To the Rehab We Go

My mother is now able to sit in a wheelchair for a few hours per day, but still is suffering from high blood pressure and some kind of infection of unknown origin. She stays asleep most of the day, except at night, when she tries to escape from her hospital bed and stand up. If she did that, she would break the leg again.
Monday, when I am at school talking to the students about their final drafts and preparing them to revise them for the final essay, which comes in Weds., my mom will be going to the surgeon's office to have her stitches taken out. Margaret, the driver, will accompany her, but will not drive her. Instead, they will both ride in the OCTA van, if I can get them a spot. I have to call today.
The Physician's Assistant from UCI who tends to my parents came out to visit my mom and says she needs a few weeks in a rehab, so now I have to choose one. That's hard. Rehabs can be awful. My dad was in a nightmare of one in Philadelphia with racist aides who left him lying helpless on the floor after his stroke, when he was out of his mind. He ended up trying to strangle a doctor, thinking the man was trying to electrocute him with a toilet seat, and was sent to a snake pit of a public mental hospital where everything he owned was stolen. When Richard came to pick him up, he had no underwear, no shoes, and his glasses were gone. The doctors told him no one was going to take him away from there, that he would rot there. I am looking for a decent rehab fairly close by, that will not require me to drive on the freeway. Lou, what's the name of the place where Robert was staying?