Hard to Top This Day

 

Growing up one of my favorite lunches was mom’s Italian Tuna Salad.  What made the tuna salad was that her first ingredient was an Italian brand of tuna called Genova which is packed in olive oil.  She added celery, carrots, oranges, tomatoes, black olives, pepper and balsamic vinegar.  We ate the Italian tuna salad with crispy Marconi Italian bread.  The best was when mom had just made her homemade Italian bread.

 

On Wednesday, I decided to make the salad and bring enough to share with mom.  I changed the recipe slightly by eliminating the oranges and tomatoes because those food items do not agree with us anymore.



I put the salads in individual Tupperware containers with dividers that converter into our dishes.  I added some sliced Italian bread and Bing cherries another favorite of mom and me.  I set our table up so mom’s back would be in the sun.

“Tuna salad is delicious,” mom said.

“I agree; I have not made this in a long time because Ron does not like tuna salad this way.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not Italian.”

Mom seemed to accept that answer. 

Dana* came to sit with us while we ate.  Mom enjoyed every last morsel.  We all discussed how much better mom was doing today.   

While Dana* took mom to the restroom, I went to the lunch room to see what they were having for dessert.  Today was Strawberries with angel food cake.  I knew mom would enjoy the dessert so I brought her a piece.

Mom said, “Dana’s*  . . . the best.”

“We definitely appreciate all she does for you, mom.”

“She knows I love her,” mom said smiling at Dana*

“I love you too Gilda,” with that Dana* stood up and said, “I will see you later.”

I always feel good to see the beautiful relationship between them. 

Mom really enjoyed the strawberry shortcake, “Everything was delicious.”

“I am glad, mom.  I enjoyed our luncheon as well.” 

A few minutes after mom finished eating her dessert, the hospice chaplain, Rosalee*, saw us sitting at the table and joined us.

“Miss Gilda, you are looking so happy spending time with your daughter.”

Mom explained about our special luncheon.

 “Sounds delicious, Gilda.”

“It was,” mom commented.

“I can see that you’ve eaten every bit.  Your daughter is so good to you.”

“Yes, she is.”

I excused myself and left mom and Rosalee* together while I cleared our dishes and brought the silverware and glasses back to the lunch room.  As I did, I heard Rosalee* say, “Miss Gilda, I know you love to pray.  How about if we pray together?”

By that time I was too far away from them to hear mom’s response.  I was comforted that she and mom were praying together.  Rosalee* is one of mom’s really good friends.  Mom loves her visits because she always makes her feel special.

When I joined them back at the table, Rosalee* said, “Your mom wanted to wait for you to pray.  Mom said that you enjoy praying as much as she does.”

I turned to mom, “That was so nice mom.  And you are right I love to pray with mom.”

We all held hands and Rosalee* began praying in a way that seems like a gift.  Her words seemed to flow so beautifully as if she was just talking to God and I guess that’s really what she was doing.  After Rosalee* finished mom said, “Now . . . you.”

“Would you like for me to say our prayer ‘Mom is the Light’?”

Mom shook her head.  I said the pray; mom and Rosalee* repeated each phrase after me.

Mom and I left shortly thereafter to go for a walk even though today was a cloudy day.  Mom loves the stroll and sitting by the fishing pond enjoying the flowers.  While we sat there I mentioned that John and Carme were going to come and visit her on Saturday with me.  She very much enjoys their company and was looking forward to seeing them.

Then mom spotted a butterfly.  We stayed until the butterfly flew away.

 



This day seemed to end perfect.  Mom had such a beautiful smile on her face when I left and why shouldn’t she.  Mom had enjoyed Italian tuna fish, Bing cherries, strawberry shortcake and our wonderful stroll with a butterfly viewing, in addition, we spent some quality time with Dana* and Rosalee*.