We topped off a delightful weekend with Hunter watching Super Bowl 59. Then it was business back to the usual on Tuesday morning.
Kristy: Would you like pancakes for breakfast or maybe oatmeal?
Don: No, just cookies.
I deliver homemade chocolate chip cookies, together with the daily medications and water. I left the room, not concerned with any abnormalities at that moment. I see a partially empty bowl of cereal, so I know he ate cereal earlier in the morning. The milk carton that was left on top of the mini-refrigerator and raisins on the floor were additional signs. Half an hour later, Don enters the forbidden area we call the kitchen. He holds up a piece of chocolate chip cookie no bigger than a cough drop for my inspection.
Kristy: What am I looking at?
Don: It looks like peanut butter to me.
Kristy: Yeah, well it’s not. Maybe we need to clean your glasses.
He grabs ahold of his glasses with an index finger and thumb, raises them up and down like Groucho Marx with a cigar and asks where are his glasses?
Kristy: On your face Ding Don.
He blows a flat raspberry and shakes his head in disbelief. I’m also left in disbelief that Don threw that small piece of cookie in the garbage because he thought it was peanut butter. He lived on peanut butter his first year home after his stroke. Now, it’s garbage.
Note to Self: What cosmic roll of the dice landed peanut butter and Groucho Marx on my doorstep before noon?