The Power of Real Food

Note: This is my column that first appeared in the Standard-Examiner newspaper.  It won a Best Essay award from the Association of Food Journalists.

Can a person stay alive without eating food?

Would they want to?

I’ve often pondered that question since my dad, Jay Sagers of Rush Valley, Utah, passed away in October 2012.  From April through June 2012,  he couldn’t swallow. When he was finally able to eat real food again, it was so gratifying to see the pleasure and nourishment it gave him. Dad’s experience has been on my mind as I’ve missed him during the holidays.

That April, Dad had emergency gall bladder surgery and a bad infection that put him in an intensive care unit for a month. Even after the infection cleared up, his throat muscles didn’t work when he tried to swallow food, water, or even tiny bits of his medications. Any attempts resulted in horrible choking.  In medical-ese, his condition was diagnosed as “a severe pharyngeal dysphagia characterized by left vocal fold paresis.”

To keep him alive, he was fed a liquid nutritional formula through a tube in his stomach. An 85-year-old World War II veteran and lifelong rancher, Dad didn’t whine. But I can imagine his thirst for the sweet fizz of a Pepsi sliding down his throat. Or hunger for savory roast beef , creamy mashed potatoes, hot rolls slathered with melting butter, or crisp juicy apples.

Those familiar tastes and textures can help take your mind off pain and problems — hence, the term, “comfort food.” But there was no such comfort for Dad.

Still, there was no quit in him.

Even when he was so weak he could barely sit in a chair, I noticed his feet continually moving. I asked him if his feet felt restless and he said, “No, I just want to keep them working so I can walk out of here.”

When Dad was first hospitalized, my soup cookbook was going to press. In anticipation of his coming home, I made several of my favorite soup recipes, divided in single-serving containers that he could heat in his toaster oven. (He refused to use a microwave.)

But those meals sat in my freezer while Dad spent most of May in a nursing home. Instead of recovering, his condition got worse. He caught a super bacteria that gave him stomach cramps and diarrhea. He had a urinary tract infection and gout. His stomach constantly burned, and one of his hands became swollen.

At the end of May, he insisted that he wanted OUT of the nursing home, no matter what. “Just take me home and let me die,” he said.

Feeling desperate, my five siblings and I decided to become his caregivers. It was a scary prospect. None of us could care for him full-time because of our work schedules. My sister, Christi Nash, was the only one with any nursing training. Two of us lived an hour’s drive away from Christi’s home in Tooele where Dad would be staying. One brother lives in Maryland, and another brother’s job took him out of town for weeks at a time.

The nursing home staff predicted we would soon bring him back when we discovered how difficult his care would be.

As I drove Dad home from the nursing home to Christi’s house in Tooele, I wondered if we were in over our heads.

But, we cobbled together a care schedule and got his hospital bed set up in Christi’s dining room. A home care nurse taught us how to run his feeding tube, and we learned to change Depends. My brother, Travis Sagers, installed a shower in the bathroom, and came by most nights after work to give Dad a shower.

Christi took on the major responsibility for Dad’s care, getting up during the night to give his meds through the feeding tube, and gently rubbing ointment into his bedsores. My brother, Nate Sagers, would regale him with tales about herding his cows. My sister Hallie Keller found a better price on the nutritional formula for his feeding tube. Brother Matt Sagers, who lives in Maryland, flew out to visit and kept in touch through cards and phone calls. Great-grandson Owen came over to play “tea party,” giving Dad cup after cup of imaginary tea.

A home care speech pathologist told him saying “Coca Cola” would strengthen his vocal cords — not a welcome task for a Pepsi man. He would repeat “Coca-Cola” in his most sarcastic voice.

We theorized that the aromas of homemade foods like baking bread, grilling beef and hearty soups would perk up Dad’s taste buds, and stimulate his throat muscles. We also thought the fresh summer air and having family around would help.

And, maybe it did. One day in early July, Nate tried spooning Dad tiny bits of watermelon, and he was able to swallow them. That night, Christi fed him sips of the Turkey & Wild Rice Soup I had brought over the day before, and they stayed down! Success.

As Dad’s swallowing improved, so did his strength. The nutritional supplement in his feeding tube contained vitamins and minerals to sustain life, but I now believe that real foods have other health-giving properties that science has yet to unlock. I’m pretty sure that being able to enjoy the feel and flavor of real food was also a psychological boost.

On July 17, I took Dad to see his doctor, Charles Holt, who was amazed at his progress. He had gained four pounds. The super bacteria was gone. Ditto the urinary tract infection, gout, and burning stomach. The swelling in his hand had receded, and he could get out of his wheelchair and use a walker.

“It’s a miracle you are recovering this well, and it’s due to the concerted effort from a lot of people who love you,” Dr. Holt told Dad.

I also think it was due to the power of real food.

For the next three months, we indulged Dad’s appetite. I made him strawberry ice cream — with no skimping on the cream! Christi baked pies and cobblers using fresh-picked apricots from her backyard. Hallie and Travis took him out for seafood at Red Lobster, and I brought him grilled salmon from Market Street Grill. He went to a buffet restaurant and sampled nearly everything. He also pursued his affinity for crispy KFC chicken. At the Rush Valley Rodeo, he downed a cherry snow-cone and soon asked for another one.

Sometimes his eyes were bigger than his stomach. One afternoon I brought him some Ham & Black Bean Soup, and he ate a big bowlful. Unfortunately, his stomach wasn’t used to processing beans, leading to a bout of digestive issues later that night.

Dad enjoyed those months, as he became strong enough to drive his car out to his farm during the day. He talked about moving back into his own home.

And then one October night, he complained to my sister that he was having trouble breathing. She and her husband, Jerry, were driving him to the hospital when he suddenly collapsed.

In an instant, he was gone.

Why, after what seemed to be successful recovery, did Dad suddenly go? I think that, a few weeks shy of his 86th birthday, his heart was simply worn out.

But I also felt that our efforts weren’t in vain. As siblings with widely diverse lives, Dad’s condition pulled us together. We gained admiration for each other’s compassion, caring, and skills.

And, maybe there was something that this fiercely independent man needed to know before he left this life — that his kids loved him and would do whatever it took for him. Dad learned to swallow not just food — but pride, in being able to accept our help.

There’s a saying that some people eat to live, and others live to eat. From Dad’s experience, I think the truth is somewhere in between. Food sustains life, but it also makes that life enjoyable. Thanks, Dad, for that last life lesson!