companies’ special gift is structuring an experience. A lived experience. Our decision-making processes have always been driven by the question “How will this make our home buyers feel?”. How will it feel when you walk in the door, when preparing a meal, eating with your family, getting ready for work, or entertaining? To feel safe, warm and protected. Our product is the feelings people have when they deal with us, the feelings, experiences, memories, joys they experience as they live and in our communities and homes. We took this to heart, and we were successful. I knew we could apply these same skills and competencies by offering a better living experience for our seniors. The decision was made and thus the journey began transitioning from building homes to creating a new environment and experience for a senior and memory care community.
My father did not live long enough to see Aurora Commons come to fruition. However, his legacy lives on and his spirit of loving generosity continues into the future. As his desire to make people smile, laugh and feel joy finds expression in our communities.