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.

Officially Donna Approved

A quick update on my friend Donna Woods: apparently, her interests also include footwear.

Mom needed some help getting cleaned up and getting into bed using the Hoyer lift, so I stepped into the hallway to give her privacy. While I waited, I worked on the blog.

Then Donna came walking by with her walker.

She asked how my mother was doing and where her room was. I told her it was right behind me.

I appreciated that she asked. We’ve spent time talking about her life, her family, and her favorite foods. Now she was checking on Mom.

Then, as she passed, Donna looked down at my shoes.

Light blue Hokas. Pink no-tie laces.

And I received Donna Woods’s approval.

I hadn’t realized I was being evaluated, but I’m pleased to report that I passed.

The no-tie laces are practical. The colors apparently meet community standards. Finally, a review process in my life with a clear outcome and no additional paperwork.

I’ve learned quite a bit about Donna during these visits. Today, I learned she notices the details—and that my shoes have at least one fan.

These little encounters have become a welcome part of visiting Mom. A familiar face comes down the hall, asks how she’s doing, and gives me something to smile about while I wait.

Today, that smile came courtesy of Donna and a pair of light blue Hokas.

I’ll keep wearing them. I’d hate to jeopardize my standing with the fashion committee.

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.