Feeding my mother-in law, who is in hospice care, always makes me slow down and contemplate the simple pleasures of life. Small bites. Slow chewing. I take “air bites” as she opens her mouth, much like when I fed my babies so many years ago. The circle of life, indeed.

A recent lunch was a turkey dinner, complete with mash potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce, and Brussels sprouts. She washed it down with a couple cups of milk, because she loves her milk, especially when it’s out-of-the-fridge cold.

I have to dig deep to find patience as the one wielding the fork to allow her to go at her own pace. I acknowledged that I ate much faster than she did even when she could feed herself. We had a little giggle as she said, “I know.” However, unlike a toddler, as an adult it’s important for her to manage some self-care actions herself. The ones that keep us all dignified and separate us from the apes: wiping her mouth, removing the unchewable potato skin off her tongue and placing it ever so slowly on the plate, chewing thoroughly.

She ate everything on her plate, which surprised me, because she doesn’t usually eat that much when I feed her. It’s either too much work to chew or she doesn’t care for the food. When we started, I asked her if she liked Brussels sprouts and she answered with a kind of “meh,” but every time I offered them she wanted them.

I found myself contemplating “last meals”. When my father was in hospice at home in my parents’ living room, he perked up one day and asked my mom for three eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. She didn’t normally have bacon on hand, but she did that day. It was his last full meal, which he voraciously consumed, like he’d never eat again. He was right. So as my MIL made her way through her Thanksgiving meal in July, I tried to offer up anything except the Brussels sprouts.

It’s not that I don’t like Brussels sprouts myself, but if I died right after having just cleaned up my last plate of food, I don’t want to tell St. Peter at the gates of heaven that the last earthly morsel that passed through my lips was Brussel sprouts. What if there’s some sort of test about how much clean indulgence you allowed yourself in life. Proof you didn’t take life too seriously, while still upholding the values God placed before you.

I’ve always imagined there would be an entry conversation with God, where we casually chatted so I would feel more comfortable in His Almighty Presence. What if he asked about my last meal, and I told him that of all the wonderful, man-made delicacies inspired by him that I, living in a first world country where I could afford to eat almost anything, my last bite was Brussels sprouts? He might leave me standing at the gates of heaven to think about what I could have done differently.

When I was cooking for a friend in hospice a couple years ago, I asked her if she knew she only had a week left, would she dispense with all her current dietary restrictions. She gave a resounding “YES!” We spent the rest of the evening listing all the foods that she had to deny herself during her illness. Turns out she was blessed to know her death was imminent and she did go for it and not one of her last bites included Brussels sprouts.

God has decreed, “Let not your last bite be of Brussels sprouts.”

Gretchen Leigh is a stay-at-home mom who lives in Covington. You can read more of her writing and her blog on her website livingwithgleigh.com or on Facebook at “Living with Gleigh by Gretchen Leigh,” or twitter @livewithgleigh. Her column is available every week at maplevalleyreporter.com under the Life section.