Elaine Soloway's Caregiving Series: Food and Music - A Perfect Match
I’m not sure when he noticed me. Perhaps when I was opening Tommy’s tiny catsup pouch with my teeth. Or, when I put my hand on my husband's, and said, “slow,” reminding him to chew one mouthful before taking another.
The stranger waited until we finished our lunch and Tommy was heading for the door before he stopped me and said, “I hope my wife takes such good care of me when I need it.” I preened and thanked him.
This monitoring of my husband’s meals is a new task in my caregiving routine. His Primary progressive aphasia affects speech and can also impact swallowing. So, our mealtimes together have taken on a new watchful ambiance.
As Tommy and I left the restaurant to walk, arm-in-arm, I thought about our very first meal together. Vigilance was absent back then. Our first date was at a Mexican restaurant that was near Tommy's apartment and my townhouse.
As we dipped corn chips into salsa, we revealed our favorite things. We were like game show contestants hoping to find correct answers. We matched on Masterpiece Theatre, jazz vocalists, dogs and cats, and quiet nights at home. When we moved on from chips and salsa to tacos and burritos, our lists became more specific. And when we learned we had the very same favorite song, It Never Entered My Mind by Rodgers and Hart, we felt we had won first prize.
At my door after the meal, we exchanged a goodnight kiss, neighborly, but with promise. Tommy said he’d call. I was certain he would.
The very next evening, instead of that phone call, he knocked on my door. “I have a present for you,” he said.
We sat on the couch as I unwrapped a Johnny Hartman CD that included It Never Entered My Mind.
“When, how?” I asked. I was touched.
“I took the El downtown and bought it at a music store,” he said. “Do you like it?"
We played it then, and again at our wedding two years later when my daughters walked me down the aisle in a Las Vegas ceremony.
While music has continued to be part of our lives, our meals have changed. Early on, we'd go to dinner once a week with friends. We'd argue over politics, discuss news headlines, catch each other up on far-flung children and grandchildren. When Tommy could still get a few words out, our dinner companions would try to keep him in the conversation. If necessary, I'd step in to translate.
Eventually, though, my husband could not speak at all. Our dinners out diminished because it became too painful for me to see him silent, on the sidelines. The invitations still came, but I accepted less and less, except for special occasions.
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