Everyone in my family has a sweet tooth, and our family tradition is to have dessert immediately before bed, a tradition that has persisted for decades. Say what you will about this habit, you can’t deny that after a generous serving of a sugary dessert you’ll sleep like you’re in a coma.
I have no idea if this need for sweets before bed is purely psychological but when my elderly mother had a bad fall and was admitted, briefly, to a convalescent home for therapy, the main thing she complained about was that she couldn’t sleep because they wouldn’t give her dessert before bed. The other thing she complained about was her roommate, Ruth.
Ruth was in her mid-80s, bedridden, and deaf as a rock. Following the rigid protocol of the nursing home, since she was admitted to their shared room first, she controlled the TV, which she watched, at full volume, 24/7. This infuriated Mom, who can’t sleep with a TV on.
“What’s Ruth in for?” I asked casually Monday night. “She had surgery on her leg,” Mom said, and sighed. “If I had some dessert,” she said tragically, “I know I’d sleep better.”
Tuesday night when I went to visit I brought a piece of carrot cake, and, sure enough, Mom’s mood improved immediately but Ruth looked at us like a kid in a candy shop. “They never serve dessert in this joint,” she said.
Wednesday night I brought Mom ice cream. “My daughter never brings me dessert,” said Ruth morosely. “What a witch,” I thought.
Thursday night I stopped at Krispy Kreme and, thinking Ruth and the nurses would enjoy a doughnut, I bought a half dozen. Mom had a doughnut. I had a doughnut. I offered Ruth a doughnut and she grabbed it like a crack fiend reaching for a pipe. She inhaled two more and then, in a kind of stupor, I watched her eat the final doughnut.
A moment later, a look of pure bliss on her face, Ruth fell asleep. “Hurry,” my mom hissed, “grab the remote.” I took the remote from the sleeping Ruth and turned off the TV. A moment later when I tiptoed out of the room Mom and Ruth were both snoring gently.
And thus began a pattern: I would visit every evening about 8 PM after they were both tucked snugly under the covers for the night. It might be cookies or pie, creampuffs or cheesecake, but every night I brought dessert for Mom and Ruth and every night they slept like babies. “Please don’t tell my daughter,” Ruth always said, “she would be so angry.” “What a witch,” I thought.
Mom was being released on a Friday, so on Thursday night I brought cupcakes to celebrate. A minute later Mom looked at the sleeping Ruth and said conversationally, “Ruth’s leg is not doing well. They may need to operate again.”
“Was it a hip replacement?” I asked, and Mom shook her head. “No,” she said; “she had part of her leg amputated.” “How horrible,” I said, and kissed Mom good night.
I was in my car when I had a horrible thought and in pure panic I rushed back to the room. “Is Ruth diabetic?” I asked and Mom nodded sleepily. “Yes. The night nurse was telling me they can’t figure out why her blood sugar spikes every night.”
“Ma,“ I said frantically, debating if I would be charged with murder or simply manslaughter, “you’ve been letting me feed sugar to a diabetic? It could kill her.”
She shrugged. “You know I can’t sleep with the TV on.”
