Dad’s take on the hospital breakfast menu

As we roll into November, I can’t help but think about this time last year, and how the beginning of the end was about to start for Dad. But November 2010 also included a hospital stay. Dad had a gallstone removed and was recovering pretty well in a hospital in Albuquerque. He was about mid-stage in his dementia journey at this point.

Getting Dad to eat was difficult. He could still swallow just fine at this point, but the hospital food was just not appealing to him. Mom would coax and wheedle and he would eat a few bites, but that was all. While in the hospital, he became more frail due to losing weight and being bedridden. This led to his transfer to a nursing home, and his inability to ever live at home again.

But one morning at the hospital, Dad was a bit perkier. A male attendant came in to take his breakfast order. The options for the morning were rattled off: scrambled eggs, cereal or French toast.

Dad didn’t miss a beat. He asked, “Does it speak French?”

The attendant and Mom had a good laugh over that one. Dad got the French toast, and if it spoke to him, only he knew about it.