Gradually, the list of foods shrank. Diet turned liquid. Plenty of drinks. Solid food was harder to process. Not to digest. Just to process, mentally.
It takes phenomenal effort to notice the meal, remember to eat the meal while it is warm, and to attempt to eat the meal once it is cold. That's a savoury meal.
Meanwhile, in ice cream land it is surprisingly easy to notice the meal, remember to eat the meal before it grows warm, and to ask for that kind of meal without being prompted.
What do you do when tastes change, thanks to dementia? You slap a meal down and hope for the best. Almost instantly, I learned not to ask about meals.
You want to offer choice, and you try not to take choices away. But with something as vital as food, you just slap that meal down. Don't offer an idea for a meal: the answer is always no.
After struggling with a bad batch of milk, appetite died a death. The list of foods shrank to nothing. I ignored that view. We were down to one flavour of soup. Chicken.
On a daily basis I was told that there'd be no more chicken. Well. That was me told. Next day, I slapped out more chicken soup. And the soup was eaten.
If she goes off strawberry-flavoured foods, she's had it.
At a consultation, deep within the Memory Clinic, I requested dietary help. The dietician came out and checked my mother's weight. She seemed more or less okay, on that score.
What could we do to increase appetite again, and, most importantly, boost the variety in diet?
Have you tried a blender?
I'd look into that. And we'd consult the dentist, in case there was any trouble in that direction. Also, I could put in a request for vitamins as a handy supplement.
All this took time, except for arranging the blender. It turns out that my mother had amassed a billion Nectar points. Enough to afford a cut-price blender.
I came, I saw, I blended.
For weeks, I tried all sorts of Mad Science Experiments™, and I learned that the blender was a blendy blendy thing. Banana ice cream. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...
She hated it. I ate it for days. That's the thing about bananas. You buy them in bunches. Fuckers.
But the blender solved a problem. A breakfast problem. Also a supper problem. Cereal proved harder and harder to eat. There is nothing more infuriating than watching someone push bits of cereal around a bowl for five minutes, with the vague idea of eating the bits eventually.
The blender atomised the cereal, and the frothy milkshake was born. A simple improvement to routine, but one that killed a lot of stress for the both of us.
Now I crush golden balls in the blender. No, it's not a porno.
I've only skimmed the surface of the food problems. The dietician didn't object to a sugary diet. Pile it on. Sweeten the savoury meals if you can.
No, I couldn't. Lots of Mad Science. Frankenstein had nothing on me. At least I fixed breakfast and supper. And a few meals for myself.
The odd ice cream milkshake goes down well. It's the novelty of it, rather than the taste. A laugh at the coldness of it, and realising this is an ice cream drink...
After a suitable interval, and nothing bad at the dentist, we returned to the world of diet advice. The dietician checked weight, recommended a few food tips for the forgetful, and swept out of our lives for all time...
Until I raced after her with her scales, which she'd forgotten.
Never thought I'd find anything we could spend those Nectar points on. Advice on food? Present the food. Make it sweet. Blend the hell out of it if you must.
Ignore all this advice and get a professional in, tailoring dietary assistance to your own circumstances, obviously.
Pictured: atomised beetroot. Definitely a failed science experiment. I reluctantly absorbed this as a health drink after doing a spot of exercise on the torture device. Though...I drank no one's health, when taking that health drink.
Had orange juice after it, to take the taste away. Blergh.
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