October 20: What My Mother Told Me, Chicken Noodle Soup, Tapioca Pudding

"You know," said Arthur, "it's at times like this, when I'm trapped in a Vogon airlock with a man from Betelgeuse, and about to die of asphyxiation in deep space, that I really wish I'd listened to what my mother told me when I was young."

"Why, what did she tell you?"

"I don't know, I didn't listen."

It's supposed to be a funny exchange, a one-liner about Arthur and his mom.  It's one of those sitcom jokes, with canned laughter behind it.  However, this passage is the only place in the novel where Arthur expresses any kind of remorse about losing his family when Earth is obliterated by the Vogons.  The only time we hear about Arthur's family at all.

This evening, I was having dinner with my family at my mother's house.  My mother has Alzheimer's.  Today was not a good day for her.  In fact, her good days are becoming fewer and farther between.  My wife said on Friday, after watching my mother for most of the day, "She's losing touch with reality." 

My sister cooked homemade chicken noodle soup this evening.  We all sat down and ate a bowl of it.  It was steaming hot and delicious.  After the soup, we had some freshly made tapioca pudding for dessert.  It was also steaming hot and delicious.

My mother, sitting at the table with us, kept forgetting she was supposed to be eating, even though her bowl of soup was right in front of her.  One of my sisters kept reminding her, "Eat, mom!  Pick up your spoon and eat!"  My mother would take a spoonful, chew and swallow, and then forget what she was doing again.  This went on for almost an hour.

I started doing the dishes in the kitchen, and my mother had barely touched her soup.  My sister said to her again, "Mom, eat your soup!"  So, I sat down beside my mother and picked up her spoon.  "Here, mother," I said, "let's have some soup."  And I fed her a spoonful.  She ate it and smiled at me, "Mmmmm, that's good," she said, "all full of good stuff."  I nodded, waited until she had swallowed, and then brought another spoonful to her mouth.  "How about another bite?" I said.  She nodded at me and smiled.

I fed her the entire bowl of chicken noodle soup, and then I fed her a bowl of tapioca pudding.  We had a conversation while she ate.  I said things like, "Aren't those carrots good?" and "This tapioca's just like you used to make" and "If you had a choice between tapioca and pecan pie, which would you choose?"  She kept eating and nodding and answering my questions.  For the record, she would pick pecan pie over tapioca.  "But they're both good," she said.

I wish I had asked my mother more questions like this when she and I were younger.  I wish I had asked her about when she worked for the telephone company or how her father used to sell Christmas trees every year or what she dreamed of doing when she was a little girl.  I wish I knew my mother better, that I had listened to her more.  Taken less from her, given more back.  Been a better son.

Now, I have to be satisfied with sharing chicken noodle soup and tapioca pudding with her.  Each spoonful steaming hot.  I will blow on it, cool it down so it doesn't burn her tongue.

And Saint Marty will watch her smile as she chews each mouthful, as if she's just taken Communion on Sunday morning.