Today about an hour after we had lunch here at home, Bo asked if we had eaten lunch yet.
Two days ago, within the space of 30 minutes, this took place:
I said, “ Let’s go out for lunch — to Wendy’s so we can get a chocolate milkshake. “
“OK” he agreed as he got up from lying on the sofa for the last half hour. “But I’m not very hungry.”
“You can get just a small sandwich.”
A few minutes later he said, “I don’t really want to go out. I’m not hungry.”
“How about some soup?”
“Yeah, that’s what I want.”
So I went to heat a can of his favorite clam chowder (and add a can of his favorite food group: corn.) I began making him an open-face cheese sandwich.
Bo had gone upstairs, so I called up that the soup would be ready in a minute. I returned to the kitchen and in a few minutes he was there, asking, “Are you ready to go?”
“Aren’t we going out to eat?” He had changed his clothes from his recent uniform of old cotton turtleneck and warm-up pants to a nice shirt and slacks.
“I have the soup heated; you said you wanted it.”
“I said that?” he asked.
It is at this point that I’m never sure what to do. Should I just go with the flow, grab the car keys and go to Wendy’s? Not even tell him he had said something else? We ate at home but he really wasn’t hungry. Eating is often more a chore than a pleasure now for him, the man who always loved food and ate everything enthusiastically.
While he was eating he asked me, “Did I have something like this last year?”
“What do you mean? Feeling tired and weak?” I asked. “Yes, you had something like this not too long ago.”
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t remind him that he has Alzheimer’s. It seems too cruel to tell someone when they’ve forgotten about it.