Gastrici-fication

My father is (my brother and I unanimously and wholeheartedly concluded this morning as we watched Dad almost literally inhale his birthday breakfast of a fried egg, chow mein, and egg rolls) totally driven by one thing and one thing only--food. Clearly, his sole objective these days is what I am now going to term "gastrici-fication."

My brother is visiting for a couple of weeks. Partly to celebrate Dad's 94th birthday (which is today) and partly to just visit. It's always interesting for me to hear my brother's observations when he visits. Usually it runs along the lines of, "Gee, Mom seems worse," or "Wow, Mom seems a little better," or "Yup, Dad's pretty much just the same." That last one? That's kind of the normal assessment. It can be two, three, six months between visits, but at some point during my brother's stay, he almost always makes the comment, "Gee, Dad hasn't really changed at all."

He's right.
Sure, Dad takes a little longer to get around. But he's just as headstrong and as ornery as ever, and his brain is as sharp as a tack. Whatever part of the brain it is that is responsible for creativity? That part in my dad's brain operates at full tilt.

But back to the food thing. Let it be said--my father has always loved food. Any food. All food. I suppose that's where I get my own adventurous gastric tastes. It was Dad who introduced me, before I was in school, to escargot, oysters, abalone, and stilton cheese. I still love them all.

Not only does Dad take great pleasure in eating his food, he is also a master forager. I'm not kidding about this. Let me say right here and now that, regardless of his age, his crumbling bones, his failing vision, and his all-but-nonexistent hearing, if I had to be stranded in the wilderness with no food on hand, my dad is the only person I would want to be stranded with, because I am certain that within the first 24 hrs of being stranded in the wilderness, my father would find food. Lots and lots of food.

So this morning, today, is my dad's birthday. My brother surprised him by making a special breakfast--fried egg in a bed of fresh chow mein and a couple of little egg rolls thrown in. This is Dad's kind of meal--mixtures of things; mixtures of textures; mixtures of color; mixtures of flavors. And, of course, the chow mein and egg rolls give it an Asian twist. Big points for anything Asian.

Dad came rolling into the dining room as he always does--full of smiles, robust greetings, arms raised victoriously at making it through to another day (Seriously. He really does this every morning, not just on his birthday.).

"Happy Birthday!" we all greeted back to him. Then he sang the birthday song, out loud, "Happy Birthday to me...." and so on, to entertain us. What a ham.

My brother tells Dad, "Now go sit down cuz I'm making you a special breakfast."

Dad sits. He admires the daffodils and tulips I bought yesterday and have placed on the table for color and to add a festive touch. He sees the birthday cards setting on his placemat.

"Oh look, I have birthday cards! Oh, I have to open those!" He reaches for the letter opener. (Not so many years ago, this would have been when Dad whipped out his eight-inch Bowie knife from his back pocket. He used to be so amused at peoples' faces when he produced that enormous blade in one swift movement. Now, he settles for a letter opener. I guess some things HAVE changed...thank god. I mean....macular degeneration and bowie knives do not mix.) He starts to open the first card when my brother sets down the danburi bowl with Dad's b'day b'fast in it. Suddenly, all sensory input, all reality other than the steamy bowl of food setting in front of my father, disappears.

"Oh LOOK at that!" He bends down to the level of the bowl, using his hands to waft the steam toward his nostrils. "Ahhhhh, smell that!"
Then he reaches for his fork.

My brother and I stand, watching him, our jaws open, glancing back and forth in disbelief at Dad, then to each other. My brother is the first to comment, "Oh my...... Total oral gratification. Look at that!"

We keep watching Dad. He is about to put.....no, correction..... he's about to stuff, an entire egg roll in his mouth.

Dad looked like a half-starved lion who'd just been thrown a raw steak.

My brother was still beside himself in amazement, "I can't believe that. He's completely unaware of everything except that bowl of food!" Then he says it again, "It's just Total Oral Gratification."

We're watching. We're processing. We're still incredulous. Then something occurs to me, "It's a coping mechanism."

"Huh?" my brother says.

"Think about it" I explain, "He can't really see. He can barely hear. He can't move around like he used to. But he CAN taste food. He CAN eat. He CAN enjoy food. It's something he can still do just as well as he always has. So he uses food to cope with the fact that he can't see, hear, or get around the way he used to."

"Oh right!" my brother concurs enthusiastically. Then he looks back to Dad, "Wow, look at him!" Dad is nearly done now. He hasn't even stopped to breathe. Then, finally, after the last morsel is gone, Dad comes up for air and to proclaim triumphantly with a flourish of his hand, "O-ishi-des-kah!" According to Dad, this means That Was Really Good! or something like that. We assume he's correct, but who knows.

Dad finally gets back to his birthday cards. I take some photos. I composed a little limerick this morning and enclosed it in Dad's birthday card from me. I knew Dad would get a kick out of it. Sometimes his humor is a bit crass, so I apologize to any sensitive souls out there. Here it is (Oh something you need to know--my dad's middle name is Milton.):

There once was a man named Milton.

Who feasted on pears and stilton.

In his day he was studly.

But now, well, sorta dud-ly,

Cuz his “pair” down below is a’wiltin’.

(On the event of my father’s 94^th birthday. D.Fleener 4Apr2010)

Happy Birthday Dad!