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.

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.

When Helping Mom Means Setting a Boundary

This afternoon, I got frustrated with Mom.

Really frustrated.

It was lunchtime at the skilled nursing facility, which meant it was also time for one of Mom's favorite activities whenever she's in an institutional setting:

Complaining about the food.

Her favorite word seems to be “terrible.”

She uses it a lot.

More than a lot.

Today, though, the frustration wasn't just about whether lunch deserved another terrible review.

While Mom ate, I stood in the hallway when one of the CNAs approached me. She brought up several concerns.

Mom isn't eating enough. She wants to go to sleep immediately after eating, even though she's been told she needs to remain upright for at least 30 minutes. Her stomach hasn't really settled since her second stroke. She's also frustrated because she says it sometimes takes too long for someone to respond after she pushes the call button.

There may have been a few other things mentioned that I'm forgetting.

I understand the complaints individually.

Put them all together, though, and I started getting frustrated.

What Does Mom Actually Want?

We've talked about this before.

Mom doesn't want to go home. She wants to leave skilled nursing and eventually move into an assisted living facility.

I'm touring two assisted living facilities this week to help make that happen.

But I explained something to her again today: moving to another facility won’t necessarily solve everything she doesn't like about this one.

There will still be other residents.

Staff will still care for multiple people.

There will still be menus she doesn't control.

There will still be times when she pushes a call button, and someone doesn't magically materialize next to her bed.

That's part of the compromise that comes with choosing a facility over living at home.

At home, she could have significantly more control over what she eats, when she eats, when she goes to bed, and many of the other things she's frustrated about now.

She doesn't want that option.

I respect that.

But choosing another option means accepting compromises.

And that's where we weren't getting anywhere today.

I'm Not Going to Chase the Impossible

I finally told Mom something that may have sounded harsh.

I'm not going to put in all the work required to find another facility, arrange everything, deal with the finances, move her, and get her settled somewhere else if we're going to repeat the same cycle.

New building.

New room.

New staff.

New food.

Same word:

“Terrible.”

I'm willing to help her find a place where she's safe, comfortable, and treated well.

I'm willing to tour facilities.

I'm willing to ask questions.

I'm willing to work through the financial issues.

I'm willing to help her get where she says she wants to go.

I can’t guarantee she’ll like everything.

No facility can do that.

I Had to Remove Myself

Eventually, I realized the conversation wasn't accomplishing anything.

I was frustrated.

She wasn't changing her position.

I wasn't changing mine.

Continuing the conversation would only make both of us more upset.

So I told her that I needed to remove myself from the situation.

That's a boundary I need right now.

There is a difference between helping someone and taking responsibility for making them happy.

I can help Mom.

I can't manufacture happiness for her.

And I can't keep running from facility to facility looking for a place where absolutely everything will be exactly the way she wants it.

Then There's the Money

There's another practical reality.

Assisted living costs money.

Potentially a lot of money.

If Mom is going to be unhappy regardless of where she lives, I have to ask a difficult question:

Why spend a significant amount of her money changing locations if the result will be the same dissatisfaction?

That's where my mind went today.

If she's going to be unhappy in assisted living and unhappy at home, then financially, being unhappy at home is considerably less expensive.

That doesn't mean I've decided she needs to go home.

It doesn't mean I'm abandoning the search.

I'm still touring the facilities this week.

But I am starting to recognize that finding Mom a new place to live and finding Mom a place where she'll never complain are two completely different assignments.

I can work on the first one.

The second one isn't mine.

Today, I needed to remind myself of that—and walk away before frustration took over the conversation.

Tomorrow is another day.

And apparently, somewhere out there, I still need to find a facility whose food doesn't earn the word “terrible.”

Wish me luck.

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.