Those Steak and Cupcake Days

My father dispenses Valentines cards to the ladies in his life—wife, mother, and daughters—pretty much without fail.  He pens “from Mom and Dad” on cards for my sisters and me, including those given for birthdays, Christmases, and graduations.  Over the last few years, these celebratory occasions belied the advancement of the dementia as my mother’s signature transformed from legible loops and swirls to an increasingly squiggly line before it was replaced altogether with my father’s inscription.  This becomes a bit of a conundrum, as my father continues to sign for both even when my mother obviously has no idea what is going on.

Of course, we keep signing cards to my mother, even when she cannot read them or register their sentimental value.  For their 33^rd wedding anniversary, my father sends my mother flowers at the Memory Unit.  My mother is still in her tear-up/knock-over/chew-on anything not nailed down phase, so Nurse sets the bouquet on top of the television console in the living room.  And they are appreciated, as, for two weeks, several residents comment on their loveliness.  Meanwhile, my mother never gives them a second look. 

For Christmas we give her a new set of fleece pajamas and super-soft socks with the hope that they will make an impression as usable things, and not just a thought-that-counts kind of gift she no longer understands.  We stand around her, holding out a box stuffed with the clothing and wrapped in colorful paper, prodding her to rip up the wrapping like she does the fake plants in the hallway.  She touches the slick paper with her fingertips and turns away.  My sisters and I form a semicircle that moves with her, preventing an escape from the gift-opening process.  We tear a corner here and there in an attempt show her what to do.  The plastic bow seems more enticing than the gift (and, apparently, more tasty), so we eventually just present the clothing to her outright.  She does an about-face and scoots toward the door.  Following the anticlimactic gift opening, we all stay for lunch.  This is the first time the five of us gather around the same table since my mother arrived at the Memory Unit six months earlier, and we wonder if Mother even notices.  Though a joyous occasion, the meal is a harsh reminder of what Alzheimer’s takes from families.

Valentine’s Day poses a new question: What does a man do for his wife, who doesn’t care about items, won’t notice flowers, and in all likelihood does not understand how she knows him? 

He gives her a traditional card that she carries around for a while before someone eventually props it upright on a side table in the living room.  Then, he presents her with a cupcake.  Made in an Omaha bakery, the pastry is solid devils food topped with three inches of chocolate frosting.  My mother, without a doubt, loves it, as evidenced by the frosting and crumbs that coat her fingers and face and shirtfront. 

My sisters and I ask a similar question: What do you give a father who is losing his wife?  We discuss possibilities and, taking a cue from his gift to our mother, buy him a few good steaks at the grocery store.  My sister gives them to him with a pithy “sorry we ate the chocolates” card.  He says the card is “nice,” but the steaks, those are “outstanding.”  His officemates agree during a water-cooler chat, and for the next two days he contemplates a strategy for the grill, weighing options of salt-seasoning and marinade.  Finally, he gets cooking on a day when my sisters and I are there.

Yes, my family seems to have an interesting relationship with food, but that is not the whole story.  We have no way of knowing if my mother remembered that cupcake the next day or even an hour after she ate it, but for the time she sat at the table, that experience made her happy.  What is one of the most important gifts you can give someone who has a profound understanding of loss?  Time.  Quality time, with family or friends, at dinner tables or bakeries or wherever.  Cupcakes and steaks are part of a larger reminder to those we love that their lives are not lived in solitude.