This Consumer Quit the Day-center

One day, I joined a day‑center for people with disabilities, viewing it as a form of care management. I appreciated the sense of community and the peers there, even though most of them had profound cognitive and physical impairments. In contrast, I was still able to manage my own personal care. Nevertheless, the other participants—often referred to as “customers” or “clients”—deserved attention and quality health care, and I valued them deeply.

Long ago, I worked at a state‑sponsored nonprofit that housed and fed people who could not care for themselves. It wasn’t just a group home; it occupied a large, historic mansion that had been refitted to accommodate roughly twenty residents. My official title was “counselor.” Over time, I grew to cherish the residents, whom I considered my wards. The managers, however, seemed intimidating, and I sometimes suspected they weren’t acting in good faith. While the residents were kind, the managers frightened me—much as the staff at the day‑center did.

Fast forward twenty years: I am now a disabled consumer needing health‑care coordination from a care manager. A day‑center is essentially a health‑care facility where disabled adults receive assistance from nurses, social workers, and program associates—more precisely, from paraprofessional staff who work directly with clients. One major purpose of a day‑center is to give respite to full‑time caregivers, temporarily relieving them of responsibility.

My experience at the day‑center was not always positive. A care manager at a health clinic typically helps plan, train, and coordinate for a client’s health‑care needs. The day-center was not that service. That arrangement worked for a while, but the day-center director yelled at me to assert authority. Eventually, the day‑center began charging for half‑day services, which was prohibitively expensive, so I decided to leave.