It Was Never About the Lunch

 In less than ideal circumstances, have you ever thought to yourself, "Boy! Am I lucky!"  

During the last few years of my father-in-law's life, we had "our" Mondays while my mother-in-law played bridge.  I was fortunate enough to be able to take Dad out to lunch every week and spend the afternoon with him.

The thing I must divulge here is that Stan had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease several years prior to embarking upon our weekly lunch dates.  I committed to our Mondays when it was no longer feasible for him to be by himself or for us to rely on his peers to include him in their lunch outings as his condition deteriorated.

Let me take a step back before moving forward with this story. My own dad passed away, unexpectedly, when he was forty-four years old. I loved him fiercely and had always hoped and believed that, once I was grown, our "arms-length" relationship would evolve and that we would, someday, bend our elbows enough to hug each other and mean it.  However, at nineteen years old, the vision I'd had since childhood was dashed when I lost my father.  To be candid, my greatest sorrows were the loss of potential in having a fulfilling father-daughter dynamic, that he would never “walk me down the aisle, nor ever know his grandchildren.

Fast forward to 1987, when I gained Stan as a father-in-law.  I observed, carefully, the bond he had with each of his family members, feeling blessed to be insulated under his patriarchal leadership.  He was honest.  He was always kind to me. He listened.  He encouraged.  He laughed.  He was thoughtful.  He adored my children. (And they adored him right back!). He was the first one to suggest that I should think about running for our school district's Board of Education.  He was never too grown up to be silly with my children.

Throughout the years, Dad and I developed a warm and loving relationship - the kind that I had hoped to have with my own father before fate intervened.  As years streamed by, we began to notice slight irregularities in Stan:  He became quieter at family dinners, not participating in the lively conversation.  He asked the same questions repeatedly, as if he had not just heard the answer five minutes earlier.  In the midst of his driving, he would ask what street we were on and why.  The changes in Dad became undeniable.

Time brought clarity to what was happening and, like a thief in the night, was stealing more of his memories while leaving behind less of the man who was so loved.  

Logic dictated that our lunches should take place at the same location each week - for familiarity's sake.  When I picked him up at his house, he never called me by my name anymore, yet he knew that he knew me and was comfortable in my presence.  Each Monday, we went to McAllister's Deli, where he requested his favorite meal of chili and sweet tea.  His biggest decision was whether or not to add cheese and onions to his order.

To preserve his self-respect, once we approached the counter - where the employees knew us from our weekly visits, I would always say:

"Dad, do you feel like your usual bowl of chili and sweet tea?",

to which he would consistently respond in the affirmative.

Week after week, we would have the same conversations.  He loved to watch the cloud formations and large American flags waving in the breeze.  He loved feeding the ducks and geese at a nearby lake and delighted in the moments that I would detect a turtle swimming among them.  He loved it when I drove through different neighborhoods to try and spot deer nibbling on the foliage.  He loved to laugh.  He loved that I always backed my car into parking spaces, somehow, remembering that quirk of mine.  I would tell him about my job, working with a child who had learning differences, and he would ask how I came to acquire that position.  (On the positive side, since it was as if he were hearing the story for the first time, he reveled in hearing me retell it repeatedly.)

Periodically, he would ask questions such as:

"What grade am I in?"

and I would patiently tell him that he had finished school, and was in fact, an architect who had designed houses all over St. Louis - to which he would query:

"How old am I, anyway?"

During our Monday outings, Dad was able to relay very detailed accounts of his days in the army, the reason he had really wished to join the air force instead (They had much better sleeping quarters!), the cars he drove as a young man and how much they cost at the time.  So many details indelibly etched with acute accuracy in his long-term memory.  So many moments currently happening that he would never remember.

Rather than feeling distressed about his waning cognition, I decided to embrace the fact that the universe had put Stan in my path and given me a father-figure to love, trust, embrace, and cherish.

And so, I did.

He, easily, could have viewed and treated me as merely his son's wife.  But a deeper, more meaningful connection materialized between us over the years.  I felt privileged to be entrusted with him for a few hours every Monday, never allowing silence to fall between us, and relishing those rare instances when the mention of my children nudged his memory alive for a fleeting moment.

For loving me, for setting an example for his son, for loving his grandchildren unconditionally and without judgement, I was the lucky one blessed to be able to give back to this man who meant so much to me.

One particular Monday, we arrived at McAllister's Deli at our usual time.  As we approached the counter, I said, as always:

"Dad, do you feel like your usual bowl of chili?"

To my astonishment, he replied:

"No!"

This called for some quick thinking, as his ability to read and remember menu items had been compromised. I said:

"Well, let's see, Dad. You could have a turkey sandwich?....A salad?.... Or.....Hey! How about a bowl of chili??"

With childlike enthusiasm on his face and in his voice, he responded with a resounding

"Yessss!'

I realized then, that there are times in which, if you don't laugh, you'll cry.  So, I often retell this story with humor, a heart full of love, and immense respect for the man who didn't have to be a dad to me but made the choice to do so.  My gratitude for the Mondays we spent together is immeasurable.  Those hours were ours.

There was no real way to repay him for stepping into a fatherly role in my life, but I was determined to do my utmost to ensure that his remaining years were filled with happiness and that his dignity was guarded amidst the cruel disease that was taking his mind.

Yes, we did dine together every single Monday at noon for a number of years.  But I can unequivocally say that it was never about the lunch!

                                                                        

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