The lost pleasures of food: "A
Chocolate Milkshake, Please!"
Eating for him had always been a great pleasure, the bigger
and juicier the burger, the better. He had always asked for extra gravy on his
plate lunch, and two scoops of macaroni salad. Any kind of chicken, pork or
beef, with pasta, potatoes or bread were much preferred to salads and greens. Fruits
were best served cold and sweet. It's not that vegetables and fish were banned
altogether, but he preferred to go right for the heavier calories. He was not
diabetic or morbidly obese, but he was heavyset and knew that a change of diet
would be good for him. He would have none of it, he didn't drink, smoke, do
drugs, carouse or gamble—eating was his one vice, and he loved
it.
He remembered that eating had always been an important part
of his life. His mother and father made it a point to bring the family together
for dinners most weeknights, and definitely on Sundays. When the family could
not dine together, TV dinners had been the norm. During the two years that he
courted his wife, eating out was one of their favorite pastimes. Over dinner,
they had learned everything about each other and had fallen in love. Whenever
possible, he had continued the tradition of dining together with his small
family. He cooked chicken, spaghetti, Hamburger Helper and other simple fare
when his wife was too busy at work. Buying a Happy Meal at McDonald's for his son, or spending an hour over
French Fries and a Coke, while his little boy played on the swings and jungle
gym at the local park, was considered time well spent. Oreos and chocolate chip
cookies were acceptable and common afterschool snacks. Ice cream before bedtime
was a ritual he had passed on from his father to his son.
"Another bite?" His caregiver asked.
He moved his head slightly to the left and right, meaning
"No."
The lukewarm mashed potatoes gave him no pleasure.
"Water," he struggled to say.
He was perturbed that after every bite, he had to remind his
caregiver to give him water. She knew that he had difficulty swallowing, and
that he often choked on his food. He was annoyed that she seemed distracted,
looking out the window rather than paying attention to him. He was depressed
that he couldn't shovel the potatoes into his mouth as fast as he wanted. He
had lost all patience with the tiny spoonfuls that she was intent on giving
him. He wanted to take huge gulping mouthfuls like those that he used too. He
wanted to taste the salted butter throughout his entire mouth. He was upset
that the potatoes on the right side of the plate were clearly still warm, yet
she continued to spoon him the cooler potatoes on the left. He wanted to guide
the spoon by himself, choosing whatever items looked most appetizing at the
moment.
He is angry that his choice of foods has been whittled down
to things that are tasteless, soft, and easy to chew and swallow. He has to
concentrate fully when eating. The flow of saliva, the precise placement of his
food, the motion of his tongue and teeth, all have to be perfectly synchronized
with his ventilator in order to prevent gagging. He cannot spend a lot of time
chewing and swallowing, his energy is limited. His mouth does not open as wide
as it used too – the mask covering the his nose prevents this. Long gone are
the days of enjoyable conversations at dinnertime, a picnic at the park, gobbling
a quick burger in the car, or even watching television during a meal. There's
no more experimenting with exotic flavors and textures. Sadly, eating has
become nothing more than a means to receive nourishment—the
pursuit of pleasure through food has disappeared from his life.
He hates to watch restaurant and food commercials. The
mixture of nostalgia and craving they bring is unbearable. He remembers dipping
Ruffles potato chips during a football game, greedily licking barbecue sauce
off his fingers after a rack of Baby Backs, and going back for second and third
helpings at the all-you-can-eat salad bar. Imagining the unlimited breadsticks
and pasta bowls advertised at the local Olive Garden makes his stomach growl
with anticipation; a dream that he knows cannot be realized. The advertisements
are persuasive, too clever, too inviting—they
work too well. He'd rather not watch.
He now knows why babies often get frustrated in their high
chairs. It's no fun at all being fed squishy slurry foods that have little
spice or texture. It's difficult not being in control of the nourishment going
into your mouth. He understands why they bang the table and scream when the
food comes to slow or too fast. He empathizes with their cries when the baby
food misses their mouths and dribbles down the sides of their necks. He understands
their need to lash out when the water is too cold, the soup is too hot or the
juice is room temperature. He realizes the pain that babies feel when they are
hungry or too full. He knows what it's like to be unsatisfied and uncomfortable;
he has had an air bubble in his tummy and not been able to stand up and move
around to induce a gas relieving burp or fart.
"Thank you," he said as graciously as possible,
indicating that he was done.
"You sure," she said. "How about some
chocolate milk later?"
He shook his head "yes," as vigorously as
possible.
Later that day, his eyes sparkled with joy when his wife
unexpectedly brought him a chocolate shake from McDonalds. He is happy to be
alive. He is lucky to have people who love him.
No comments:
Post a Comment