Last night I went to spend some time with L., my step-father-in-law, who is 81 years old and has been in a nursing home since 2005. I haven't been to see him in a while and when I got there he was a little tilted over in his wheelchair, listening to classical music on the radio (my husband had been to see him earlier and must have left the radio on for him). I tried to get him more comfortable by propping him up with pillows and I wiped his face with a cool, wet cloth and took off his glasses (to give the bridge of his nose a rest - the glasses bite into him there). He had a coughing fit so I gave him some water and went to buy him a soda. Of course, the guy in the nursing home cafe was nowhere to be found. I waited for ages and eventually just took the soda and left a dollar on the counter with a note: "For one ginger ale."

Back in the room, L. and I chatted - he asked me how work was going, and he told me he had read my great-grandmother's book. It's a memoir of a Victorian-era childhood that his wife has been reading to him. We talked about that a little and then dinner arrived: soup, salad, fish, and tater tots, followed by a chocolate eclair.

I don't know if I had caught L. when he was in an upswing with his medication, or whether he just makes more effort when I'm around (because we don't see each other very often and so I think he sees me as more of a "guest" than a caregiver) but he was more mobile than usual during dinner. I couldn't get his body to stay upright in the chair and his head and arms were moving about in small jerks. As a result, I was a terrible aim with the soup and most of it ended up down the front of L.'s bib and on his chin. I felt bad about that, like I had assaulted his dignity, though he was good-natured about it. It's my fault, he said.

We had the Mets game on over dinner. L. had asked for it. They are his home town team, I guess. We got through the salad and fish and potatoes. On to the eclair. L. kept trying to hold the eclair himself, but he can't usually get the food all the way to his mouth. I positioned the spoon with a bite of eclair on it in his fist. He raised it, almost all the way there. I said: "Shall I help you?" He said no. "It's a matter of principle." I think he wanted to prove to himself, and maybe to me, that he could do it. So, while the Mets were 4 down in the 8th innings, he slowly, slowly, slowly raised the spoon to his mouth. I just helped him with the last little bit, putting my hand over his. He got the bite in there.

When the nurse came to put him into bed at about 8 p.m. the Mets had clawed their way back. "Might they win?" I asked. "They might," he said. But the nurse was waiting and I had to turn the TV off. When I went to say goodbye he clasped my hand and kissed it. "You charmer!" I said, and the nurse laughed in a kind way, and then I left, feeling terribly, terrible sad.