Feeding Time in Dementiaville - Part 1

Romeo began our visit with a heartfelt, matter-of-fact confession.

"I couldn't feed myself today," he said. "I couldn't pick up the food with my fork and put it in my mouth."

I looked at him questioningly, tilted my head to the right, and blinked a few times, wide-eyed. Shocked by another downturn of events that mark the progression of his dementia, I must have looked like a deer in the headlights.

"I asked someone to help me."

"You mean someone had to feed you?"

"Yes. I think this is bad news."

A few minutes later, I wandered out of Romeo's room and down the hall to get the "real" story from his nurse.

"I don't know what that was all about," she said. "He was feeding himself, using his fork and spoon normally, like he always does. Then all of a sudden, he said he couldn't feed himself, even though he was doing fine. Someone came over and fed him anyway, because he requested it." She ended with a shrug of her shoulders, obviously stumped.

That wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look was back on my face as I headed back to Romeo's room. I didn't mention it to Romeo -- it's so much better not to because he usually forgets all about it, which is what happened this time.

Meanwhile, Romeo has been feeding himself like usual, without help. I'll say it again: dementia is a funny thing.