(this is annie)

At the nursing home, the aides would bring my father a tray with assorted soft foods — usually some sort of vegetable, chicken, dessert — and we would feed him as much as he would allow. Because he was stubborn, he'd occasionally refuse to eat more than a few spoonfuls of food, leaving me to wheedle him into having dinner. "Just one bite," I'd say. "Then I won't bother you about it anymore." I got away with this because I am the baby of the family, and because I also acknowledged his weariness of the food. Though it was surprisingly pretty good, this was a man who loved chocolate malts and chicken strips and Mexican food. They don't serve those foods in nursing homes.

When we learned that he had only a couple of months to live, I said, "Well, whatever he wants to eat, he can eat. We'll bring him chocolate malts or McDonald's or anything he asks for." Betty wasn't sold on the idea, arguing that high blood pressure had contributed to the problems that would lead to his death. "Do you want to feed your father the hamburger that kills him?!" she exclaimed. I just raised an eyebrow, and ultimately she got what I was saying.

Sort of. By the days before his death, my father had lost the ability to feed himself and speak. He showed no interest in food. My brother, however, discovered that if you spoon-fed him ice cream, he'd happily eat. So that's what we did. The night before he died (or maybe the night before that, it's all a blur) I tried to feed him vegetables, and he refused to open his mouth. For ice cream, however, he gladly obliged. I was sitting at his bedside, spooning ice cream into his mouth, when Betty spotted his untouched dinner.

"He should have a proper meal," she said. "Some of this chicken, and some mashed potatoes and gravy."

"He doesn't want it," I said. "But he's eating the ice cream."

"Well, that's not very nutritious."

"Yes," I said quietly. "But this might be his last meal, and if he doesn't want mashed potatoes, I'm not going to force it. He wants ice cream, so I'm feeding him ice cream."

Betty made one of her little hissing sighs. "Well, for my last dinner, I'd prefer mashed potatoes."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said. (I am a terrible daughter.)

Betty puttered about the room for a few minutes while I continued to feed my dad. Then she said, "Oh, just let me try giving him the potatoes." Okayfine.

"Bob?" she purred, loud enough so he could hear it. "Have some of this, honey."

Fully expecting the cold sweetness of ice cream, my father dutifully opened his mouth, and Betty plopped the mashed potato onto his tongue with a smile. As soon as the tuber hit his tongue, his mouth puckered, his nostrils flared, and he slowly turned and gave her the biggest pissed-off stare you've ever seen. Betty started laughing, apologized to him, and then switched to the dessert. That seemed to please him. Maybe you had to be there, but he was funny until the end. And yes, his last meal was ice cream. Vanilla.

Labels: betty, dad