“I am so glad you’re here. I have not eaten all day. I am so hungry.”
Mom shares this when I arrive, as soon as she stops crying. When I visit, she’s usually either in her bed, napping, or wandering the halls. Once she recognizes me, she starts shaking and crying, opening her arms wide. As I embrace and calm her, telling her over and over that it’s okay, she says, “I thought you’d never come.” And then tells me she’s starving. I know that she has just eaten, and I don’t mention it.
It’s Sunday. We split a garden salad. She has trouble using a fork, so she picks up pieces of lettuce with her hands and manipulates them into her mouth. We’re at a point where I state what I want to be true, and she agrees. “This is so delicious.” She nods and says, “So good.” “This is just the best day.” “Best day,” she repeats. “Isn’t it just a beautiful day?” “So pretty,” she echoes. The pizza arrives, and I caution her it’s hot. This does not dissuade her, and after attempts of sawing it with her fork, rubbing the tines back and forth, back and forth, with little luck, she picks it up with her hands.
After one slice, she declares herself full. I ask for a box and the check and we prepare to leave.
She carries the pizza box, containing all but two slices of pizza, and I help her navigate her way to the parking lot. I go to open her car door, and she says, “Have we eaten yet? I am so hungry!”
I laugh and tell her that I have a surprise for her in the car. We buckle in, and I tell her to open the box she is holding. She is delighted with the snack for the ride home. “This is so good!” She exclaims. It is. Everything is so good.