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.