Sunshine, Pudding, and Why I Choose an Aisle Seat

Mom and I spent some time outside the facility today. Mid-70s, sunshine, clear skies, and a nice breeze.

It was the kind of weather I wish I could order ahead of time.

We stayed out until Mom had enough and wanted to go back inside. I gathered my things and rolled her in. She needs a lift to get into bed, so we spent a little time in the hallway while waiting.

I noticed lunch on her table and asked whether she wanted to try it.

It looked like a chicken ranch wrap. Visually, it wasn’t making a strong case for itself.

Mom tried it and said it was terrible.

Her words. I had only done a preliminary visual inspection.

The vanilla pudding, however, disappeared in about ten seconds. The small cup of cut-up cucumber also went, along with her sweet tea.

So there were some successes on the tray. The wrap may want to request a transfer.

I’ve been asking assisted living facilities about food tastings, and moments like this explain why. Mom says she doesn’t eat much, but apparently vanilla pudding doesn’t need to be told twice.

Meanwhile, there was activity on the roommate side of the room.

Mom has the bed closest to the door. Her roommate had gone out to lunch with a friend. Then she came back in.

Then she went back out.

Then she came back in.

Then she went back out.

I was starting to feel as though we were sitting beside the entrance to a department store.

And I thought to myself: Self, this is exactly why you choose an aisle seat.

When I fly, I know I’ll probably need to get up at least once to use the bathroom. I don’t want to bother the person in the aisle, and heaven forbid I have to involve the person in the middle seat. That person has already suffered enough.

So I book the aisle. I plan for my own traffic.

Watching people come and go, I briefly wondered whether airplane seating etiquette could apply to shared rooms. Frequent departures? Let’s get you closer to the exit.

Of course, nobody was actually climbing over us. She was going about her day in her own room, and she had every right to do so.

My brain had simply decided to turn a perfectly ordinary afternoon into a seating-assignment consultation. Apparently, I’m available to reorganize a floor plan nobody asked me to review.

I remember shared rooms from my own time in skilled nursing. Two people’s schedules, visitors, meals, and routines happen in one space. Sometimes one person is ready to settle down while the other still has places to go.

Today, Mom was ready to settle down.

We’d had some sunshine, a little fresh air, and a lunch with a very clear winner.

I still want the aisle seat.

Mom can have the pudding.

Coffee, Cold Cuts, and the Donna Woods Show

Before visiting Mom this morning, I stopped at Harris Teeter to pick up a few things.

A salad for me. Two slices each of turkey, roast beef, and Swiss cheese for Mom. Literally two slices each—she told me she doesn’t eat much, and I was following instructions.

I also picked up a fruit cup with pineapple, strawberries, and melon.

Then I stopped at McDonald’s for a small coffee using points. A little grocery shopping, a little rewards redemption. I was feeling reasonably accomplished before I even reached the facility.

I dropped a few things in Mom’s room and headed toward the day room with the rest. I could see her in the distance.

I walked in, and guess who was there?

Donna Woods.

“Niel!”

“Hello, Donna Woods!”

There’s something nice about walking into a room and hearing someone call your name. A few visits ago, Donna was someone I’d just met. Now we have a greeting.

She said something else immediately afterward, delivered at her usual 200 miles an hour.

I have absolutely no idea what it was.

The television was playing Chicago P.D. at a volume that suggested the day room had been asked to assist with the investigation.

Between the television and Donna’s conversational pace, I could establish that words were being spoken. Beyond that, I would have needed subtitles.

But Donna had company.

A group of CNA students was gathered around her, and she was putting on a show.

I don’t know what was on their lesson plan for the morning, but they had arrived in time for the Donna Woods portion of the curriculum.

I’ve seen her round people up for Coffee Chats, greet nurses, meet new residents, and check on Mom. Yesterday, she approved my shoes. Today, she had an audience.

Her calendar appears to be filling up nicely.

I couldn’t make out the conversation over the television, but I enjoyed seeing her surrounded by people. I’ve been getting to know Donna through these brief encounters, and this morning I got to watch other people getting their introductions.

I hope they were keeping up better than I was.

My plan had been simple: bring Mom a little food and coffee, sit with her, and spend some time together. Along the way, I got a familiar greeting and another installment of life in the day room.

Those moments are becoming part of my visits, too. I arrive thinking about what Mom needs, and then someone calls my name from across the room.

Today, I brought two slices of everything.

Donna brought enough conversation for the whole table.

Coffee Chats with Donna: I Should Have Brought a Notebook

Today’s coffee delivery was a small Dutch Bros Americano with vanilla and cream.

And I have an update: my friend has a name.

Donna Woods.

She’s the woman I’ve been getting to know while visiting my mother at the skilled nursing facility. Our previous conversations have covered burgers, sweet tea, prosthetics, and enough pets to require a separate address book.

Today, the conversation continued. My ability to keep up did not.

I learned that her husband was a trash collector and later built a Toys “R” Us. Before I could get all the details, we had moved on to pecan ice cream, a strawberry shake, coffee and donuts, and Pensacola, Florida.

I believe that was the order. There may have been a connecting flight I missed.

I was still mentally standing in Toys “R” Us while Donna was already ordering dessert.

She had to be talking 200 words a minute. That’s my unofficial estimate. I didn’t have the equipment—or the processing speed—to verify it.

But I was enjoying myself.

I’m learning that I don’t need to capture every detail to enjoy a conversation with Donna. I can listen, follow what I can, and accept that I may leave with questions about how we got from trash collection to a strawberry shake.

Then Donna had things to do.

The 11 a.m. Coffee Chats were coming up, and she was rounding up people. She was meeting new residents, saying hello to nurses, and making sure people knew there was somewhere to go and someone to talk to.

I don’t know whether she has an official role in organizing any of this. From what I saw, she wasn’t waiting for a title.

Donna was working the room.

Watching her, I got to see another side of the friend I’ve been writing about. I’ve talked about the importance of stopping to listen and making time for people. Today, I watched Donna doing her own version of showing up: greeting people, introducing herself, and inviting them into a conversation.

She had a full social schedule, and she appeared ready to help everyone else acquire one.

I came into the facility because my mother is there. Along the way, I’ve found myself looking forward to these conversations, too. Each visit, I learn a little more about Donna—and see a little more of the community around Mom.

Today, that community included an enthusiastic recruiter and an 11 a.m. coffee appointment.

Next time, I may bring a notebook.

Although at Donna’s pace, I should probably learn shorthand first.

Touring Assisted Living: I Have Questions—and I’d Like to See the Menu

I’ve been scheduling visits to assisted living facilities for my mother. After two strokes and her current stay in skilled nursing, I want to help her find somewhere she feels comfortable, supported, and happy to live.

There’s a lot to ask about. A nice lobby is lovely, but my mother won’t be living next to the decorative vase by the front door.

I want to know what daily life actually looks like.

Who is available when she needs help, including overnight? How do they support her mobility and help with everyday tasks? How are medications handled? What happens if her needs change?

I also want a clear explanation of the cost. What’s included in the monthly price, and what costs extra? I’d prefer to discover the additional charges before they become a recurring surprise.

I’m also asking about activities, transportation, visitors, and how residents spend their time. Can Mom make choices about her day? Who do I contact with a concern, and how do they communicate with families?

And as I walk around, I want to pay attention to how people interact. Are staff members taking time to listen? Do residents seem comfortable asking for things? I want to picture my mother actually living there.

Then we get to the most important item on my personal tour agenda.

The food.

Yes, I have questions about staffing and care. I also have questions about the chicken.

I’d Like to Schedule a Tasting

My mother says she’s a picky eater.

Her reviews of the food at the hospitals and now the facility support that. The current place was supposed to have good food, according to the Google reviews.

Mom has apparently declined to join the consensus.

Somewhere, a glowing review of a meal is waiting for my mother to discuss with the author.

So I had a thought: people do tastings before weddings. Why wouldn’t I ask to taste the food before helping Mom choose somewhere she’ll eat every day?

A wedding dinner is one meal. This is a much longer commitment to somebody’s mashed potatoes.

As I schedule these visits, I’ve been asking whether they can have food available for me to try—and something I can take back to Mom.

I can look at the room, ask about the services, and review the costs. But I’m not volunteering to approve six months of lunches on her behalf without bringing her a sample.

I have enough responsibilities. Becoming the defendant in Mom v. The Meatloaf does not need to be another one.

Please Don’t Make Anything Special

One place asked whether there was something special they should make.

I appreciate the offer. But I’m not asking for Hell’s Kitchen. Nobody needs to summon Gordon Ramsay or explain the emotional journey behind a carrot.

I told one place: let me know what’s on the menu. If there’s a choice, I’ll choose from that. Please don’t do anything different.

I want the true experience.

If Tuesday lunch is turkey, rice, and green beans, that’s what I want to try. I want to know what Mom can expect on an ordinary day, after the tour is over and the welcome folder has been put away.

A special meal made just for my visit wouldn’t answer that question.

I’m also interested in what happens when she doesn’t like the scheduled meal. Are there alternatives? Can she choose something simple? How much flexibility is there?

Because “she’ll eat it when she gets hungry” is not a dining plan I’m looking to purchase.

Mom Gets a Vote—and a Fork

Plenty about this process feels serious, expensive, and emotionally exhausting. Food gives us something concrete to talk about—and, hopefully, something to laugh about.

It also matters to Mom. She’s told me that clearly, and I’m listening.

She’s already dealing with a lot of change. I want her to have meals she looks forward to, choices she feels good about, and a place at the table where she feels comfortable.

I’m not expecting every dish to become her new favorite. I would, however, like lunch to have a fighting chance.

So I’ll keep scheduling visits, asking questions, and looking closely at what each facility offers.

And I’ll be asking for a sample.

The brochure can tell me about the dining experience. Mom can tell me about the potatoes.

More Than a Visit: Prosthetics, Pets, and Another Conversation

This morning, on my way to see my mom in the facility gym, I passed my friend—the woman who had already given me the rundown on burgers and sweet tea.

Today, I got to learn a little more.

She told me her son had a toe amputated in 2022 and is on his fourth prosthetic. I’m on my fourth, too. His socket has a dragon on it. Mine has a New York Yankees logo.

Different approaches to intimidation.

When I first stopped to talk with her, I couldn’t have guessed we would eventually find that connection. But that’s what I’m enjoying about these conversations: I keep learning something I didn’t know about the person in front of me.

There was also a chocolate Lab named Maverick in one of the business offices. I don’t know his official job title, but I’m comfortable assuming he’s in management.

That led to learning about the cats and dogs my friend has had over the years. There were enough that I can’t remember them all for this post. I would have needed a notebook, a family tree, and possibly Maverick’s administrative assistance.

Yesterday, I wrote about making time to visit and listen. This morning, I got to continue the conversation.

I’m starting to know this woman beyond the fact that we happen to be in the same room. I know where she likes her sweet tea. I know a little about her son. I know we have something in common that I never would have discovered by simply saying hello and walking past.

And now I know she has a lifetime of pet stories.

My mother’s recovery is what brings me into that facility. Along the way, I’m getting to know other people whose lives are unfolding there, too.

I don’t remember every detail. Thankfully, I don’t think friendship comes with a quiz.

But I’m glad I stopped. I’m glad she had more to tell me. And the woman I first described as another resident is now someone I call my friend.