We needed to help a dear friend move to a memory care facility in summer of 2019. We searched,…read morevisited, and interviewed sites. We were so grateful to find St. Anne's Mead on 12 Mile in Southfield. There are various approaches to memory care but we really like SAM's approach the best. They utilize an approach called Best Buddy...where SAM actually hires someone to keep the seniors engaged informally. They have PT and OT of course elsewhere, but I love that this person's main role is to sit with a resident to share a cup of coffee or visit with someone alone on a couch, etc. The Program Director has a very sweet little dog she brings 3 days a week and the residents light up when they get to hold or pet her. The staff are all very respectful of the residents and do seem to like them greatly. They have many activities scheduled throughout the day so there is no sitting and staring at the television for hours. Their meals are delicious. As noted by other reviewers, the building is an old-style nursing home, but the interactions, smiles, and kind staff make it a very hospitable place. The memory care unit was recently renovated with nice size rooms and large private half-baths (showers without assistance can be quite dangerous for seniors with memory issues). They have their own dining area and integrate into the activities of the larger facility as much as possible. Don't be put off that the building is from the 1960's. It has everything you will need for quality care for your loved one who is struggling with memory issues.

My mother was moved here in early 2017, after a stay at the hospital. She had been living in a…read moresenior living apartment, but needed more help. While the building is on the older side, the staff at St. Anne's was absolutely fabulous. My mother had the opportunity to return to the senior living apartment as she got stronger, but she didn't want to. She was happy staying with the wonderful people at St. Anne's. My mother passed away this week, but I am very thankful for the staff at St. Anne's helping make her last year as pleasant as possible. Thank you.

I was going to call the facility to give a compliment because I forgot to place my comment card in…read morethe box yesterday. After reading some of the reviews, I felt it was important to share our experience as well. My aunt was cared for by Kindra and Adrina, and I can honestly say I have never seen her this positive and uplifted while still dealing with pain. There is a big difference between simply doing your job and caring with genuine compassion, and these two clearly have that gift. Kindra truly stood out. Her level of attentiveness, patience, and kindness was exceptional. When dinner arrived and she noticed my aunt was not eating, she immediately took the time to ask why. When my aunt said she did not like the meal, Kindra went out of her way to get her something else. She then calmly explained why eating is so important for healing, making sure my aunt felt encouraged and cared for rather than rushed or dismissed. It was not just the tasks being done, but the positive energy, warm smiles, and reassurance they brought into the room. That kind of attitude makes a real difference. Patients can feel stress and frustration just as easily as they can feel kindness, and Kindra and Adrina consistently brought comfort and encouragement. I understand healthcare facilities are busy and demanding, and overall the care here is good. However, staff members like Kindra and Adrina are what make a place worthy of five stars. They made my aunt feel valued, respected, and supported, and that means everything to families. I even joked with Kindra about coming home with us because of how wonderful she was. I truly hope these ladies receive the recognition they deserve, because care like this helps people heal in more ways than one.

I would like to give a shout out and a compliment as a patient to nurse Lacey l a c e y and…read moresupervisor Britteny. Both of these people solve problems for me in 5 minutes or less when I was really having issues and suffering he is two people make nursing and taking care of patients and problems what it should be and not everyone is that way and I want to compliment them in a very large way and thank them for caring!

Food for thought: Yesterday, a girl younger than my…read moregranddaughter called me "sweetie" and snapped the bedrail shut like she was closing a suitcase. When she left, I laughed. Because laughing hurt less than crying. I know bedrails are meant to keep you safe. I also know what it feels like to be shut in. My name is Ruth. I'm eighty-two. I've lived in this nursing home for eleven months and nineteen days--though the calendar on my wall insists it's been twelve. Time gets slippery here. Breakfast at eight. Pills at nine. Bingo at two. Lights out at ten. Some days feel like one long hallway with no doors. I didn't picture my life ending up here. I had a little house with a garden the size of a bedsheet. I baked on Thursdays, went to church on Sundays, and saw my grandkids on Saturdays. But my legs betrayed me. The stairs grew taller. And my daughter Marion began staying "just a few nights" on the couch. We both knew what was coming--we just pretended we didn't. On move-in day, a nurse pinned my name to a corkboard flower. "Welcome home," she said. For a moment, I believed her. Back then, the halls smelled like lemon cleaner and coffee. There were therapy dogs, a choir with yellow songbooks, and aides who asked about the photos on my dresser. "How old were you when you got married, Mrs. Ruth?" "Twenty." "Lord, you were just a baby." We laughed together at how foolishly brave youth makes us. That was last spring. By summer, the choir was gone. The dogs came less often. Staff changed faster than I could learn their names. Some were kind. Some were rushed. Some were simply hard. I learned the rhythms. Shift change is chaos--footsteps, whispering, the cart rattling like bones. Supper is the quiet after. Night is the hardest. The world shrinks to a TV's glow and a voice down the hall calling "Help" too weakly to rise above the ceiling. I keep a notebook in my nightstand. Names. Times. Little truths that say, "I was here. I saw." "June 3, 10:35 p.m.--asked for water, told, 'Don't be dramatic.'" "June 12--Mary fell in shower; no call light in reach." "July 1--pill left on tray, later found under applesauce cup." The notebook keeps me from disappearing. There are good ones, too. Nora whispers, "How's my girl?" and sneaks me graham crackers. She brushes my hair like my mother once did. Once she confided, "They're short-staffed again. Corporate keeps cutting hours." "Corporate." The word landed like a cold coin in my chest. Then there's Bree--barely twenty-one. Quick, efficient, tired. Not cruel. Just stretched too thin. She calls me "sweetie" because someone told her to. She pulls the bedrail too hard because she doesn't have enough hands for all of us. Still, the bruise lasted a week. When I was young, I worked at Miller's Grocery. I knew every customer's name. If someone was short a dime, I slipped one from my own apron. Not because I was a saint, but because that's how a community breathes--small kindnesses, folded together like towels. Here, those towels have come undone. The worst day was a Thursday--meatloaf day. I buzzed my call light. And buzzed. And buzzed again. By the time someone came, my cheeks were wet, and my pride was gone. "Why didn't you wait?" she said. "I did," I whispered. That same afternoon, the mail girl joked, "You've got a letter from your father!" She meant my daughter. We both laughed, but the sound caught in my throat. My father's been gone for decades. He taught me to plant tomatoes deep, so their roots had room to dream. He'd hate this place--not the walls or food, but how a person's needs become problems instead of hands to hold. Marion visits Sundays. Brings soft strawberries. Brings photos. She pretends not to see the notebook. "Mom," she says gently, "are you sure you're remembering all this right?" She means: Are you forgetting? But the sharp moments stay clearer than the sweet ones. I just tell her, "I'm sure enough." Still, bright spots come. One morning, sunlight poured in, and Nora put a sprig of rosemary by my bed. I smelled it and was thirty-five again--chicken roasting, snow outside, kids sliding across the kitchen floor in socks. I smiled. "More rosemary next time," I said. Once, I found "Amazing Grace" on the piano with stiff fingers. By the second verse, Mr. Alvarez hummed along. By the third, even Bree had put down her phone. Proof that even here, we are hungry for each other. The small victory I'll keep forever happened on a Tuesday. I asked the administrator to come. His suit fit better than his smile. I slid my notebook across the tray. "I'm not here to make trouble. I'm eighty-two. Trouble is a marathon I don't run anymore. I'm asking for the basics: dignity. A call light answered. A safe shower. A caregiver who looks me in the eye." He patted the notebook and said, "We strive to exceed expectations." "I don't need 'exceed,'" I said. "Just meet."

My mother passed away in Sept. 2023 while living in American House Bloomfield. The month prior to…read moreher passing, there was an error and her rent was deducted in a "free month". To correct this, they were to not charge her the following month. They did instead charge her after she had died. Upon meeting with the Executive Director I had a balance which was owed back to me, including an e-mail receipt. I was instructed to reach out to the main office. I personally spoke with the Regional Director who told me three times, the check was in the mail. The fourth time I called, he answered and hung up when he realized it was me. The 1st anniversary of her death has passed and American House still has not sent the money to us that they acknowledge they owe us. What a horrible experience to have to deal with while mourning a parent.

Fleischman was a wonderful home to my Father. He was treated with love and respect. The staff…read moretruly cared and took an interest in him. I know that you aren't supposed to say this, but he loved the food! He appreciated all of the activities, and that there was "hamish" feeling to the Residence. He made friends with the residents and the staff. It was a wonderful community.

From the owner: Jewish Senior Life offers residential Senior Living in Oak Park, Michigan. Our communities offer…read moreIndependent Living, Assisted Living, and Memory Care. We nurture a sense of community and enrich the lives of older adults, while embracing Jewish values and celebrating life. JSL is proud to provide inclusive residential communities. We welcome all people without regard to race, color, national origin, religion, disability, gender, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, age, familial status and marital status.

I have been a patient here for about 3 weeks I have been I have been a patient here for about 3…read moreweeks. I can tell you with certainty that the care between the patient and the nursing staff including the CNAs has been excellent. Place is clean I'm not here all the time I'm trying to move into an apartment but I can tell you that I have gotten excellent care especially from social worker director and Sally nursing I would not hesitate this facility to your loved one

My 93 year old father was sent here for rehab after a hospital stay for pneumonia. The facility and…read morecare are substandard. The central air is not working. My father was in a room that was only big enough for 1 person but he had a roomate. The window air conditioner did not cool the room and the entire place was hot. He only received a couple sessions of physical therapy over 8 days. He was not bathed or showered during the 8 days although the nursing supervisor assured me that he would be bathed when I talked with her on the sixth day. The place looks like a dungeon and smells terrible. I transferred my father to another facility and he is thriving.