In October, my dad was hospitalized in his home of Boise, Idaho, for an acute kidney episode. Initially, the doctors expected him to recover, but instead his condition got worse. He suffered from low electrolytes and an acute delirium episode. He couldn’t speak more than a few words, stand or walk, or understand much. Doctors told my sister, Tracy, who also lives in Boise, that given his condition, certain kinds of medical intervention would no longer be appropriate. He entered hospice care back at his retirement home, where he’d been in memory care.
My husband, Lyle, and I traveled to Boise shortly after Dad left the hospital and visited him with Tracy and her husband, Jeremy. I had prepared myself, as I had on all recent visits, to accept it if he didn’t remember me. But sitting in a wheelchair in his room, he did remember me and smiled, surprised to see us. He also remembered Lyle and even asked him, “How are things at the bank?” Tracy was standing behind Dad, and her mouth dropped open. It was a special moment.
The visit was better than I had expected but also difficult. My dad tried to stand up to greet us but couldn’t and was frail for a normally solid, muscular, well-fed guy. He had lost at least 40 pounds. Tracy said to me, “It’s strange. I can’t remember him ever not having a stomach.”
Back in the car, there wasn’t much to say. Though he was in a wheelchair and couldn’t do much for himself, Dad could still smile and make eye contact and even laugh. But knowing that we’d just visited him in hospice care was tough, and heavy.
Then, in a rebounding pleasant moment, Tracy and Jeremy asked if there was anything specific we’d like to eat over the next few days. I’d thought about that very topic on the plane, as I think about food and cooking often. To me, cheeseburgers and pizza each offer life-affirming combinations of comfort, relief, and joy. Tracy and Jeremy laughed and said they’d discussed visiting a wood-fired pizza restaurant in downtown Boise and making Jeremy’s homemade cheeseburgers.
Since we were already out, we decided to stop at the pizza place and enjoy a fun cocktail while we waited for half-baked pizzas to take home and finish in the oven. Sitting there in the bar, even though the circumstances of the trip were tense and sad, some of that weight dissipated. We talked about music, TV shows, funny stories, and ideas for food trucks and things to invent. The energy of the restaurant was just right: open but cozy, big windows but a shaded atmosphere, a giant pizza oven in the middle of everything, people relaxing at tables and waiting on them.
Then we walked downtown Boise’s golden, autumn tree-lined streets with glorious warm pizza boxes in our hands. Food and drink had reinvigorated us, helping us enjoy ourselves and our time together.
The next day, we visited Dad again. This time, we found him asleep in his wheelchair in the middle of the dining room, with a minimally eaten burger and an untouched broiled tomato on his plate. We took him to a small room designed for family visits and offered him some chicken nuggets and fries we had picked up for him. We placed the nuggets, cup of dipping sauce, and fries on napkins. He took a bite of a nugget, considered it, then picked up a fry. He grinned a little and picked up another fry, chewed a bit, then sat there, eyes closed, resting.
Seeing him eat so delicately and hesitantly was odd. My dad loves food, and more than that, he loves enjoying it. The hospice and nursing team told us he hadn’t been eating much. His brain may have stopped sending hunger cues, or he may just have been too tired to eat anymore, so we were happy with the small amount he seemed to enjoy. It was something.
That night, back at my sister and brother-in-law’s house up in the foothills outside of Boise, Tracy and Jeremy made homemade cheeseburgers on the grill and fries in the air fryer. At the table, thinking about my dad being so weak but also much more aware than I had expected, I took a bite of my cheeseburger and started crying. To say the cheeseburger was good wouldn’t even touch the experience. I’m an emotional person, and I love cooking, and I also love being taken care of — partly because I love taking care of others.
In that layered, complicated, yet simple moment — while taking a bite of that umami-seasoned, hand-formed, succulent cheeseburger— I felt grateful. I was thankful for all of it: sadness, anxiety, happiness, reunion, and an intense appreciation for living. And then I felt it all again when I took a bite of Tracy’s fantastic air-fried French fries, the best combination of slightly crispy and tender, just fried through. I kept taking bites, tears falling, thanking Tracy and Jeremy.
We visited Dad again the next day, and because of the difficulty he was having handling much more than finger foods, we brought him a vanilla milkshake. He was sitting in the dining room asleep, with a glass of iced tea. When I touched him on the arm to wake him, he looked up at all of us and said, with a scratchy, soft voice that sounded like an arch, “What a delight!” We put the milkshake on the table in front of him, and he immediately recognized it. He slowly brought the straw to his mouth and took a big sip, hazily beaming. The milkshake was half gone in a few minutes.
Later that day, Lyle and I planned to travel back to Columbia, so I prepared myself to accept it if this was the last time I’d see my dad. I didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t know whether he was aware he was in hospice care. But I wanted to thank him. We sat with him as he enjoyed his milkshake, talking about things we thought he might enjoy but that he wouldn’t need to respond to while he alternately sipped and rested. Then it was time to leave. I didn’t think I could do what I needed to do: say goodbye to him by thanking him.
Time had run out, though, so I stood up and hugged him and kissed the thick, wavy, silver hair on the top of his head, and suddenly I knew exactly what to say. “I love you, Dad. Thank you for being an amazing dad. Thank you for your sense of humor, your creativity, your artistry, your musicality, your philosophy, for not taking shit from anyone. I love you so much.” I hugged him again and stepped away. He looked at me, holding his milkshake. Maybe because I needed it, I saw him express a distinct positive emotion — proud, comforted, grateful, maybe a little surprised. Then he looked at Lyle with a completely different expression — wild and amused — and asked him, “What about you?”
We all laughed, but I think Dad meant that he understood what I’d said to him and was ready for his thank-you from Lyle. I didn’t hear what Lyle told him, though I’m certain he thanked him for a lifetime of preparing me for Lyle’s jokes, which are a lot like my dad’s. I do know Lyle said he’d take care of me.
A certain food at a certain moment can make everything feel OK. I’ll never forget crying with gratitude while enjoying the cheeseburger Jeremy made. I’ll never forget Dad happily holding and sipping the milkshake we gave him. And I will always remember the look on his face after I thanked him for the unique way he’s been my dad.
