The difficulties of June did indeed turn into a saga. They
just didn’t become a bunch of blogs—partly because of time, partly because it
still seems almost surreal.
Dad’s pancreatitis is chronic. As if the dementia didn’t
cause enough disruption to what was regular life, we now have a whole new set of
issues related to diet. He has to eat low fat, the lower the better, and not
spicy. That throws a wrench into meals all over the place. Whatever he eats, he
has to take medicine that tells the pancreas not to produce any enzymes, which
is what causes the pain of pancreatitis. The enzymes work on the pancreas
instead of the food elsewhere in the digestive track. Pretty much every meal he
makes a face about swallowing the capsules and drinking water, although he never
used to have problems taking pills, and we get, “Do I have to take them?”
Mom didn’t fry much food at home and leaned toward cooking
lower fat in many meals, but they did have fat in their diets—he more than she.
The new low fat means no bacon. No eggs over easy in the bacon grease (or any
other kind of fat). No potato chips or Fritos. No donuts, Shipley’s or
otherwise. Little gravy or sauces. Small amounts of foods such as her delicious
pork shoulders. Scant slices of pie or cookies.
No regular ice cream, as in no Blue Bell (if you are not a
Texan, you will not understand the gravity of this situation). Dad used to have
a bowl of Blue Bell pretty much every night somewhere between nine and nine
thirty. He did eat other brands when Blue Bell was out of production last year,
but that’s his favorite. Mom now gets him Dryer’s low fat and puts a couple of
scoops in a small dish for him so he doesn’t overeat or know he’s not getting
Blue Bell.
No regular butter. Dad likes butter. Sometimes he liked a
little food with his butter. She has switched him to whipped butter in small
amounts. Every time she puts it on the table for him, he says that it’s fake.
We explain that it’s real. I’ve taken to saying that it’s the fancy-schmancy
kind of real butter. He makes a dubious face and uses it.
That’s all an irritation because there’s still stuff we want
to eat, like the pork shoulder or chuck burgers. Sometimes we all eat whatever
he can handle. Sometimes we fix him something different, but that means cooking
two meals. Now we are learning what he can tolerate, such as a small chuck
burger grilled because the fat drips away, and that makes it a bit easier. But
we still have to watch how much of it he eats. He’ll want extra servings of the
roast or another roll with butter. No can do. That gets a dejected face.
Eating out is a bigger challenge. He has only a certain dish
he likes at most restaurants, such as beef fajita enchiladas at Mexican
restaurants. We could tell them no chips to avoid that fat, but Dad won’t
change to tacos al carbon or fajitas that have the same meat but way less fat.
Seafood restaurants mean fried shrimp. Or used to. We even have to watch other
shrimp options, as they are usually cooked in butter. Burgers out are too
greasy. No fries with the meal regardless of the main dish. That gets an
annoyed face.
It’s a huge frustration to me because it also means I have
lost my eating buddy. Mom isn’t big on stuff like fried chicken or the chili
dogs at James Coney Island (Jimmy’s). I am. He is. A perfect match. Places like
that were our go-to locations when we’d go without her. She got a break from
thinking for two, and we got a fun meal out, yakking about all kinds of stuff
as I drove, and during dinner, I’d pull out my phone and share silly stuff from
Facebook that made him laugh. I still go on my own, like I would other times
when I was out running errands, but it’s not the same because the fact that he
cannot go with me ever again is always somewhere in my mind.
He doesn’t make a face about that. He doesn’t realize he
can’t go—we aren’t going—to those places anymore. He’ll mention Jimmy’s or fried
chicken, and we deflect in the moment about it being good, maybe another day,
or that we’re having whatever else for dinner. And we never ever bring up those
places even in casual conversation. Some of you will understand the gravity of
the situation, especially regarding Jimmy’s.
I guess there’s a benefit to the dementia. I tried to call
it a blessing, but I can’t. He gets frustrated, even angry, in the moment about
aspects of a meal, like not having seconds, but he doesn’t fully realize what
is going on or remember later. His diet is repetitive. Lots of chicken, baked
potatoes. We could feed him the same meal three times a day, and he wouldn’t know
it.
There’s also the benefit from the diet. It’s healthier for
all of us, and we’ve found or created some yummy recipes, such as glazes for
fish, chicken and pork chops, and even some sweets, including donut muffins (see
http://threewoodenspoons.com/2010/04/18/sugar-donut-muffins/
and don’t bother brushing with butter. Just use a couple of forks and roll them
in the cinnamon and sugar right out of the oven). He’s lost about 20 pounds
since June. Now if he’d just quit sending some of those pounds my direction
when he gets rid of them.
