Tag Archives: alzheimers

For whom the pain tolls

Posted in June by

It amazes me what we (I) let our (my) LWA (loved one with Alzheimer’s) get away with in the name of the disease. Not only are we chauffer, cleaner and go-fer; we’re also expected to morph into the occasional doormat-ter.

I (thought) I learned how to let comments roll off my back like water off the proverbially duck as advised by all the doctors and everything I’ve read but after the tongue-lashing Miss Cathy unleashed with such fury a few months ago I was left feeling emotionally eviscerated.

The details of which I’m hoping my best to forget and have repeated enough so suffice to say my entire purpose for being came into question. Unfortunately, it’s something that I don’t think I’ll ever forget (and I’m someone who never says never-even though I just said “ever”).

After it happened I was confused and shell-shocked. We’ve had arguments and disagreements in the past but her reaction to the situation was so much bigger than the size of the incident and it was just too much.

I don’t know (which adds to the confusion) if it’s the Alzheimer’s, old age, fear or a combination of it all but emotional boundaries were crossed and her filter (which at best was barely there) was completely gone so she said things I never imagined I’d hear, the venom viscous with hate.

The only thing I could think to do was to get in my car and drive. I stopped at a park nearby and sat there trying to take in what had just happened. I got on my phone and first turned to my brother, who listened and was some comfort but could offer little else.

It was my friends, Brian and William that really came through for me. They gave me the words that turned into actions that helped me go back (which in and of itself was pretty powerful because every fiber in my being was screaming for me to just drive; where I didn’t know-anywhere but back there).

But, what they said (each in own way) has kept me and keeps me here/there to this day.
Brian reminded me that I’m not alone and that I’m not “stuck”, I can always get professional help for her and leave. William told me, “much will be said” (and he should know-he has challenges of his own caring for both his parents. He shared some of the things that have been said to him and he’s still there, everyday caring for them both.) He also told me to just get a thicker skin, “apologize to her” (even if I didn’t mean it or understand why it was important) and to just……“go on”.

So, I took their advice and went back.

Oh, don’t worry; Miss Cathy is fine (she hasn’t been stuffed and propped up in a rocker somewhere waiting to be discovered in the last reel like Norman Bates’ mother) in fact, she’s better than ever actually. She unleashed, I “apologized” and now she seems all the better for having gotten (whatever) off her chest.

I haven’t shirked my obligations either. I go through the motions day to day but something has shifted in me and when my day is done (more often than not) I find that I question my role as caregiver and my continued commitment to stay here. I have tried my best to show up for my duties (both as son and caregiver) but my heart (what’s left of it) isn’t into it anymore.

It’s humbling but I’m almost ready to concede that the Alz wins.

I confess I thought I was made of stronger stuff; having survived heartbreak, the death of friends to AIDs, domestic abuse, bankruptcy, alcoholism and career suicide…to name a few) but I guess I’ve met my match.

I was thinking I might have some more fight left in me (or at least a few more ounces of blood to give) but that changed the other day when it happened again. While it wasn’t the bloodletting that occurred before, once again Miss Cathy vented her anger. But this time I wasn’t taken totally of guard, the surface was sliced, old wounds were re-opened and there was a little pain, an emotional paper-cut if you will.

Unfortunately, the people closest to us can hurt us the most because while they love us for our strengths they also know our weaknesses and have to power to turn that against us. Alzheimer’s has a way of releasing the person suffering with the disease from the responsibility of keeping that trust.

Sometimes, you can see that the LWA knows they’ve over-stepped and are remorseful and other times they seem to know not the destruction they’ve wrecked and the emotional damage done. They seem just as pained and confused as the person they’ve hurt.

And while it’s forgivable (hopefully) to the one who’s boundaries have been broken, it’s like the bell that once rung cannot be un-wrung and they are left to decide for whom the pain tolls.

Home

Posted in May by

“When I think of home I think of a place where there’s love all around me. I wish I was home, I wish I was back there”…but there is no there, there.

All Dorothy had to do was click her heels in the movie or on the Broadway stage and there she went, back over the rainbow safe and sound to a familiar place.

Great sentiment and a wonderful feeling I’m sure but I haven’t felt at home for some time now. I left my life to join Miss Cathy in hers in her home some time ago but it’s never felt like “home” to me.

I told an ex of mine once that “home” is wherever your mother is-not the address or the physical place. But now, as Alzheimer’s has started to claim even a fraction of my mother’s mind she’s less “mother” and more “patient”.

Alzheimer’s has turned what used to be a safe place into a battleground; full of land mines that have to be avoided less they blow up into harsh words and tension.

These days I find that it’s easier to isolate myself in my little bedroom to avoid conflict. So, I inhabit the different areas of the room or “zones” as I call them as I move through my day, always having an ear out for when the coast is clear to go to the kitchen or use the balcony.

I don’t think I’ve sat in the living room in months, and if I have it’s just for the few moments it takes to relay some information to Miss Cathy or to listen to a request of hers.

Things have gone downhill since my last post which is the reason I haven’t been writing. It’s gotten too real to relay. I found that (unlike before) it wasn’t therapeutic or helpful to write about what’s going on because it was too painful emotionally to relive it on paper (on online as the case may be).

So, I don’t feel like I have a home and with no home you have no foundation and with no foundation you have no support and without support you’re all alone and that is a lonely place to be, “especially in a crowd” as Marilyn Monroe says in Gentlemen prefer Blondes.

But, what I have learned even in the face of no home, no foundation and no support is that I have “me” and that’s a pretty good start. I think of me as being a brick, and my “will to continue” my mortar so with brick(s) and mortar I can start to construct my own foundation, my own support and ultimately my own home.

Or maybe…just maybe, because I’ve always had me- like Dorothy I was (am) home already.

As time goes by

Posted in March by

I’ve been remiss in writing for the past month. The reasons being unexpected work (which is good) and a monetary self-consciousness (which is bad) about what I’ve been blogging and posting these last eighteen months or so.

I’d been blogging more or less as I’ve kept my journal for decades now; un-self conscious and un-varnished, pretty much the truth of my experience (as I see it, of course), without thought (not much anyway) of tone, ramifications or implications.

Funny how with a little time and distance you can look at something and suddenly see it in a completely different light (kinda like putting on that swim-suit that you got on sale in the off season and now that it’ll soon be summer you put it for the first time and wonder-what was I thinking?).

I made the mistake of re-reading some of my old posts and felt suddenly naked and very exposed (except for that swim-suit of course;) Well, I won’t be doing that again (reading that is-not writing). I’m not going to start editing myself or over thinking what I write-I mean, what would be the point if I did that? No, I’ll just continue to move forward in print and leave the looking back to others.

Since my last post I’ve taken Miss Cathy to her neurologist and to her primary care physician for her regularly scheduled check-ups. They both gave her glowing reports. She did better on the neurologists’ memory and cognitive skill’s tests than she’s ever done before and other than gaining a little weight, her health is better than ever, too.

Dr Aleymayehu, her neurologist explained (once again when she asked about her medication) that the Aricept she’s taking is not a “cure” but it “delays” the Alzheimer’s patient from progressing in the disease. Since she was diagnosed so early moms’ pretty much frozen in time with most of her wits about her so Miss Cathy is one of the lucky ones.

Sure, she still has some confusion, she still has anger issues and some days she gets overwhelmed when there are too many things going on. But, lets face it; those things are all manageable considering what others who are further along in the disease are experiencing

With her doing so much better I can understand why she keeps asking the doctor about the Aricept and what it’s suppose to be doing to help her. We know (well, I know) that Alzheimer’s is a progressive disease and it has no specific timeline of deterioration so it’s possible that Miss Cathy could be the way she is now for years to come. So, it’ all wonderful news but “what’s a caregiver to do?”

Lately I feel I have less purpose here. The first year was all about getting her acclimated to her (and my) new life and for some time she really seemed to struggle with the “day to day” and needed a lot of hands on care. And I was good at helping with that.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I want (or need her to be sick) it’s just that my days had purpose when she needed me and every day seemed to be a re-affirmation of my decision to leave my life to come join hers.

As time has gone by she’s more independent (compared to where she was after her fall in January of 2010) and has more days where she’s cleared headed and functioning like she had before her diagnosis (albeit slower than before).

She needs me less and I (feel anyway) like I’ve gone from caregiver to reluctant roommate. Or like I’m trapped in some vortex where it’s ten years ago and I’m on a visit home to see my mom but the visit never ends.

I hate to be a “Debbie downer” but I have to ask, “why am I still here?”

MIss Cathy goes country

Posted in February by

I don’t know when it started exactly. When I first moved in with Miss Cathy she would talk about how she’d occasionally watch a music video on CMT (Country music television) and I thought little of it.

Then I noticed that her days started to have a different soundtrack; instead of the usual sounds floating through the apartment of courtroom show gavels, one of the Cartwright’s’ needing “Pa” to help them out of a jam “down on the Ponderosa” or the applause of the game shows I would hear the soft twang of a guitar and warble of love lost from some unknown baritone.

I on the other hand seemed to be listening to the sounds of my own discontent. All I could hear were thoughts of how hard it is being here and questioning how much longer I can keep this commitment to care for Miss Cathy.

Believe me, I’m sick of the sound of my own belly aching and crying “whoa is me” but I don’t know….. I think I thought things would have gotten easier by now or…..different somehow-anything but the constant frustration, anger and ill at ease that I feel.

But, I constantly remind myself that this isn’t about me and it’s still early in the disease. This is the easy part where she’s more or less still herself so how can I possibly be thinking of bailing now? These are Halcyon days compared to what’s ahead.

So, I sit with my discontent, sharing coffee with it in the morning knowing it will leave me at some point during the day and freeing me to feel-sometimes joy, sometimes satisfaction in knowing that I’m doing the right thing but there’s never peace.

Mom on the other hand seems to have adjusted pretty well. Sure, the last tow years have been a big change for her too after living alone for almost ten years after pop died, but she’s always said she likes having family around. I’ve spent most of my life living alone, as if I were hatched and not part of any clan.

I can say that it is satisfying to know that she’s happy (or as happy as one can be with Alzheimer’s) I know that she likes having her son around-and I am “that” and I am “here”. Even though I keep to myself and lord knows we don’t talk very much she’s got Garth, Brooks, Dunn and Lady Antebellum to keep her company. It’s pretty much all country-all the time, she watches country music videos for hours at a time as she sits on the couch where she spends her days.

I drove her over to Tony’s for the Super Bowl last Sunday and on the drive we’d pretty much exhausted all conversation ten minutes into the hour plus drive leaving just the radio to fill the silence. But then I happened to switch from the classical station that I prefer to the country channel and through the rearview mirror I could see Miss Cathy light up like a Christmas tree.

Her mood was infectious and soon I was listening and humming along to the few songs or riffs that I recognized. We started talking between sets and before you know it we’d arrived at my brother’s place. I can’t remember having spent such a good time in her company for a long while.

Soon after we were inside the spell was broken, the old dynamics came back into play in my brother’s family room so I withdraw as Miss Cathy launched into a story that we’d all heard before but I could safely leave Tony and Suemi to be her audience as I once again turned to the sound of my own inner dialogue.

I wonder, like Miss Cathy’s new found interest in country music if this is just a phase or if I’m the last to know that this is it-life changes and suddenly you find yourself in Nashville and not in a New York state of mind.

F-bombs

Posted in January by

Miss Cathy is no stranger to how shall I say ……”salty language”. Let’s face it, she can make a truck driver blush but since her diagnosis she’s even made me wince and I’m about as vulgar as they come (I guess the foul-mouthed apple didn’t fall very far from that tree).

Last week with the redecorating and remodeling half way finished I was excited that when the ice maker for the new refrigerator was delivered that would at least signal the end of things to do in the kitchen for a while.

All of the new stainless steel appliances; stove, over the counter microwave and refrigerator came from the same big-box, discount electronic store and for the most part I was happy with the purchases.

On the day the ice maker was delivered I was surprised to see two guys at the door and not one and I was further puzzled that one of them didn’t just hand me the package and leave. The one holding the box said that they were here to “install” the ice maker so I proceeded to let them in.

Like everyone who now visits I asked them to please take their shoes off in the foyer before coming any further into the apartment. To my surprise they balked, one saying that we were their first stop of the day (as if that immunes them from bringing outside dirt inside) and that the installation wouldn’t take long. Since I wasn’t expecting them to install the ice maker (I hadn’t paid for that service-just the ice maker) I decided to not look a gift horse in the mouth and allowed them in (for some reason only the one who spoke came in and the other went back outside).

Unfortunately 45 minutes later the installer tells me that he was given the wrong ice maker at the warehouse for our refrigerator and another would have to be ordered.
I looked over at Miss Cathy on the couch after letting him out and she was fuming-not about the mistaken ice maker but about the fact that the guy didn’t take off his shoes.

I was on the phone with the store making arrangements for the correct item to be shipped and I made a point to complain about the installer’s objection to my request. When mom heard me mention the incident I could hear her in the background saying, “Let me talk to them.”

I ignored her, finishing up the conversation in my room and then I came back into the living room to tell her that I had handled it.

This seemed to calm Miss Cathy a bit but she was still worked up. “Well good”, she said, “that’s good that you know how to talk to people and get things done because I was ready to tell that fucker off and the people on the phone, too.”

“I don’t know who the fuck he thought he was saying he wasn’t going to take his shoes off, this is my house-not his!” “Makes me hot, I want to get that fucker fired!”

Alrighty then I thought, after stepping out the way of the last of the f-bombs and sitting next to her on the couch. Her reaction was kinda over the top but that’s par for the course lately so I just listened. She didn’t go on much longer and seemed appeased when I told her that the store apologized for the installer’s behavior and they were going to refund my money for the ice maker and ship and install the correct one for free.

That made her happy, crisis averted. The f-bombs are tucked away for another day, ready to drop at the next battlefield whether real or imagined.

Blessings

Posted in December by

One day last week I was sitting in the parking lot of CVS waiting for Miss Cathy to come back from buying a disposable camera. We were on our way to her girlfriend’s house for a holiday visit when she decided that she wanted to take pictures of Adele’s newly renovated kitchen. She’d been in here the store awhile so I was giving her another 15 minutes before I went in to check whether or not she was lost in one of the aisles or passed out from finally getting some exercise outside of the apartment.

When she finally returned to the car and was buckled up she told what had taken so long. Apparently she walked to the back of the store to the Pharmacy department thinking that’s where the photo center was (it’s actually located just inside the door on the right, beside the registers). She stood in line waiting to ask for the photo center location when she found herself in conversation with the lady in line ahead of her.

They got to talking about prescription drugs and how expensive they were. The woman told mom that she was distressed because her prescriptions (even though they were generic) were almost $100.00 a month and she didn’t know if she had enough money for this month’s supply.

Hearing her story Miss Cathy decided to offer the lady ten of the twenty dollars that she brought to purchase the disposable camera. The lady refused saying that she couldn’t possibly take her money and that she didn’t want mom to think that she told her plight to illicit money.

Miss Cathy assured her that wasn’t the case, simply that hearing her story made her realize how blessed she was in her life and all that she’d been given. She told the lady that she had great insurance and didn’t need to worry about her prescription costs like so many and she’d been blessed with great children and then she told her new friend about Tony and me.

In the car mom told me how years ago a woman had offered her some money when she was running short and she’d always remembered the kindness of that stranger and wanted to so the same for someone else. She said that the ten dollars wasn’t much but it was half of what she had so she offered it.

I listened to her, thinking that she’d never seen the movie or heard the expression, “pay it forward” but that was indeed what she was doing. I forget that underneath her bluster and the anger that the disease seems to taking over her personality that she’s a sweet person with a good heart.

She insisted that the woman take the money. True to form Miss Cathy told me that at that very moment she was thinking, “You betta take this money lady-I don’t offer money often-and never to strangers.”

What she said to the lady was, “please take the money, you never know where your blessings are going to come from so you should never refuse them when they present themselves.”

Grateful and touched, the lady took the money and Miss Cathy toddled off to the front of the store after the cashier told her where to go. She made her purchase and off we went to visit Adele to give her the Christmas wreath I’d made and to see her new kitchen and holiday decorations.

Bed(time) Story

Posted in December by

One day last week I was walking from the laundry room when I spied Miss Cathy pulling the sheets off her bed. Seeing me she asked, ”Do you have anything you want to go in the wash?”

“Isn’t that funny” I said, “Great minds think alike. I just took my bed things in to wash.”

I told her that I was going to do my laundry the day before but kept putting it off, leaving it till the traditional “wash-day” of old.

“I don’t think about what day it is to wash my things”, she said,” I just do laundry whenever I get ready. It used to be when I had a utility bill when we lived in the house that I would think about things like when it was cheaper to run water but now that I’m in a condo I just run water when I like.”

“Yeah, I know”, I say having heard what was coming a thousand times before, so I started walking again, “I wasn’t subscribing to any particular day to wash -I was just talking.”

“I use the water whenever I want because I pay my condo fees and there’s people here that don’t.” (At this point I could feel a rant coming on….)

“Makes me sick that people can do that! How can they do that and get away with it?” (And …there’s she goes….)

She went off on a tear about people who didn’t pay their faire share to the condominium association and how it made it hard on everybody else. So, to insure that she was NOT taken advantage of and got her monies worth she leaves lights on in rooms she’s not in and runs water without a thought to conservation-Miss Cathy logic.

Thankfully I had reached the laundry room and (small space that it is in a not very large apartment) it wasn’t far enough away so I could still hear her. I turned on the washer and the rushing water drowned out the sound of her negativity as it filled the machine with just enough water to clean my clothes (somebody around here has to be conscious of natural resources).

After the laundry was washed and dried I’d laid her linens back on her bed. Later that same morning on my way to my room to work I looked in on her in her room and saw her standing over the bed, thinking she was going to make the bed I went in to help.

“Where are you going?” I asked puzzled when she took the fitted sheet out of my hand. She’d gathered everything up was about to walk past me out of the room, “Don’t you want to make your bed while the sheets are still warm from the dryer?”

“Oh”, she said startled and confused, “I’m so crazy, I was headed for the laundry room. I thought I still needed to wash them.”

She came back into the room and I made the bed for her while she went into the living room to sit and watch television for a little while. It wasn’t much later than noon but I knew she’d be back and ready to lie down for a nap soon.

Blowin’ in the wind

Posted in December by

Thanksgiving was over a week ago but a conversation I had with my sister-in-law, Suemi still lingers in my mind-like so much leftover turkey you don’t know what to do with.

We found ourselves alone in the kitchen the morning after the holiday, everyone else was still passed out from turkey overdose, so we had a chance to have a private chat.

“Mom surprised me,” she said.

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen her and she looks so old, I’m surprised that she’s still walking so slow and using a cane. She doesn’t seem sure of her balance, always reaching out to grab onto something, like she thinks she’s going to fall. She’s how old? Seventy-three? Wow, by the way she walks and acts she looks ten years older.”

“It’s not only that”, she continued, “I can tell that she’s not the same, she’s not as confident as she used to be. I can see when I look into her face that something has changed.”

I listened, well aware of her metamorphosis into an “old lady”. Just a few years ago-before her diagnosis, she was active, independent and fearless, people were surprised when they found out how old she was. I listened, remembering who she was and quietly judging myself and wondering if I was being judged for her decline.

Suemi was surprised when I told her ho much Miss Cathy slept.

“Oh wow, that’s a lot!” she said eyes wide with amazement, “she can live another twenty years like that……just sleep, no work, no stress. A lot of old people live a long time that way.”

“Believe me I know,” I said nodding that I felt the same, “she’s like a bear hibernating through the rest of her life.”

But, she’s not completely stress free I reminded her, she still has her temper. Then I regaled my sister-in-law with some of the highlights of Miss Cathy’s rants against enemies and evils real and imagined.

I was kind of surprised that Suemi had seen so much change in Miss Cathy in just the space of three or four months.

She reminded me of the reason why I started this blog in the first place. I was very aware when I moved here that it was important to record the progression of her disease. I knew that change when come when I was busy tending to her and before I knew it ‘who she is’ would be the new normal and l would have forgotten how she ‘used to be’.

Tough as it is, these are the Halcyon days of Alzheimer’s, she’s still stage one dementia but the curtain can lift on stage two at any time and those challenges will make the previous diagnosis seem ‘quaint’ so I wanted to be sure to write it all down so that I could remind myself that it wasn’t all bad.

With caregivers, it seems that you deal with the person as they are “that day” and quickly you forget how it’s different from yesterday’s issues and challenges.

Some things, like the love you feel for them-and they for you are constant but everything else is kinda up for grabs. But knowing that, hell, and even writing about it doesn’t prepare you for an outsider’s observation (an outsider being anyone that isn’t their caregiver and hasn’t seen your loved one for awhile-be they friend or family) that validates your purpose.

Suemi held up a mirror so that I could see Miss Cathy (and myself) and it hit me that Thanksgiving this year is yet another marker of change in our family. We’re not a particularly sentimental bunch (well, I am but I’ve long maintained that someone made a scramble with the babies when I was born and I was left with the wrong people-all evidence and my striking familial resemblance to the clan aside).

Anyway, Thanksgiving became important to us as a family back in1997. It was the last time my pop was healthy enough to celebrate the holiday before cancer took him away the following spring. He’d been in the hospital just days before and the doctors weren’t holding out hope that he’d ever leave (alive) but he proved them wrong buy not only getting better, he sat at his place at Tony’s holiday table and ate like a man half his age and filled the room with his deep Barry White baritone and laughter. Since then we’ve made it a point to get together on the last Thursday in November.

And now, after not being at Tony’s last year because Miss Cathy just didn’t want to go we were all together this year but it’s different now. Not only do we have the memory of pop at the thanksgiving table to top our list of thanks, this year we add Miss Cathy’s joy and spontaneous “Star spangled banner”.

We will come together next here but the reality is that she probably won’t be the same but who knows, maybe she’ll surprise us and sing her favorite Bob Dylan song:

“How many roads must a man walk down before they call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail before she sleeps in the sand?
How many times must the canon balls fly before they’re forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind”.

This ‘n that lll

Posted in November by

I just returned from a week off. It was my first break since going to New York to teach for a few days every other week for a while last summer.

I had committed to taking a week for myself every three months but that had fallen by the wayside. For whatever reason I felt I didn’t need the time away (could that mean that I’m actually starting to ‘like it’ here-naw). But months ago after Chad’s visit here I’d spontaneously decided to go back to Kansas City to spend a week with him.

Since Miss Cathy has been doing so well I didn’t feel bad about leaving her alone in the apartment and as is my rule I didn’t tell her about the trip till one week before my departure. She took the news in stride and there wasn’t the usual daily peppering of questions that have seasoned past trips.

Her only response when I told her my plans was, ”Oh, well I’ve gotten used to you being around so I don’t feel like I really need a break from you.”

“Okay.” I thought to myself, “these little getaways aren’t really for you” but said nothing and smiled, not wanting to take the focus off of her.

I gotta say, it was easier being away this time. A few days before my departure I made a run to the grocery store to make sure she’d have all her favorite foods and reminded Ron (her ‘other son’ from upstairs) to check in on her as well as reminding her other biological son, Tony.

While I was gone I didn’t worry (much) and called every other day, hearing from her only once or twice and it was good that when she did call she told me that she’d gone out with her girlfriend once (she actually left the apartment) in addition to the usual ranting about ‘relatives of unknown origin’.

My only concern when we talked was when she told me that one day there was a knock at the door and when she asked who it was the person said, “Is your son at home?” (this is worrying because I don’t have any ‘friends’ in the area that would just drop by unannounced) but she only talked to him through the door and didn’t give the stranger any information that would lead him to think she was alone.

She call Ron immediately after and he suggest that she leave the alarm system on even while she’s in the house during the day and not just at night when she goes to bed.

The other thing that concerned me was that she didn’t sound as if she was eating enough vegetables (which are usually a mainstay in her diet) but I was relieved to hear that most of what she was making to eat didn’t involve a lot of cooking on the stove.

Tony came on the weekend to hang out with her and then (to my surprise) took her to Charlestown Races so she could gamble (which for her means sitting at a nickel or quarter slot machine and pulling the arm until her shekels ran out-one of her favorite past-times).

I left last Sunday morning and arrived back here last night a week later. Ron picked me up at the airport and reported that all was well and Tony was going to be bringing Miss Cathy back sometime Monday morning.

So, thanks to my brother(s) I’ve got a few moments to myself to unpack and ease back into life here.

Oh, spoke too soon….I see them pulling up outside. Time to go to work………

Food for thought

Posted in November by

Food seemed to be a recurring theme this week, specifically the “new” and the “mistaken”.

One of the perks of my part-time job working in catering is the occasional food that I get to bring home, less so these days as I bartend more than serve but I worked an event last Saturday and I was able to bring a few things home to share with Miss Cathy. She always calls these unexpected goodies “a special treat” and lights up like a Christmas tree at the sight of them.

She joined me in the kitchen and settled herself on one of the bar-chairs as I told her that one of the things that I brought for her was a small tin of caviar. Well, the lights went out faster than you could say “ Bah humbug” and she let out a little squeal.

“Oh nooo! I can’t stand that fishy stuff,” she said, making a face like Lucille Ball whenever she found that she’d stepped in it on “I Love Lucy”. “No thanks buddy, you can have that, I don’t want any of it!”

“Caviar,” she mocked, dragging out the syllables as if she were pulling snakes out of a hole, “ it’s suppose to be some expensive delicacy-big deal.”

“Oh, you’ve had it before?” I asked, already knowing the answer to the question.

“You can keep that stinky mess, it smells just as bad as what poor people eat down south, umm, what-is-that-called? Oh yeah, chitlins…it smells just as funky.”

“Umm, okay,” I said, amused, “so, that’s what you think, now answer my question, have you ever eaten caviar-yes or no?”

“No,” came the reply, “and I’m not going to start now, I’m not eating raw fish eggs, that’s what it is right?” “I don’t eat things raw, I don’t like sushi (another word wrestled out of her mouth as if saying it were the same as consuming it) and I don’t like caviar, ut uh!”

Her logic and stubbornness reminded me of a four year old so I treated her like one. For some reason I got a perverse kick out of this exchange and it suddenly became very important to me that she taste the caviar.

“How can you say you don’t like something if you’ve never tries it?” I reasoned as I prepared a cracker with sour cream and topped it of with some of the salty, little black pearls.” “Well, it seems to me that you have to try something at least once before you can render an opinion

“Aww! No I don’t,” came the petulant replay.

I walked the cracker round the table to where she sat and said, “Oh come on, just try it.”

“Let me smell it.” She said by way of negotiating as I lifted the hors d’ oeuvre closer to her mouth.

“Don’t smell it, just take a small bite, then that way you can say you’ve tried it and you don’t like it.”

She scrunched up her face as if she was about to be spoon-fed castor oil but to my surprise she opened her mouth and took a little bite.

“Now, that wasn’t so bad,” I said, pleased with myself that I got her to try something new.” What did that taste like?”

She looked at me and said, “Nothing, I didn’t taste anything but the sour cream.”

I took that as the go-ahead to load up the remainder of the cracker with more caviar. She took another bite and again she was un-impressed.

“See, much ado over nothing.” “Well, now you can say that you’ve tasted caviar and you’ll know what you’re talking about when you dismiss it-and you can stop saying how bad it smells because it doesn’t.”

She shrugged, ready to move on to something more appetizing. She was much happier eating the shrimp and cocktail sauce, it was familiar and more in keeping with what she’d call “a special treat”.

A little later that same night I started to make some dinner for myself. While I was out working Miss Cathy had made salmon cakes (just this side of “not” being burned, loaded with salt and a motley mix of spices, onions and garlic) and peas (with a generous amount of butter). Some of the salmon patties didn’t quite hold their shape so she’d put the cooked excess in a bowl beside the stove. I took one look in the bowl and re-named it “Who-hash” (named for the fantastical food that appears on the banquet table at the end of classic cartoon “The Grinch that stole Christmas”). Despite how it looked it tasted pretty good so I decided to put it over some rice I’d made the day before along with the peas and some diced jalapeno (Miss Cathy’s not the only one that can concoct a very a meal for a very discerning palette).

I left my concoction in the kitchen while I made a phone call in my bedroom to my ex, Chad. As I was saying goodbye I opened my door and heard Miss Cathy say, “Ut oh, I think I picked up the wrong bowl.”

I walked past her door, not taking the time to focus on what she was saying because I was still talking on the phone. It wasn’t until I entered the kitchen that her words made sense to me. I looked on the counter for my bowl and it was gone, next to the microwave sat an identical bowl and when I looked inside it only contained a spoonfull of the “Who-hash”.

I told Chad about the mix-up and promptly got off the phone. I went into Miss Cathy’s bedroom where she was sitting on the side of her bed eating my dinner to straighten out the “hash-up”.

“Why are you eating my dinner?” I queried.

“Oh,” she said putting the fork back into the bowl. ”I thought it was strange that there was so much food in my bowl, it just didn’t look right but I just added some sour cream then I put it in the microwave and started eating it.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said, once again amused by Miss Cathy and food,” you saw the bowl, knew there was something “not” right about it but you took it anyway AND you started eating it knowing that you didn’t make it?”

“It didn’t dawn on you that maybe somebody else, namely me, might have put that together?”

“Well, I knew there was something not right but..”

“…. But, you took it anyway, drowned it in sour cream and started eating it.” I said, finishing her thought as we laughed together.

“Yeah, I guess, but this is too much for me, I don’t think I want all this.”

“Too bad”, I said, teasingly, taking the bowl from her, “you loaded it up with sour cream so now you’re gonna eat it. I’m going to put it in the fridge for you and you can have it tomorrow.”

So, it’s been a very interesting week-food wise, between the caviar and the “who’s” hash.