The last conversation I had with my mom was on Memorial Day. She was mostly bedbound, unable to walk or stand, and she rarely opened her eyes anymore. She had two badly infected toes that required a dose of morphine before they could be tended to by a nurse. She hadn’t eaten a full meal in many days, and off and on, owing to the Alzheimer’s, she had trouble finding her words.
I stopped at a Whole Foods not far from her memory care unit and perused the aisles for something that might entice her to eat, even just a little. In the past, my brother and I brought her everything from Chinese food to bagels and lox to cheese pizza, all of which she loved. But what she needed now was something tempting that did not require chewing. I settled on coffee ice cream. It wasn’t anything she would have eaten before the dementia, because she was always watching her weight, but later, when she no longer remembered all the food rules she had set for herself, she ate ice cream with something nearing abandon.
“Mom,” I said, walking into her room that Memorial Day morning. “It’s your favorite daughter, Dana, and I have a treat for you!”
Beneath the blankets, the outline of her tiny body was barely visible. She didn’t stir and didn’t open her eyes. But from somewhere in the vicinity of her pillow, the smallest voice said, “Is it a boyfriend?”
Did I ask what she could possibly want with a boyfriend at this point? Or where I might find said boyfriend, who, I assumed, she would want to be in good health, and, given that she’d never shown any interest in younger men, would need to be 96 or older? I did not. It didn’t seem to be any of my business.