Heanton Nursing Home: A Career in North Devon That Became a Place of Belonging

Sometimes the most important part of care is not what you say, but how well you can see the world through another person’s eyes. At Heanton Nursing Home in North Devon, that understanding shapes everyday life. For Pamela “Pam” Manning, working in dementia and complex care has taught her that distress often comes from fear, loss or confusion that feels completely real to the person experiencing it. Responding to that emotional reality, rather than correcting it, can be the gentlest form of care.

Pam did not begin her working life in social care. After many years working as a funeral arranger, she and her husband moved to North Devon, a place they had long loved from holidays in Croyde. “Retirement was meant to be the dream, but after a while we both realised, we needed a reason to get up, get out and meet people again,” she says.

Hearing about a nearby dementia care home, she applied for a part-time role despite having no previous experience. “I remember thinking, I’ve never done care before, how hard could it be?” she said with a smile. “I soon learned that care is one of the most skilled and meaningful roles you can do.”

Her motivation was deeply personal. Having seen how dementia had affected someone close to her, she carried with her determination. “My lovely uncle Bill had been in a Dementia Home the very year we moved and had sadly passed away, my cousin sent me photos of him, and he didn't look like Uncle, he was unshaven and unkempt with a blank expression. It broke my heart. He had been a proud smart man. After his funeral I vowed that somehow, I was going to make a difference and learn about Dementia in memory of my uncle. Hello Heanton.”

Pam remembers her first day as though it were yesterday. Among the first people she spent time with was Lillian, a resident whose anxiety and restlessness often led her to walk the hallways for long periods during the day. “We must have walked those hallways 15 or 20 times,” she recalls. “I remember thinking she must be as bored as I was, but there was something about Lily that kept me curious. That’s what made me come back.”

Then one moment changed everything. Lillian suddenly stopped and pointed towards the floor, admiring something Pam could not see. “Flowers,” she said, “beautiful blue flowers.” Instead of correcting her, Pam bent down, pretended to pick them up, and suggested they take them home to place in a vase before baking a cake for the children returning from school.

“The smile on her face and the warm twinkle in her sea-blue eyes melted my heart quicker than ice cream on a hot beach,” Pam recalls. “Then Lily reached out, grabbed my hand and said softly, ‘Come on, let’s go home.’ That was the moment I understood the word connection.”

That experience shaped the way Pam approaches dementia care. “I realised it was because I didn’t say, ‘There’s nothing there, Lily.’ I stepped into her reality. I lived those hours in her world, in her time, on her terms,” she explains. “That’s when everything changed between us. She trusted me. Over time, she became more relaxed, more confident and happier in herself. I would go home thinking about it, being in her reality was helping her feel calmer.””

It was through experiences like this that Pam began to understand what is often described in dementia care as the careful use of therapeutic lies.

The phrase can sound stark. But in practice, it is not about deception. It is about responding to the emotional reality someone is living in. Validation means acknowledging the feeling without correcting the belief, for example, allowing someone to talk about their mum without challenging whether she is still alive. A therapeutic lie goes further. It offers reassurance that may not be factually accurate, but prevents immediate distress, such as gently saying, “She’s safe, you don’t need to worry,” when someone is panicked or grieving.

The distinction matters. In dementia and complex care, repeatedly correcting someone who cannot retain new information can cause them to experience shock or loss again and again. In those moments, strict truth-telling can unintentionally cause harm. For Pam, therapeutic reassurance is never automatic. It is considered, proportionate and rooted in knowing the person. The question is always the same: what response will reduce distress and protect dignity right now?

Now, five years on from her first day at Heanton, Pam believes the most important lesson remains simple: meaningful care is built on connection. “This is not just a job,” she says. “Heanton to me is home. They don’t need me; I simply need them.”  

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