I really thought that having dinner with my grandmother and her friends once a week in the dining room at her retirement home was going to be enough. My theory was partially correct, but also almost completely wrong. Weekly dinners did so much to help me learn what was going on with her and I was able to spend time with her, the most valuable part of this caregiving journey. In short order, I discovered she needed more help than she used to. And it was clear that the staff was doing more to assist her than had been necessary just a few months ago. As I had dinner every Tuesday with her, I learned that things were much worse than I thought. But I also started to realize that there was an amazing community of truly kind people all around both of us.

Grandmother could not admit to the world (or to herself) that I was coming over so frequently because I was spying on her or because she needed me. I wasn’t really spying, but I was definitely trying to help her despite the fact that it was help she would never ask for. Regardless of the reason, she would tell people (over and over again) that I was her granddaughter and that I came over for dinner because I REALLY liked the food. It was told as if my more than 40-year-old self needed a free meal like I did when I was a student. This story worked for both of us, I was happy to pretend I loved the food for the extra time with my grandmother.

It is difficult to communicate in a post how much I did not love the salt-free, low-fat, heart-healthy meals that awaited me every Tuesday night.¹ To be fair to the chef, it is not easy to serve dinner to so many people every night, especially when it is so many people with different tastes and different dietary requirements. The residents did not hold back when it came to opinions about the food, and I am sure that there was no way to make each of those people happy. Perhaps a list of the worst of the worst would help to illustrate how much I did not head an hour from my house every Tuesday night for the food — ambrosia salad (of course); salmon with dill sauce prepared for 100 people and kept warm throughout dinner service; lamb with blueberry compote (just why); duck breast; barbeque ribs covered in sauerkraut; and everyone’s favorite liver and onions. I absolutely will never understand the menu! Luckily, ice cream, grilled cheese, and chicken fingers are always available.

Always better than the food was the company. Every single week, Grandmother would point out the high school football coach, the man who was over 100 years old but didn’t look any older than 90, and the man who was a millionaire (how she knew that, I have no idea). She always made sure to identify who was currently dating who and who was currently at war with each other. When we were seated, she would introduce me to her friends, like groundhog day every single week, and the amazing kid who happened to be our server for the evening.

Every young adult would benefit from working in a retirement home. These high school and college kids learned so much waiting on their elders. Unfortunately, it seems that as people age, many become less understanding and loose some of their filter. The servers likely encountered everything from complaints, to anger, and confusion during every single shift. Patience is key, and the servers exhibited more patience than I can ever contemplate having. Every night the residents are given a menu with choices for their (1) soup/salad; (2) main dish; (3) side dishes; and (4) desert. Despite the regularity, these poor kids hear the same questions every single night and from every single person at the table. Without fail, I have watched them answer every question with a smile. Ordering dinner has often taken longer than eating.

God forbid there is a change in the usual cadence! The chef should have known better, but once in a valiant attempt to give the residents something new, he decided to make the available soup or salad the main dish instead of first course of the evening. This meant that the residents could chose soup in a bread bowl or a dinner-sized chef salad as their main dish – but could not also have soup or salad as a first course. EVERY SINGLE person at our table of 8 who ordered that evening was completely flummoxed. “So, I cannot get soup as first course?” “All we get for dinner is a salad or cup of soup?” “What is a bread bowl?” The waitress kept a straight face, answered every single repetitive question, and did not get snippy with anyone. When she got to me, I smiled at her, quickly ordered my soup in a bread bowl with ice cream for desert and hoped she knew how much I appreciated her.

We talk A LOT about the weather, the Cardinals’ terrible baseball season, food choices, what time Wheel of Fortune is on TV, what channel shows sports, and how to work remotes and cell phones. But between the small talk, I get to hear about careers, family, travel, and memories. I never could have learned so much if it were not for Tuesday dinners.

On one particular Tuesday night, dinner must have been unremarkable because I have no memory of what I ate, but the company was amazing. My grandmother’s group of friends were running the retirement home – bossy in their own lovely way that only senior citizens can get away with. So after joining our appointed table and sitting where I was told, I found myself next to a familiar gentleman. He was a very conservative guy, hair always trimmed short, button down shirts with khaki shorts or pants and an occasional sports team t-shirt or hat. He was seemingly younger, more fit, and more engaged than some of the other people I interact with in the retirement community. I knew he had been looking forward to a trip to the beach with his family, and his face lit up when I asked how his trip had been. Listening to him speak so kindly about his daughter, his grandkids, and their couple of weeks in a condo on the beach was lovely.

But, things don’t ever go as expected in senior living. The sweetness of the moment was broken by this man saying “you have to see something,” which seriously could mean anything, and starting to take off his shirt. I had no idea what I “had to see,” but I did instinctively know both that whatever was to come next was going to be awesome, and that I had to move his iced tea back on the table so that he didn’t knock it over as he maneuvered one arm out of his shirt – a mom move for sure.

It could have been tan lines, a third-degree sunburn, a strange mole…but what I saw, I never expected. This man took off his shirt (at the dinner table no less) to show me his new tattoo! A small cartoon duck on his shoulder blade. I could have fallen out of my chair as I struggled to find the right words to complement his new art. No one else at our table seemed surprised in the least by any of it.

Dinner continued, and we moved on to other topics. Tuesday dinner was always exciting – and I did look forward to it each week even if the food was not my favorite. Unfortunately, my run of spending one evening a week immersed in this community soon changed to multiple nights and days. I wish it could have lasted longer. I wish so many things could have lasted longer.

1. At this point in my life I am pretty capable of fending for myself and feeding my family. It was a bit insulting at first, the constant suggestion that I somehow couldn’t be an adult, but, this was not worth correcting and it allowed her to keep believing that our roles were not changing. She was still the stylish Grandmother (never “Grandma”, she insisted she was not old enough to be “Grandma”), who dressed to the nines, loved a good party, and spoiled my sister and I. This was just the first of many similar issues that she and I would have to navigate. ↩︎