After visiting the funeral home, we may have picked up lunch; neither Barb nor I remember. At the last minute before we left, my mother, who lives with me, had put in a big container of homemade black bean soup to give to Barb, a vegan. During the next two days, we ate this soup at the Hampton Inn when it dawned on us that we needed to eat in order to carry on.
Eating, practically a sport in which we gold-medal in our family, became something we had to deliberately remember to do, which is very unusual for me. I’m a stress eater, so when stressed, I eat. I was beyond stressed, though.
I was traumatized. Dealing with my husband’s death was too painful to do, and I didn’t want to do it. I knew I had to go through this, though, to live, which may be why I don’t necessarily want to live from time to time. It’s not that I’m suicidal; I just don’t care about much except that my daughters are ok. Otherwise, I think I’d be content to just slip beneath the rising waters of grief like Virginia Woolf walking out to sea with rocks in her pockets. Except that I don’t have the energy to fill my pockets with rocks or even walk into the sea. I just want the grief to take me under like a person who’s been clinging to a shipwreck for days waiting for rescue just wants to let go and let the sea take them.
This is why all the food coming in after someone dies is such a blessing. Without someone else feeding us, I think we’d have starved. Never a cook, the last thing I wanted to do was put a meal together. Besides, no one wanted a meal. We snacked. It wasn’t until four days had passed that I even knew what I was eating. I had absolutely no appetite—for anything. But when the cucumbers and hummus we were living on when we got back home ran low, I found myself in the grocery store and suddenly I wanted grapes, cheese, and bread—a meal Bill and I often had as we picnicked through Europe and in the days thereafter. That was one of our favorite meals.
In Father Melancholy’s Daughter, Gail Godwin describes the daughter’s mourning ritual as being one in which every day for lunch she ate the same last meal she had shared with her father before his death—lemonade and a cheese sandwich. I wonder if the grapes, cheese, and bread were Bill’s idea planted in my head as a way of staying connected. Or maybe it was mine—a kind of meal that conferred life out of the midst of death, much like the disciples gathering to break bread after Christ’s crucifixion.
Two days after we arrived home, a river of food flowed into the house, organized by one of the most wonderful administrative assistants on the planet. My co-workers were amazing. They wanted to know what food to bring, and I told them—fruit, bread, cheese, vegetables, and something for my vegan daughter to eat and my mother who's on a sodium-restricted diet--not exactly an easy request.
The kindness of food is a way of showing love and connection during a time of separation and pain that is hard to match. The food others blessed us with wasn't just physical sustenance; it was like a downpayment of hope, an assurance that life goes on, and that when my appetite for life is gone, theirs and their faith in my future will carry me until it's back.
One person cut up cheese and veggies and filled our frig with bags of fresh vegetables. Others brought crackers, easy to pick up and so appreciated. Some thoughtful soul sent paper plates. There was one gift that was a surprising kindness—gum, given by someone who’d been there and possibly knew that when you’re crying so much your breath isn’t always its best. One beautiful soul made soup low in salt for my mother and put it in individual containers that we could take out of the frig or freezer in the days ahead. What beautiful gifts these food offerings were to us, for which I will be eternally grateful. We got the best pasta salad I've ever eaten and a sweet potato and bean casserole that we got the recipe for and fixed for Thanksgiving. These gifts of love from my co-workers brought back my appetite.
So God bless the casserole mavens and soup brigade! They are messengers of life.
Eating, practically a sport in which we gold-medal in our family, became something we had to deliberately remember to do, which is very unusual for me. I’m a stress eater, so when stressed, I eat. I was beyond stressed, though.
I was traumatized. Dealing with my husband’s death was too painful to do, and I didn’t want to do it. I knew I had to go through this, though, to live, which may be why I don’t necessarily want to live from time to time. It’s not that I’m suicidal; I just don’t care about much except that my daughters are ok. Otherwise, I think I’d be content to just slip beneath the rising waters of grief like Virginia Woolf walking out to sea with rocks in her pockets. Except that I don’t have the energy to fill my pockets with rocks or even walk into the sea. I just want the grief to take me under like a person who’s been clinging to a shipwreck for days waiting for rescue just wants to let go and let the sea take them.
This is why all the food coming in after someone dies is such a blessing. Without someone else feeding us, I think we’d have starved. Never a cook, the last thing I wanted to do was put a meal together. Besides, no one wanted a meal. We snacked. It wasn’t until four days had passed that I even knew what I was eating. I had absolutely no appetite—for anything. But when the cucumbers and hummus we were living on when we got back home ran low, I found myself in the grocery store and suddenly I wanted grapes, cheese, and bread—a meal Bill and I often had as we picnicked through Europe and in the days thereafter. That was one of our favorite meals.
In Father Melancholy’s Daughter, Gail Godwin describes the daughter’s mourning ritual as being one in which every day for lunch she ate the same last meal she had shared with her father before his death—lemonade and a cheese sandwich. I wonder if the grapes, cheese, and bread were Bill’s idea planted in my head as a way of staying connected. Or maybe it was mine—a kind of meal that conferred life out of the midst of death, much like the disciples gathering to break bread after Christ’s crucifixion.
Two days after we arrived home, a river of food flowed into the house, organized by one of the most wonderful administrative assistants on the planet. My co-workers were amazing. They wanted to know what food to bring, and I told them—fruit, bread, cheese, vegetables, and something for my vegan daughter to eat and my mother who's on a sodium-restricted diet--not exactly an easy request.
The kindness of food is a way of showing love and connection during a time of separation and pain that is hard to match. The food others blessed us with wasn't just physical sustenance; it was like a downpayment of hope, an assurance that life goes on, and that when my appetite for life is gone, theirs and their faith in my future will carry me until it's back.
One person cut up cheese and veggies and filled our frig with bags of fresh vegetables. Others brought crackers, easy to pick up and so appreciated. Some thoughtful soul sent paper plates. There was one gift that was a surprising kindness—gum, given by someone who’d been there and possibly knew that when you’re crying so much your breath isn’t always its best. One beautiful soul made soup low in salt for my mother and put it in individual containers that we could take out of the frig or freezer in the days ahead. What beautiful gifts these food offerings were to us, for which I will be eternally grateful. We got the best pasta salad I've ever eaten and a sweet potato and bean casserole that we got the recipe for and fixed for Thanksgiving. These gifts of love from my co-workers brought back my appetite.
So God bless the casserole mavens and soup brigade! They are messengers of life.
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