Method to his madness

This is a part of a series of essays about time I spent with my father, Frank, in November, 2013.  It was just before he was moved into a dementia facility.  (see 3/5/2014 post)

My father has always had a sweet tooth.  It appears his dementia has not erased this memory.  Not by a long shot.   Actually, left to his own discretion, my father can get quite creative about sweetening his food, be it a sweet or savory dish.  He invented putting strawberry jam on baked potato.  And, he proved - to himself - that vegetable soup is better with a little sliced banana added.  


Mostly it is a harmless flavoring.  Or so I thought until the morning my father got hold of the syrup bottle.  I had just placed a short stack of pancakes before him and walked away.  Novice mistake.  By the time I returned to the table, my father’s plate could no longer contain the syrup.  His plate runneth over.  My response was to first rescue the syrup bottle.  That part was easy, he wasn't expecting my move.  My next move wasn't as certain.  I hesitated for a moment, giving consideration to a do-over plate of clean pancakes or perhaps eliminating 90 percent of the syrup on the plate before him.  Whatever I decided, it would begin with retrieving his plate. 


Looking back, I wonder if my father was having a similar "what to do" moment, because it seemed as though we reached for the plate at the same time.  I pulled one way, he pulled another.    What got to me was my father's look of panic mixed with steely resolve.  A line - in the syrup - had been drawn.  Obviously he saw nothing wrong with what sat before him.  His breakfast pancakes were just as he wanted.  Smothered in sweetness - as was part of the table.  Most relevant, his look told me he could not understand why I was stealing his masterpiece.  So I gently released my grip on the plate.  This appeared to deescalate the growing tension.  My father was less panicked but clearly not fully trusting of the situation - rather, trusting me.  So I back away.  I couldn't do anything about the spill without disturbing my father's breakfast.  So I waited and watched from afar.   I watched my father consume every morsel with efficiency.  Methodically, even.  It struck me that I was seeing parts of the old Frank.  The boss parts.  The part that figures out how to do something and does it.   Work until the work is done.  Eat until the food is gone.  My father spent much of his adulthood running things, calling the shots.  For sure he called the shots that morning.