Mike, the uber-chef, and his 'special sauce'

Let me tell you about the charming and kind chef, Mike, at my mother's new care center.  He shows me that so much depends on my attitude.  I've written about him before, on February 28. He has continued to impress me.

I met Rick as we sat on the couch at the care center, waiting to sign admission papers.  A burly man was sitting there looking at some menus, and he stood up (as a gentleman) when we, as ladies, entered the room.  We started chatting.  He is a displaced Boston Italian, charming. He seems to have a million stories, and has had a rich life. He is a cook, and has owned restaurants with dreams of caring for his family doing what he loves. Yet, after some twists and turns in his life, he is here, cooking for some very senior citizens.

Now, how would you handle that?  How would I handle it?  Would I see myself as a failure, bitterly disappointed to have to cook for those who may be quick to complain?  These elderly ladies and men have palates that are Midwestern, leaning toward meatloaf and mashed potatoes, rather than robust and Italian as Mike loves to cook. Many residents have reached an age where little tastes good, and medical issues may prohibit them from having as much salt and sugar as they might like.

So, given all that, would I value this place in my life, if I now had to cook for these folk?  Would I consider myself as being in a successful place in my career?  Would you?

If you have any doubt, please talk to Mike.

Mike views this stage in his life as being golden.  He works long hours - from before breakfast to after the evening meal - but just for three and a half days a week. The rest of the time, he gets to enjoy time with his family and spend time with his children. He lives in a city where he is able to live at a slower pace than Boston, and I assume, to live in a better home that he would have been able to afford there. You'd think he'd been handed the keys to the city. He glows when he talks about his life and family.

Even more, he treasures his privilege of cooking for the older folks. He told us that he is very aware that he will probably cook the very last meal that some of the residents will ever eat, and he counts that an honor.  As we sat there, meeting him for the first time, he repeatedly insisted that my mother tell him exactly how she liked things cooked, and he means it!  She even said she doesn't like potatoes in her soup, and so he makes every effort not to give her potatoes in her soup - and he doesn't even point out to her that it's a little cuckoo that she loves potato soup but dislikes potatoes in her soup!

After dinner, he comes out, takes off his cap in deference to the ladies, and talks to his guests.  But he doesn't stand next to them, nor even lean down toward them.  He gets down on one knee to be sure he is on their level, to hear and look at them in the eye. He laughs with them, gently kids them a little, and gets ribbed in return. He watches to see what food gets returned to learn how to improve his offerings.

And his food is delicious, by the way.  Shrimp scampi and barbeque ribs, chicken-fried steak, custom-made salads, and egg or tuna salad sandwiches that are so stuffed that they overflow the side of the bread. And, there's even the occasional spaghetti or ziti pasta! Really delicious.

Honestly, he might still cook about the same, whether he viewed his role as important or not. But I can't help but believe that there is an added sweetness, a 'special sauce', that comes from someone who has chosen to be content. Someone who sees the goodness in his situation, and look beyond the disappointments or even bitterness that we all experience in our lives. Mike smiles his wry lopsided Boston grin, tells you about his kids and this week's menu and about his great life, and you know you are in excellent hands.

Learning limits

A comment on a post from one of my favorite bloggers,  washashore wannabe, reads, "No one person can keep another person alive - this is what I've learned to tell myself."

Yes yes yes.  Exactly.  What a difficult lesson.  Thank you for reminding me - I'm grateful.  (And, readers, be sure to visit his wonderful blog, at http://midlifemidcape.wordpress.com/). 

I remember the first year(s) of caring for my mother as she moved to a nearby assisted living home. I ordered her prescriptions and prepared her medicines, took her to doctor's appointments, arranged her clothes. I visited her daily, negotiated with caregivers.  I felt the terrible burden of this woman's fragile life being in my hands. My often clumsy or busy hands.

Even as she proclaimed her desire to die, it seemingly became my responsibility to make her WANT to live. As she sits bored in her chair, merely awaiting Dr Phil each day, refusing to participate in most activities, she yearns for death. What will I do about that?

I have learned, and occasionally must re-take the lesson, that I am not responsible for her staying alive.  Even more difficult for me, I am not responsible for her happiness or for her having a meaningful or rich life.  She alone must do that herself - live - in all senses of the word.

A welcome inheritance

In our conversations, as I express a preference or interest, my mother loves to wonder aloud, "Who did you get that from?"  If I drink a lot of water, "who gave you that?".  If I am interested in genealogy or like history, she debates the originator of that gift, as if I had no input.  I am an artist, and she likes to know that, like her, I am creative. When I am optimistic, I am my dad.  And on and on.

It has been rather irritating, honestly.  I haven't had particularly warm-and-fuzzy memories of my difficult childhood.  And, having left home at 17 and made very very different choices than did my parents, I consider myself to be very much my own person. As I've moved beyond anger and bitterness at my past, and come to peace with my mother, I'm somewhat less resentful of her having to ascribe every morsel of my existence to something SHE (or my father) gave me.  But clearly, yes, it still carries some sparks. 

However, recent medical issues have made me grateful for one thing - a (mostly) very healthy heart, much like my mother's.  

The issues I've had have to do with some recently-discovered electrical issues - episodes of tachycardia, atrial flutter or AVNRT.  My mother has atrial fibrillation, very related. Both conditions represent a short-circuit, with potential complications but easily survivable, and can be cured with a procedure that is scary to me, but is quite common (an ablation, a 'zapping' of the short-circuit area).  

But the really excellent news, the wonderful inheritance, is that I apparently have a very very healthy heart (other than the electrical problem), in spite of my very inadequate care of my health.  I am overweight and diabetic, and have had cholesterol problems before I found the right medicine.  I have been fearing heart problems with every twinge in my chest or arms, since my father had heart disease (and my brother and my husband...).  Yet, I have excellent results on an recent extensive workup - very good pumping (ejection fraction much better than normal), no plaque from the cholesterol (calcium score of zero).  I can now fix my wiring and hope for a long life. What a relief. 

My mother has so far lived until 90, and her own father lived until 92.  I think I inherited her heart - both the electrical problems and the strength of it.  Finally, I can clearly and openly say, Thanks, Mom.  I got that from you.