"It doesn't matter what they are doing for them — feeding them, leading them in activities, taking care of their problems — they treat them like it was their father or their brother," says Jana. "They'd kiss our dad on his forehead, they'd hold his hand, rub his face or cheek. And it wasn't just when we were there, for show. We saw them do it for everyone, all the time."

Despite his deteriorating mental condition, Jay Steadman developed a relationship with other vets in the lockdown. He got particularly close to Victor, a retired admiral, and Bill, a retired Marine.

When it was Jay's time to go, Victor and Bill, despite their own mental problems, seemed to sense it with clarity.

Jim Steadman remembers that his dad's new "old" buddies hovered by the door of his room until they were invited in to say goodbye in their own nonverbal way.

Moments after Jay died, surrounded by his family, an announcement came on the public address system:

"We have a fallen veteran today. His name is Jay Steadman. Please pause as we honor him."

Then a recording of taps was played.

"Let me tell you, no one in that facility moved," says Jim. "No one. Every health-care professional stopped what they were doing. Every patient. They all stood in place. We cried like babies."

"We knew we were going to miss our dad," says Jana. "But the thing is, we knew they were going to miss him too. Because he had become a part of their lives. You could just tell."

"We don't know how to thank them," says Jason Steadman. "A thank-you card, a set of flowers, it isn't adequate for what they've done for us and what they're doing for other families."

"They're heroes taking care of heroes," his sister Jana adds, "and they do it every day."

Lee Benson's column runs Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Please send e-mail to benson@desnews.com