Duck Soup

I wish Turner Classic Movies showed more of the Marx Brothers- that is Big Mama’s favorite television channel, and the films she watches are integrated into the blended space-time continuum in which she lives.

I had to think about their classic film “Duck Soup,” since Big Mama has taken on some of the aspects of the wealthy Mrs. Teasdale , as portrayed by Margaret Dumont. In that role, Big Mama has designated me in the role of Rufus T. Firefly, leader of a small bankrupt nation somewhere in Middle Europe.

If the nation of Fredonia has a a lot in common with what is happening in Greece, so be it. It helps to stay in character. I got a call from my broker in Milan yesterday, saying that some of the Italians investors were contemplating throwing themselves out of basement windows.

There is talk they may walk upstairs if things get worse, and that appears entirely possible.

I walked over to The Madison to have lunch with Mac. I had not seen him since I returned from the Little Village By the Bay, and he had a bout with a lung infection that landed him in the hospital.

I had several questions about what is happening to the Socotras, and I explained how Big Mama is incorporating the movies she watches into her life-stream. He nodded as I described that, and the issues with Raven and his wandering.

“That is the thing about Alzheimers, and other progressive dementias” he said. “No two cases are alike. When you have seen a case of Alzheimers, you have seen one case. My wife Billie was diagnosed when she was 59, and she lived twenty years.”

I took a spoon of the cabbage soup and wrinkled my brow. “How long was she in a nursing home?” I asked. “We are going to have to do something with Raven, and soon.”

“Ten years,” said the Admiral, looking off over my shoulder. “She fell, and we thought she might have broken her hip. I took her to Jefferson Hospital down in Alexandria. It is closed now, they had a dementia unit to keep it stable and assess what course of action to take. She was there for two weeks, and I realized that she no longer knew or cared where she was.”

“That is about where we are with Raven,” I said, thoughtfully, “Or way past it. Big Mama was keeping him afloat, but she can’t do it any more.”

“They determined that her hip was OK, and when they released her, I drove straight from there to the Methodist Home’s Alzheimer’s unit.” He put down his spoon and looked with pleasure at the Bacon-Lettuce and Tomato sandwich that appeared on the arm of the cute Ethiopian waitress.

The luncheon service was thinly attended, but I could hear other conversations from the largely female-populated tables and they all sounded the same as ours.

It was nice to be in the Big Dining Room, which is quite ornate, similar to the one for the still-mentally active up at Potemkin Village. I envy the people that get to eat there, though they are very kind to the residents who are consigned to the Challenged Room.

“Billie never came home again, and she didn’t ask to.”

I nodded. “Same process, I guess. How long can this go on?”

Mac looked thoughtful. “I studied this pretty hard, as you might imagine. Twenty years, outside twenty-four, but the average might be eight or so. People forget how to swallow, and ingest food into their lungs. They say that pneumonia is an dementia patient’s best friend.”

I did some mental calculations. “Raven began to show symptoms when about four years ago, or maybe it was sooner.”

Mac nodded. He volunteered in the Dementia unit at Arlington Hospital for years as a third career. “When they no longer can walk, they also become vulnerable to congestive heart failure due to inactivity.”

I sighed, and then we talked about the closure of Walter Reed, and the impact on Mac’s care, and the more arcane aspects of Medicare.

“I had not idea it was a state administered program,” I said.

“You will learn a lot,” said Mac. “The odds of getting dementia by the time you get to your 80s is something like 50%.”

“You are in the happy half,” I said. “You are still as sharp as a tack.”

Mac shook his head. “I feel like I am slipping a bit. I sense a decline, and it might be the drugs they have me on. I am going to the Oncologist later this month armed for bear. I have my entire medical record,” he said, and indicted the thickness of the file with his thumb and forefinger.

“I also recommend that  you make sure you have papers on that 911 NOT be called in the event of health event, that you have a DNR prominently on file, and ensure the staff knows you DO NOT want him in the hospital.”

“Great point. I wish I brought my notebook.”

“Mine is prominently posted on my apartment door,” he said. “Dessert?”

I demurred, and he took his ice cream in a plastic container to eat later. I walked with him to the elevator as he pushed his cart slowly.

“I cant thank you enough,” I said. “You help me understand all this.”

“Doesn’t come with an instruction manual,” he said. “No dress rehearsal.”

I waved as the doors closed and whisked him skyward. I thought hard about the conversation the rest of the afternoon and did the calculations.

“Once we have Raven on the meter in the facility, whichever one can take him, we have about three years to figure out what to do before we have to start tapping the house.”

Those were not my first words to Jim Champagne that afternoon at the Willow, but they were close. I was a little down, but perked up when Tracy O’Grady appeared behind the bar with one of her long square plates.

“Do you like Peking Duck?” she said. A burly young man in a white coat had appeared next to Jim and smiled. “This is Christopher,” she said, gesturing at him. “He used to be the sous chef here, and then went on to a couple other places. He has come back to help us launch the Nosh menu.”

Christopher smiled. The dish held a small mound of dark slivers, thinly sliced scallions and neatly folded Chinese pancakes with Hoisin and ginger dipping sauces. “See what you think,” he said. “And can you believe it is only $5?”

“Holy smokes,” I said, piling some of the duck and vegetables on the pancake and ladling some sauce on it. “How come we haven’t seen this before?”

Tracy smiled broadly. “We don’t have it all the time. We get fresh duck legs, not the whole bird, and we crackle them in their own juices and then cut off the skin. The meat goes in our duck pot pies with the wonderful crust that Kate Jansen makes. The skin goes into the Peking Duck tacos.”

She smiled again and disappeared to the kitchen with Christopher. Chef Robert came out to bump fists with us before getting into the evening rush.

Jim and I finished off the plate in a New York minute and asked Liz-with-an-S for more.

“This is the best part of the day,” I said, munching the crispy duck.

“First pitch in the Yankees-Tigers game in an hour,” said Jim. “Might be the best part of the year.”

“Considering the alternatives,” I said. “I have to agree with you.”

“Oh, you were showing off that man-purse yesterday?”

“It is not a purse,” I said indignantly. “It is a supplemental ammunition carrier.”

Jim smirked and reached down under the bar and picked something up. He produced it with a flourish and smacked it down on the bar. I blinked.

“This is a man’s lunch-pail,” he said. “It could carry all the duck you need for a week.”

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com