Right! Time to tweak The Establishment. I drove to the hospital and marched to David's bed. (My late mother's English husband is gravely ill.) What rules, pray tell, would he like to flaunt?
He wiggled his bushy eyebrows quizzically. I persisted. "Think. What do you want, that's forbidden? Dump being English, and think like an American. Think rebel."
Hmmm. A tiny smile played at the corners of his mouth. Time passed, as he pondered. This was so -- not British. His proper, law-abiding self had to be locked in a closet and the key tossed. It was unprecedented. I was patient -- up to a point.
"Need help deciding?"
He eyed me, curious. "Yes."
I reached into my backpack and pulled out his bottle of Famous Grouse and a shot glass, poured a decent measure into it -- perhaps a tablespoon -- and said, "Stuff The Establishment."
David's eyes widened in delight. He'd loved a wee tot of whiskey before dinner each night at his care home, and had really missed this little ritual. The coast was clear. Carefully he sipped, savored, and swallowed. Ahhh.
"More?" He checked for nurses, nodded. "A small bit." I obliged. A teaspoon. Down it went. A long, happy sigh. I hid the booze.
"Raise me," he whispered. I pressed the button. He sat taller. Then the lunch lady popped in, checked the wall's bulletin board, and said, cheerily, "Fish 'n' chips, sir?"
He looked at me, amazed and joyful, then said, in a calm voice, "Yes, please." She brought it promptly. He gazed at the plate as though it were the Holy Grail.
This was NOT allowed. His meals must be mashed. Swallowing tests had determined that consuming regular food and unthickened liquids could be dangerous. (He'd had a stroke.) But David longed for man-food. He'd put up with pablum for months!
We checked the hall. No nurse-police. His eyes sparkled. I handed him a fat chip (French fry). "If you cough, we're toast," I whispered. Nodding, he carefully ate it, then licked his fingers. I slipped him another one. Down it went, seasoned with a huge dose of pleasure. Then a little bite of fish, and three fat, round peas. Ummm! Eyes closed, he chewed with concentration, savoring.
Inevitably, a nurse rushed in, distressed. "I'm so sorry; the wrong plate was given!" I looked up, all innocence. "Oh, today there's no sign on the bulletin board saying otherwise." I'd kicked it under the bed. "Besides, he's really enjoying it ..."
She wrung her hands, upset. "If David choked, we'd never forgive ourselves!"
I reassured her. "Look. He's managing pretty well." David grinned, and nodded vigorously.
Adamant though, and still clucking, she plopped a glob of mashed potatoes on his plate, added gravy, admonished him, and left to lecture the lunch lady. A defiant look passed between us. I added tiny fish portions to the potatoes. He ate every bit, chewing slowly, while I held my breath.
Honestly, it was risky. But sometimes old lady Caution is a pain in the behind.
Finally, weak, starch-thickened tea came, in the usual handle-less, lidded plastic cup with its awful elephant-nose spout. His lip curled. I dumped it down the sink, and padded into the hall. "I've spilt the tea."
The nurse tsk-tsked. "Oh, dear, the teacart's gone. But I'll make fresh, in our lounge." (She thought it was for me, so it was undiluted.)
I pinched a proper porcelain teacup and saucer and prepared his tea, with cream, one sugar -- and no thickener.
My Englishman drank it with tiny sips and great dignity.
I'll treasure the look he gave me forever.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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