Member-only story
These Small Things (My Mom’s Alzheimer’s)
When my mother was young, table manners were a sign of good breeding. She used knives, forks and spoons at the table for the smallest meal. You just didn’t eat with your fingers because, in my mother’s way of thinking that was for animals. She was raised in the British system of etiquette where often times, appearances were more important than comfort or common sense. Under my mother’s watchful eye, many a juicy mango escaped full consumption unless you timed it right, picking up the succulent mango seed with your hands and sucking up all that sweet juice between the time she left the table and when she returned. To pick up a plate and slurp juices directly from it was to risk a verbal reprimand at best, a spanking at worst. Even years after my mother migrated to America, a knife and fork were standard place settings for all her meals regardless of the fare.
In the loosening of connections that Dementia brings, this and many of Mom’s life-long habits have unraveled. Now I watch her pick up pieces of chicken with her fingers and stuff them into her mouth as we sit at the table; the knife and fork lay forgotten on the plate. After futile attempts to encourage her to use her utensils I decide some things are just not that important. But then the next unraveling occurs.
Mom loves corn on the cob, in fact she loves corn in any form. I started stocking up on fresh corn in the…
