care & love
How Maplewood Senior Living Transformed Care Through Technology
It's 6:30 a.m. at Maplewood Senior Living, and Maria Gonzalez, a certified nursing assistant (CNA) with 15 years of experience, is already juggling three tasks. Down the hall, Mr. Thompson, an 84-year-old with Parkinson's, needs help getting out of bed. In room 207, Mrs. Hernandez, who suffered a stroke last year, is calling for assistance to the bathroom. And in the therapy room, James Chen, the physical therapist, is prepping for the day's sessions—only half the patients will get their scheduled mobility exercises, he knows, because there aren't enough staff.
This scene plays out in long-term care facilities across the country. An aging population, coupled with chronic staff shortages, has left care teams stretched thin, often choosing between speed and quality. But at Maplewood, something changed in early 2024. Today, Maria isn't rushing—she's adjusting the settings on an electric nursing bed with a touchscreen, while a soft hum echoes from the hallway: Mrs. Hernandez is walking. Not with a walker, not with Maria's arm, but with the help of a sleek, metallic frame wrapped around her legs—a lower limb exoskeleton .
This is the story of how one facility turned to robots not to ｒｅｐｌａｃｅ human care, but to amplify it.
Maplewood Senior Living, a 120-bed facility in upstate New York, had long prided itself on "compassion first" care. But by late 2023, that promise was fraying. "We were losing CNAs faster than we could hire them," says Dr. Elaine Carter, Maplewood's director of care. "The average tenure dropped from 5 years to 18 months. Our staff was burned out, and our residents were noticing."
The numbers told the same story: 23% of shifts were filled by temporary staff, 40% of residents missed daily mobility exercises, and staff injury claims related to lifting patients had spiked by 50% in a year. "I had a CNA tear her ACL lifting a patient," Dr. Carter recalls. "She was out for six months. That's when I thought, 'We can't keep doing this.'"
Maplewood's struggles boiled down to four critical pain points—each a barrier to quality care:
Of Maplewood's 120 residents, 65% had mobility issues—from stroke-related paralysis to arthritis. "Mrs. Hernandez was once an avid gardener," James says. "After her stroke, she couldn't walk more than a few steps with a walker. She stopped socializing, stopped eating well. I watched her shrink into herself." Without consistent robotic gait training or tools to rebuild strength, residents like Mrs. Hernandez faced a cycle of depression and declining health.
For residents with incontinence—about 35% of Maplewood's population—daily care was a drain on time and dignity. "Changing linens, cleaning, repositioning—for Mr. Thompson, who has Parkinson's, it took 45 minutes per episode," Maria says. "And he'd apologize the whole time: 'I'm so sorry, Maria.' I hated making him feel like a burden." Staff spent 25% of their shifts on incontinence care alone, leaving little time for conversation or emotional support.
Even with "proper lifting technique," moving patients was brutal on staff. "We had a 220-pound resident who needed help transferring to a wheelchair three times a day," Maria says. "Two CNAs, grunting, straining—by the end of my shift, my lower back felt like it was on fire." The result: high turnover and a culture of fear. "I saw a new CNA quit after her first week because she was scared of getting hurt," Dr. Carter adds.
Maplewood's manual beds offered limited adjustability, leading to pressure ulcers in immobile residents. "We'd reposition residents every two hours, but without proper support, sores still popped up," Dr. Carter explains. "A single bedsore can cost $50,000 to treat—and that's not counting the pain the resident endures."
In January 2024, Dr. Carter and her team took a leap: they applied for a $500,000 innovation ｇｒａｎｔ from the state's Department of Aging, earmarked for "technology to enhance senior care." Their pitch? A "robotics toolkit" tailored to Maplewood's needs. Six weeks later, they got the green light.
The team spent three months researching tools, trialing demos, and polling staff and residents. "We didn't want gadgets for gadgets' sake," Dr. Carter says. "We wanted tools that solved our specific problems." The final lineup included:
"The exoskeletons were a no-brainer," James says. "I'd seen studies showing they could improve mobility in stroke patients by 60%—but I was skeptical until I tried one. It's like having a 'leg coach' that gently guides your movements."
Adopting robots wasn't seamless. "I thought, 'I'm a nurse, not a tech wizard,'" admits Maria. "What if I break it? What if it hurts a resident?" To ease fears, Maplewood brought in trainers from each manufacturer for week-long workshops. Staff practiced on mannequins, role-played tricky scenarios (e.g., "What if the exoskeleton beeps during a transfer?"), and paired up—veteran staff with new hires—for on-the-job training.
Residents needed reassurance too. "Mrs. Hernandez called the exoskeleton 'that clanky thing' for a week," James laughs. "But then I showed her a video of Mrs. Patel, another stroke survivor, using one to walk to her grandson's wedding. She said, 'If she can do it, I can too.'"
For the incontinence care robot , trust was even harder to build. "Mr. Thompson refused to let it near him at first," Maria says. "He said, 'I'm not letting a machine bathe me.' But when I explained it could help him stay cleaner and more independent, he relented. Now he jokes, 'That robot's got better aim than my grandson!'"
By July 2024, six months into adoption, the data was clear—and transformative:
But the best results weren't in spreadsheets—they were in moments. Like the day Mrs. Hernandez walked from her room to the garden, tears streaming, to smell the roses. "I haven't smelled flowers in a year," she told James. "Thank you for giving me back my nose—and my legs."
Staff retention improved too. "I was ready to quit," says Lina, a new CNA. "Now? I love coming to work. I can actually talk to residents instead of rushing. Last week, Mrs. Hernandez taught me how to knit. That's the care I signed up for."
Robot adoption had hiccups. The incontinence care robot once got stuck in a doorway ("We had to call tech support at 2 a.m.," Maria groans). The exoskeletons needed daily charging ("I forgot once, and Mrs. Hernandez was so disappointed—never again," James says). And the upfront cost? "Sticker shock," Dr. Carter admits. "But grants and reduced injury claims paid for it in a year."
The biggest lesson? "Robots don't ｒｅｐｌａｃｅ empathy—they create space for it," Dr. Carter says. "When Maria isn't stuck cleaning linens, she can sit and listen to Mr. Thompson's war stories. When James isn't rushing between patients, he can celebrate Mrs. Hernandez's first steps. That's the magic."
Today, Maplewood's halls hum with a new energy. The electric nursing beds adjust with a soft whir, exoskeletons click gently as residents practice walking, and staff laugh with residents instead of sighing through tasks. "We're not a 'robot facility,'" Dr. Carter says. "We're a better care facility—because robots let us be more human."
For other facilities considering robot adoption, Dr. Carter has advice: "Start small. Ask staff what they need help with. And remember: it's not about replacing people. It's about giving them the tools to care like they've always wanted to."
As for Mrs. Hernandez? She's now leading a weekly "Walking Club" for residents using exoskeletons. "We're slow, but we're moving," she says. "And that's more than we could do before."