Touring The Bridge: A Smaller Community and an Unexpected Cookie Inheritance

Today started with taking a car in for routine service, followed by a stop at Sam’s Club, and then another assisted living tour for Mom.

This time, I visited The Bridge in North Charleston.

It’s a smaller community with 65 residents, arranged in a square around an open courtyard. I liked the layout, and my overall impression was more positive than at The Palms.

The hallways were wide, the dining area felt intimate, and the residences seemed well laid out. They weren’t too big, but they had plenty of storage.

After a stop at Sam’s Club, I was especially prepared to appreciate storage. Buying in bulk can make a person look at cabinets differently.

As I walked through, I tried to picture Mom settling into one of the rooms. Where would her things go? Would the space feel comfortable? Could I imagine her heading to a meal and recognizing the people around her?

The smaller community appealed to me. I could picture her getting familiar with the place and finding her people over time.

The location also comes with some recognizable landmarks: Waffle House, Zaxby’s, and Trident Hospital.

I know Trident from having a stent put in and undergoing my retinal surgery involving a silicone bubble. So I’m already familiar with the area, although I would welcome future trips with fewer procedures and more time visiting Mom.

The Bridge is farther from home than the other places I’ve toured. That’s something to consider, especially since I’ll probably make most of the trips while Mom gets settled.

Fortunately, I like to drive.

If she ends up there, I expect I’ll be going back and forth while she develops a routine and gets to know people. I want her to have support during that adjustment, while also having the opportunity to build a life in the community.

And yes, I brought food.

At this point, leaving an assisted living tour without a to-go box would feel like skipping part of the inspection.

I took two lunches: collard greens, Brussels sprouts, mac and cheese, and a chicken thigh.

I’m generally not a dark-meat person. The chicken thigh was okay. The rest was great.

The vegetables had made a much better impression on me this time. After my recent disagreement with peas, I was glad to restore diplomatic relations with the side dishes.

I also received two bags of cookies.

Mom doesn’t want hers.

I respect her right to decide what to do with her own food, especially when those decisions create an unexpected cookie inheritance.

The food matters, of course, but I also left thinking about the size of the community, the dining area, and how well the rooms used their space. I liked a lot about this visit.

I’m still comparing options. A good first impression gives me something to work with, and I want to keep considering what would suit Mom’s needs and preferences over time.

I have at least one more community to tour in a few weeks.

For now, The Bridge gave me another option I feel good about exploring—and more to share with Mom and the family as we work through this together.

Today’s errands covered car maintenance, bulk shopping, assisted living, and lunch.

The cookies were an unplanned development. I’m handling it.

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 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.

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.