Fine dining

It was one of those pastel colored, industrial-thick, plastic trays complete with container lid. It’s supposed to seal in the freshness or the heat, but just by looking at this tray container, you begin to doubt how they sanitize these things and if the food will even be lukewarm at all. You know the food trays I’m talking about. Every hospital or care facility around has them.

They placed the tray directly in front of her and her son reached over to remove the lid revealing a perfectly domed scoop of chicken salad on a bed of lettuce. Of course, there was an ice cream cup too - crackers, a cup of black-eyed pea soup, fruit cup, and juice. Her daughter-in-law secured the matching pastel bib around her neck and chest while the grandchildren eagerly helped open the containers and rearrange the food into small edible portions. After situating her napkin, she found her utensils and begin to dig in.

There was no real art to the meal. In fact, at times it seemed she was really shoveling it down. While she could still use a little assistance occasionally, it was a blessing to be able to feed yourself basically on your own. Her family gathered around her table and watched with delight as she ate. It was quite entertaining to watch at times and if there was a spill here or there, or an unexpected burp, it was all the more amusing. She found the chicken salad equally amusing. She would look up occasionally, raise her eyebrows wide-eyed and beam with joy.

Of course, there were others in the dining hall too. Buzz sat by himself facing a wall at the next table over. He was a 74 year-old history teacher with Parkinson’s. If you saw him in his wheelchair, you’d notice how his left leg bounces uncontrollably at times. His hands aren’t so steady either. He struggled to eat from his plastic tray that day. Every time he would get a cup of fruit or juice up to his mouth to gulp, the shaking would start. Yet, he did his best to try to keep from making a mess. After a while, Buzz gave up and he wheeled himself over to their table. They asked if they could help him in any way, but he politely declined and assured them he was finished. "It wasn’t my kind of dinner," he said.

So, Buzz just sat there with them (awkwardly it seemed) and they all watched as she cleaned her plate forkful by forkful. As she finished, Buzz decided it was time to move on, so he started to move away. The family thanked Buzz for joining them and expressed to him how nice it was to have met him. And then Buzz said something that completely changed any awkwardness of that meal. He thanked them. In a gruff, but genuine, voice he admitted that today was the first meal he had enjoyed in a long time. He said, he had hardly eaten anything now in two weeks, but today he learned something.

As he sat around and watched them with their grandmother and watched how she did her best to feed herself, he realized that it doesn’t really matter how you eat or what other people think of you. All this time, as his disease has progressed, he had been afraid and embarrassed of what others would see and the mess he would make. Watching the playful interaction of that family today changed everything for him. It changed everything for them too. A lackluster chicken salad entrée in a plastic container became a fine dining experience that afternoon. It wasn’t so much what was being served as who was there. That made all the difference in the world.