When I first arrived at my grandmother's house in Ridgecrest, I heard my Grandma mumbling something about not wanting to go out because of the [Thanksgiving] crowds.
Then an hour later, she forgot what day it is, and told me after I clued her in, "I didn't know it was Thanksgiving."
"Did you remember me telling you when I left that I was coming back on Thursday?"
"No," she responds honestly.
During the visit, Grandma keeps asking me if I'm hungry (which I'm not). Finally, she decides that she wants to go to the restaurant across the street. She hasn't had anything to eat since lunch, which she says she ate some soup.
Two people are smoking just outside of the restaurant's doors, and they politely say hello as we come closer.
"I'll have a piece of pie," I tell the waitress after my grandmother and I are seated. After all, I had a New York steak sandwich a few hours ago (which I shared with my dog, Beck) while I was on the road to Ridgecrest.
She looks surprisingly annoyed. "We don't have any pie."
"Okay," I say, undaunted. "Do you have any type of dessert?"
"Yes, we have a spice pound cake."
"I'll take that then."
Grandma lifts her head up, "Make that two." She hands the waitress the menu.
It's bad enough I'm eating it, which is perhaps the main reason why I didn't say anything to my grandmother, but as a diabetic, she really doesn't need the sugar--especially since she's not having anything with it like a protein source.
I watch in horror as she eats the cake and the ice cream that went with it. Like looking at an addict with a needle in her hand as she finds a good vein in the arm, poking around and finally diving right in, blissfully blind to the overwhelming consequences that are assuredly coming--a medical doomsday.
"This is even better than real food," my grandmother comments as she's shooting up straight sugar.
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