"Mom, that woman who I call "Old Yeller" is hallucinating again. She's yelling at people who aren't there. Go over there and let her yell at you."
Facial expression for "Um, hell no."
"See, it could be worse. You're just taking your clothes off. That shit doesn't bother me at all."
She smiles.
This is part of a conversation during which I keep acknowledging the reality of the situation---her increasing confusion and fall risk, her decreasing ability to feed herself or put words together, and her retirement home in the cuckoo's nest---
with this matter-of-fact calm and and reassurance that seems to come from somewhere else. She keeps smiling, laughing, and talking as much as she can. She seems relieved. I'm sure some of that was dementia-related and maybe she didn't quite get the whole thing, but damn it, she seemed happy to me.
I brought her filet mignon for my birthday dinner. My dad used to grill it for her, and that's how she likes her filet to be prepared. By my dad. She's losing interest in food, so for my birthday, I wanted her to eat a damn filet mignon. The Memory Clink only has plastic utensils. She couldn't get the steak onto the fork by herself, and the lettuce in the Caesar salad was cut for an awkward first date. Despite the difficulties, she would not stop eating. When everyone else was finished and ready for cake, The Gummer was still letting me jam a cheap plastic fork into an expensive cut of meat and then trying to navigate it into her mouth.
During the Old Yeller conversation, I mentioned that I had noticed she was having trouble feeding herself. She didn't deny it. I said I thought it had a lot to do with the plastic utensils, though we both know it's more than that. She struggles with regular utensils, too. (She ate part of the filet with her hands. It wasn't like watching a toddler eat, but it sure as hell wasn't like watching my mom eat. Not the previous version of her, anyway.)
The problem is that both the Parkinson's and the dementia are getting worse. She isn't interested in eating, and maybe the food at the Memory Clink is a bit slapdash and nutritionally odd. She's lost 12 pounds in the last year. (I sympathetically gain whatever she loses. Maxi skirts are my friend.) (This is a temporary situation. Look away, my friends. Look away.)
Anyway...
As her interest in food is decreasing, I've been trying to bring her whatever she wants or used to want. This, unfortunately, includes veal.
"Is filet mignon the only cut of steak that you like?"
She does not remember.
"I like ribeye. That's a fattier cut, but it's delicious."
She remembers not liking that.
"You seemed to really enjoy the steak on my birthday. I've been using that George Foreman grill. Jack and I have been grilling a lot. I can bring you whatever you want... and real utensils."
She does not remember the George Foreman grill.
"I can bring you veal."
Her eyes light up. "Veal is so expensive."
"Mom, you have money."
More wattage. "I do."
"What's happening now sucks. You should be eating whatever the fuck you want. If there was ever a time in your life to eat veal, this is it."
"True."
"If it ever gets to a point where you can't eat, I'll bring you puréed veal. Fuck it. Whatever you want."
She is glowing about her potential puréed veal. She is happy to be able to laugh. I'm not afraid, and I'm not going to leave her. My dad loved her and made sure she'd be okay when he was gone.
Puréed veal as a metaphor. Only me...
Then she remembers the Kruta's cheesecake I brought:
"The others are going to want it."
Good ol' Mom.
"That woman is yelling again. I really feel bad for her. Come on. Let's go over there and pretend to be whoever she is yelling at so she feels better."
I don't know what else to say except "This is great!"
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