After Dialysis, Assisted Living Tours and Complaints: I Need the Ocean and Bacon

Today was one of those days when my internal battery was already flashing red before I walked through the door.

After dialysis, I toured The Palms, an assisted living facility I'm considering for Mom.

Today's dialysis was a little more difficult than Monday's. By the time everything was finished, I didn't even make it to my recovery meeting.

Instead, I had another mission:

Deliver Mom's dinner.

Ham, grits, and peas.

Gross.

I'm sure someone loves that combination. That someone is not me.

So, after dialysis and touring The Palms, I headed over to the skilled nursing facility with Mom's meal.

And then the complaining began.

Apparently, Everything Is Terrible

It was nonstop.

The food.

Physical therapy.

Nursing.

This.

That.

Something else.

At times, Mom was saying things that, from my perspective, didn't line up with what had actually happened. I've experienced that before with both of my parents, and today I didn't have much energy left to sort through what was accurate, what was frustration, and what might have been something else entirely.

I could feel myself reaching my limit.

That's when H.A.L.T. popped into my head.

Hungry.

Angry.

Lonely.

Tired.

I was feeling three out of the four.

I'll let everyone guess which three.

Actually, don't think about it too hard.

The important part was recognizing what was happening before I allowed myself to get dragged into an argument that wasn't going to accomplish anything.

See You Tomorrow

I finally told Mom I was going to leave and that I'd see her tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I'm touring another assisted living facility.

Her response?

“Don't come.”

My response?

“See you tomorrow.”

At this point, it felt less like a discussion and more like defiance.

Ugh.

Yesterday, I wrote about needing to establish boundaries. Today was another opportunity, actually, to practice one.

I didn't argue.

I didn't address every complaint.

I didn't stay there until I was completely exhausted and angry.

I left.

Sometimes that's the healthiest option available.

I'm Still Doing the Work

The frustrating part is that behind all these conversations, I'm still trying to do what Mom has said she wants.

She wants assisted living.

So I'm touring assisted living facilities.

I'm looking at rooms.

I'm learning about services.

I'm figuring out costs.

I'm asking questions.

I'm trying to imagine what her life might look like in each place.

Then I walk into the skilled nursing facility and hear complaint after complaint about the place she's currently living.

I understand that she's frustrated. She's been through a lot.

But I've been through a few things myself.

Today alone started with dialysis, moved into an assisted living tour, and ended with me delivering ham, grits, and peas while listening to a review of practically every department in the building.

Eventually, the tank is empty.

Mine was empty.

So I went home.

Tomorrow, I'll get up and do it again.

Another facility.

Another tour.

Another visit with Mom, regardless of today's “don't come.”

And hopefully another reminder to myself that I don't have to solve everything in one day.

I Need the Ocean and Bacon

Fortunately, I have something waiting for me at the end of October.

I'm going on a cruise.

And after the last few weeks, I think I've identified exactly what I need:

The ocean and bacon.

Lots of ocean.

An unreasonable amount of bacon.

Maybe I'll sit somewhere, looking out over the water, holding a plate stacked with bacon and doing absolutely nothing for anyone.

No assisted living tours.

No skilled nursing complaints.

No ham, grits, and peas.

No problem-solving.

Just me, the ocean, and enough breakfast meat to concern a cardiologist.

But first, tomorrow.

Another assisted living facility.

Another visit with Mom.

Because even when she says, “Don't come,” sometimes I know what she really needs is for me to keep showing up.

So...

See you tomorrow, Mom.

Touring The Palms: Nice Grounds, Friendly People, and Unfortunately, Peas

After dialysis today, I toured The Palms as I continue looking at assisted living options for Mom.

Dialysis followed by a facility tour makes for a full day, but I’m learning something useful at each stop. Seeing these places in person gives me a better sense of what daily life might look like for her—and what the differences are beyond the monthly price.

The Palms is in a building that’s about 50 years old and is being renovated. I learned the HVAC system was recently updated and needed adjustments to work properly.

I appreciate hearing about those details. Renovations are part of the picture, and I want to understand both what’s already been done and what’s still being worked on.

Compared with Somerby, The Palms didn’t feel as open and airy to me. It has a different atmosphere, and I noticed that as I walked through the common areas and rooms.

But I also noticed friendly staff and people who seemed happy.

That was only my impression during one visit, but it matters to me. I’m trying to imagine Mom living somewhere, spending time with people, asking for help, and finding a routine. A place's feel includes the people in it.

The grounds were another positive. There were trees, shaded paths, and places to sit outside. After recently spending time outdoors with Mom at the skilled nursing facility, I could appreciate having pleasant outdoor space available.

Then came the food.

You knew I was getting there.

In my opinion, the meal wasn’t as good as what I brought back from Somerby. And there were peas mixed with the corn and carrots.

Peas.

The corn and carrots had been doing perfectly well without that kind of interference.

I understand some people enjoy peas. I respect their right to be wrong at lunch.

My personal vegetable grievances aside, food is still an important part of this search. Mom has made her opinions about facility meals very clear, and I want to pay attention to what she might actually enjoy eating.

One meal gives me a sample, and this sample didn’t impress me as much as Somerby’s did.

The Palms does have another meaningful difference: it costs less per month.

That deserves consideration. These are substantial ongoing expenses, and I’m trying to weigh the cost alongside the setting, the people, the food, and how well a place could meet Mom’s needs.

So my impression today was mixed, with some real positives. The building is older and undergoing updates. The interior felt less open than Somerby. I preferred Somerby’s food. But the staff was friendly, the people I saw seemed happy, the grounds were nice, and the monthly cost was lower.

I’m glad I went.

I’ve also been sharing my thoughts with my brothers and their wives, and posting pictures in a shared Google Drive so everyone can see what I’m seeing. I want them included as we think through the options for Mom. The photos give us something concrete to discuss, and their perspectives help me consider things I might have missed. My opinion of peas, however, is already firmly established.

Each tour is helping me figure out which questions to ask and which details I want to bring back to Mom. I want her involved in thinking about where she could feel comfortable and what matters most to her.

Tomorrow, I tour another place.

I’ll keep asking questions, looking around, and tasting the food.

And quietly hoping the vegetables have made better decisions.

Donna Woods Has My Number. Let the Games Begin.

I showed up at the skilled nursing facility around 3 p.m., bringing Mom the lunch from Somerby.

I hadn’t eaten all day. Mom and I had food to try, and I was ready to sit down and share it with her.

But first, someone had one final piece of business before leaving.

The Donna Woods.

She wanted my phone number or Mom’s phone number. If you read my previous post, you know I had been gently campaigning for Mom’s.

Negotiations had apparently reopened.

Donna initially wanted me to follow her to her room so she could get her phone.

I made a decision: I was staying with Mom and the food. I was hungry, and sharing that meal with her was more important to me than making a trip down the hall.

So I asked Donna for her number instead.

She gave it to me, and I called her.

And just like that, my carefully considered plan to avoid giving Donna my number was defeated.

By me.

Then I asked, “Donna Woods! Do you do the text?”

She said yes

So I texted her, too.

Apparently, I wasn’t satisfied with opening one line of communication. I needed to confirm that the entire system was operational.

Calls? Connected.

Texts? Delivered.

Boundaries? Undergoing a brief internal review.

This is the same Donna Woods who can cover Pensacola, bacon, pets, prosthetics, and hot tea before I’ve finished forming a follow-up question. The woman who gathers people for Coffee Chats, greets the nurses,

es, and somehow found time to approve my light blue Hokas with pink laces.

She now has a direct line.

I can already imagine looking at my phone, seeing “Donna Woods,” and wondering whether I have enough battery for the full update.

-But I’m also glad we exchanged numbers.

She made a point of stopping before she left. She wanted to stay connected with people she had met, and Mom and I were among them.

I’ve spent these visits writing about making time for people. Donna has been doing her part to make sure we have the opportunity.

I could stay with Mom, share lunch, and still help Donna leave with a way to reach us. It turned out to be a pretty simple solution, despite my earlier attempts to protect myself from unlimited conversational access.

Now the question is: what’s the over/under on calls and texts for the rest of the week?

And does one story sent across seventeen separate texts count as one message or seventeen?

I need the rules established before the first update from Pensacola.

Donna Woods Has My Number. Let the Games Begin.

I showed up at the skilled nursing facility around 3 p.m., bringing Mom the lunch from Somerby.

I hadn’t eaten all day. Mom and I had food to try, and I was ready to sit down and share it with her.

But first, someone had one final piece of business before leaving.

The Donna Woods.

She wanted my phone number or Mom’s phone number. If you read my previous post, you know I had been gently campaigning for Mom’s.

Negotiations had apparently reopened.

Donna initially wanted me to follow her to her room so she could get her phone.

I decided: I was staying with Mom and the food. I was hungry, and sharing that meal with her was more important to me than making a trip down the hall.

So I asked Donna for her number instead.

She gave it to me, and I called her.

And just like that, my carefully considered plan to avoid giving Donna my number was defeated.

By me.

Then I asked, “Donna Woods! Do you do the text?”

She said yes.

So I sent her a text, too.

Apparently, I wasn’t satisfied with opening one line of communication. I needed to confirm that the entire system was operational.

Calls? Connected.

Texts? Delivered.

Boundaries? Undergoing a brief internal review.

This is the same Donna Woods who can cover Pensacola, bacon, pets, prosthetics, and hot tea before I’ve finished forming a follow-up question. The woman who gathers people for Coffee Chats, greets the nurses, and somehow found time to approve my light blue Hokas with pink laces.

She now has a direct line.

I can already imagine looking at my phone, seeing “Donna Woods,” and wondering whether I have enough battery for the full update.

But I’m also glad we exchanged numbers.

She made a point of stopping before she left. She wanted to stay connected with people she had met, and Mom and I were among them.

I’ve spent these visits writing about making time for people. Donna has been doing her part to make sure we have the opportunity.

I could stay with Mom, share lunch, and still help Donna leave with a way to reach us. It turned out to be a pretty simple solution, despite my earlier attempts to protect myself from unlimited conversational access.

Now the question is: what’s the over/under on calls and texts for the rest of the week?

And does one story sent across seventeen separate texts count as one message or seventeen?

I need the rules established before the first update from Pensacola.

Donna Woods Is Leaving—and Taking Requests for Phone Numbers

Today’s delivery for Mom was a large Chick-fil-A fruit cup and a coffee. I had already brought her International Delight French Vanilla creamer when she arrived, so that part of the operation was covered.

And who greeted me?

You already know.

Donna Woods.

The day room reminded me a little of junior high: a table of women gathered together and a separate table of men.

The women were chatting. The men were sleeping.

I felt a little sad seeing the men asleep while the conversation happened nearby. Of course, I was only seeing one moment of their day. For all I know, they’d already solved the world’s problems and were taking a well-earned break.

The women, meanwhile, still had business to conduct.

Today, I learned that Donna likes bacon, wants hot tea for the resident chat, and is leaving tomorrow.

That last detail caught my attention.

Donna has become part of my visits. I come to see Mom, and somewhere along the way I get a greeting, a story, a restaurant recommendation, or an unsolicited but welcome review of my footwear.

I’ve gotten used to seeing her.

Now she’s getting ready to leave, and she wants to stay in touch with Mom.

I thought that was lovely.

Then Mom volunteered my phone number.

Suddenly, I was involved in telecommunications planning without having submitted a proposal.

I told Mom I’d give Donna her number.

Donna said she would take both.

An efficient response. Why choose one contact when you can expand the network?

I am purposely trying to avoid giving Donna my number if I can help it. I enjoy our conversations, but I’ve heard the speed at which this woman delivers information. I’m not sure my phone plan includes that kind of coverage.

I could answer a quick call and emerge forty-five minutes later with updates on bacon, Pensacola, three former pets, and a person I’ve never met whose grandson apparently needs something.

Meanwhile, my original reason for picking up the phone would be lost to history.

But underneath my joking, I’m touched that Donna wants to keep the connection going.

We met because I was visiting Mom. A conversation became another conversation. Then she knew my name, asked how Mom was doing, and became someone I looked forward to seeing in the hallway.

Now she wants to make sure leaving the facility doesn’t mean losing touch.

I’m glad Mom has someone asking for her number. With everything she’s been through, I like knowing that someone she met here wants to call and hear how she’s doing.

I’ll miss Donna’s greetings and whatever subject she happens to be halfway through when I arrive.

I hope her next stop has good bacon, hot tea, and people who make time to listen.

As for the phone numbers, I think Mom’s is an excellent place to start.