Food for the Dying
Recently, the graver circumstances of life have interrupted my
normally lusty food thoughts: My mother
is dying. I want to get past the fact
that she’s too young (71), has lived with a plague of medical issues for almost
a decade (giant uncooperative brain aneurysm, stroke, diabetes, emphysema) and
get to the food not because I’m in denial, but because, it turns out, even in
death food can be a robust, transformative
force.
A smoker of some 40 years, my mother has replaced cigarettes
in the last decade of her life with a joy of eating. After a stroke that flung her headlong and
happily into early retirement from a dead end low-paying job at a local
retailer, she began to cook for the first time in her life. Newly diagnosed with type II diabetes, she meticulously
amassed recipes in a binder and even bought a bread machine. She loved finding new low-carb deserts and
bought specialty flours. I watched her
cook, wondering who this woman was. In
my childhood, she made three things:
Mushroom chicken (with a can of Campbell’s soup), lasagna and fratuda
dusa (yummy blocks of sweetened semolina, rolled in graham crackers and vanilla
wafers and fried in butter). Now she was
making sweet and sour chicken and shrimp Newberg.
This joy lasted until my mother had to be moved to an assisted living facility 18 months ago, following a second series of strokes that affected her short term memory. My aunt and I chose the facility because it was small and private and my mother would have her own room. But the kicker for us was seeing the chef cut fresh strawberries to serve with spinach and bacon quiche, two things my mother loved. We were sure she’d be as happy as she could be there because she would love the food.
Turns out, my mother’s tastes are fickle. She complained non-stop about the menus. They served lighter fare like sandwiches for
dinner, and my mother, a Midwesterner through and through and indignant that
anyone would eat such mundane food for the main meal of the day, refused to
eat. She didn't like the choices and there were too many vegetables. In the end, it seemed the food was too healthy
for mom. In fact, like her preferred wardrobe,
my mother primarily ate foods that were beige:
mashed potatoes, white bread, gravy, hot dogs.
In the last year, I've tried everything to get my mother to
eat, including installing a refrigerator in her room and stocking it with
strawberries and dip for potato chips and diet Pepsi and then calling her to
remind her she had snacks in the fridge.
Still, she lost 25 pounds.
In February, after a series of hospitalizations, which
included pneumonia and continuing extreme weakness, my mother chose to go on
comfort care and went into hospice. The
second day there, she had begun the dying process and everyone gathered to say
goodbye. We bought her tiny chocolate
cupcakes and potato chips since she was no longer on a diabetic diet. We were told she had days to a week to live.
The next day, when I arrived at her room, my mother was
sitting up in bed, cracking jokes, and eating cupcakes. Tiny crumbs littered her lap and her fingers
were smeared black. She waved at me joyfully, “Hi sweetie.” A week passed. My mother did not die. Off all her meds including
blood pressure pills, beta blockers to prevent heart fibrillation, and oxygen,
my mother looked pink and healthy. She continued to request cupcakes and chips.
Eventually mom stabilized enough to be released from hospice
into a long term care facility with hospice on board. This morning on the phone, she sounds happier
than I've heard her sound in years, reporting she had “cheerios, scrambled eggs
and toast” for breakfast, but is “still hungry.” I have started to call her “the mouth”
because of her voracious appetite. I
suggest she eat some snacks, which included 3 large bags of chips and a tin of
mini-cupcakes I brought her only four days ago, but she says she is all
out.
For so many years my mother used to say her one vice and, it was implied, her one great pleasure was cigarette smoking. For a while, she replaced smoking with cooking, but diabetes prevented her from enjoying even that fully. Now, we let her eat what she wants: desert at every meal, chips and cupcakes in between. My mother is embracing life as I've never seen her do before. She is clear that she is ready to die, but she is also clear that as the ship sinks, she will be standing on the deck with fistfuls of chocolate cupcakes, grinning up at the sky.
Comments
Post a Comment