No Saints around Here: A Caregiver’s Days

Gravy

123 GRAVY October 20 Gravy,” James said. “I like gravy.” Then he paused. Dr. Sutton waited a minute or two. Then she asked encouragingly , “Well, I like gravy too. But gravy on what?” James looked at her pleasantly. “Gravy. I just like gravy.” I tried to keep a straight face. A few months ago, at one of James’s regular checkups, she had noted his continuing weight loss. Two or three pounds were disappearing every few months. Before Parkinson’s, James weighed 168 pounds (and at six feet and very fit, that seemed about right.) Now he was at 136. We clearly needed to talk about food. “So, is he eating well?” Dr. Sutton asked me. “Well,” I said, circling around a prickly subject, “meals are really difficult. I know he needs to gain weight, so I try to fix highcalorie dishes, but if I ate what he eats, I’d balloon up very quickly. So basically I have to produce two different meals three times a day, and I don’t have a lot of time to do that. I can’t spend too long cooking. Also he has become increasingly picky. I never know from one meal to another what he’ll eat, and he doesn’t like some things he used to love. When I put a plate in front of him, I’m just hoping for the best. “Besides that,” I went on, picking up speed, “James has always “ gravy 124 had a phobia about weight—this goes back to a time before I knew him—so he seems to feel better if he leaves food on his plate. This can be very frustrating, because actually, I’m a very good cook.” Dr. Sutton smiled. She looked at James again. “So is she a good cook, James?” she asked. James, for once, didn’t hesitate. “Her mashed potatoes are lumpy,” he said. Dr. Sutton raised her eyebrows queryingly at me. I was seething. Not too long ago, I loved cooking. I bought my first cast-iron stockpot when I was twenty-three, and over the years I kept adding to a collection of cookbooks. For a long time, though, I haven’t opened one. I don’t even have time to dust them. “He is referring to a new recipe I tried a few days ago,” I said evenly. “We went out for lunch last week at Spoonriver, his favorite restaurant, and he raved about a side dish of mashed potatoes whipped with cooked carrots and coconut milk. The owner, Brenda, whom James adores, gave me the recipe. But I don’t have a commercial ricer, just an ordinary masher, and so yes, the potatoes were a little lumpy.” “Well, I suggest you stick to really simple foods,” Dr. Sutton said. “Just fix his favorites.” (Did she imagine I had been fussing with Peking duck or beef Wellington?) That was when she asked James what he liked. So she got her answer: gravy. James likes gravy. Before Parkinson’s, food was not a problem. James and I always enjoyed our meals together. I did most of the cooking, and he was an appreciative and congenial dinner partner. We talked, laughed, and often watched the PBS NewsHour at suppertime. Sometimes we played gin rummy over dessert. Afterward, James usually washed the dishes. Now we still watch the NewsHour, but mostly to fill the emptiness of the supper hour. James cannot talk and eat at the same time, and in any case, he cannot actually talk much. He eats very, very slowly. Mealtime endures at least an hour. gravy 125 I make a little conversation, but mostly I’m jumping up and down, adding ice to his water, cutting up his food, helping him scoop or stab with spoon or fork, often sliding the utensil into his mouth, warming up a plate or coffee that has grown cold, feeding him pills, and then clearing dishes, fixing his dessert, and hoping to get the kitchen clean before I have to take James upstairs for bed. By 5:00 p.m. on any ordinary day, I am worn out. But that is exactly when I need to move into a higher gear. My aide has left. Supper looms. I need to keep James entertained (or perhaps resting ) within eyesight, while I figure out what to put on the table. (“Just three hours,” I tell myself. “I can keep...