By Vicki Bahr 
When we pulled into the parking lot of one of our traditional vacation restaurants this year, the lot was unexpectedly empty for a Saturday night. “Uh, oh!” John said. “Looks like this one may be in trouble too.” Our local restaurant with the same name burned over a year ago, and wasn’t rebuilt, and I was looking forward to our yearly vacation visit even more than usual.
We walked in, and the restaurant was nearly empty. It took a bit for someone to acknowledge us and lead us to a nearby booth. When we passed the table nearest the door, I smiled at the older couple holding hands and sat down facing them. Only then did I realize the situation.
And I froze.
That could have been my mom and me just a few years ago, me trying to help her eat, she not even the slightest bit aware of her surroundings, nervous, frightened, and trying so hard to simply get her bearings.
I didn’t know if I could sit there, reliving Mom’s dementia, and I fought the impulse to get up and leave as I tried to focus on the menu. John had to be hearing the woman’s unintelligible speech and her raised voice as she refused the food she was being offered by…her husband, I presumed. But I could also see it, all of it: the leg spasms, her repeatedly running her free hand through her short hair, her shaking her head no as the man tried to calm her and cut up the food on the plate in front of him into tiny, tiny pieces. And then she accepted a mouthful and smacked her lips: “Yum, yum, yum.”
John and I ordered and walked to the salad bar. The woman was noisy, and very little of her language or repetitive movements made sense. But her husband was so patient, and repeatedly spoke in a hushed tone as he tried to feed her.
I wondered as I ate and tried to focus on John and keep my leg from jittering. Was this a rare occasion, an evening away from a care facility, or did the man still care for himself, dressing her, bathing her, keeping her safe from herself? How could he handle it 24 hours a day, the unpredictability, the safety issues, the knowledge that this was never going to get better?
And then she looked at him and smiled, and I could see, just briefly, recognition in her eyes and peace on her face. It was that kind of peace my mom experienced when we would talk about the purple sky at sunset, and she would encourage me to get home to “my John” as soon as Wheel of Fortune came on the TV in the community room at the nursing home.
John put down his burger and said, “This is hard for you, isn’t it?” I shook my head yes, and felt tears roll down my cheeks.
“I have a question for you,” he said. I was certain he was going to ask if I wanted to leave. But then my husband looked at me and said, “I’d like to pay for their meal. Anonymously.”
I simply nodded—and realized I had never loved this man more.
We watched as the waitress went to the gentleman and explained that his bill was paid, and he lowered his head just for a moment. Then he got up and slowly helped his wife to her feet, holding her tightly as they falteringly made their way to the door.
He was buckling her into the truck passenger seat as we passed them on the way to our car, and she was thrashing restlessly.
How many more times would he be able to bring her to their favorite dinner spot, I wondered? The waitress had told us they came in pretty regularly, but it was obvious their lives were only going to become more complicated, and I knew the everyday things we all take for granted were nearly over for them.
But this night, this night, we had helped just a little. And I grabbed John’s hand just a tiny bit tighter.
by Angela Anagnost-Repke 
by Jaymi Torrez 
by Jenny Lynne Stroup 
