Let the Meat Decide

I don’t want to remember because it is already done. Memories cradle me in one moment and crush me in the next or if I stay in them too long. Those times are over, and you are not here to make more with me, at least not in the way I long for us to. Maybe it is my mind trying to bridge the gaps between what I wish for, what was, and what cannot be. I swear you were behind me in your truck yesterday, driving through the square, accidentally crossing paths in our day like we sometimes used to do. That man driving the white truck like yours with the grill guard even has the same shaped head and haircut as you do. I hated it, and I ached that it wasn’t you. And I cannot stop loving you more deeply. I feel compelled to love even when it is difficult to do and when I have to find new ways to do it. And making all of these human-life decisions without you is exhausting. I consult with you when I can, on the big stuff. There are so many things to decide every day.

Decisions. I have made a lot of decisions in my lifetime for my myself and on behalf of my children. It was better to carry the weight of all the decision-making with Edmond.  

I am tired of choosing between all the options and run out of capacity to do so at some point. There are things and circumstances that I simply do not have a clear answer to yet, and so I do nothing, and remain in the “I don’t know” place. Some of it still doesn’t feel like mine to make a decision about.

I need time and space and quiet. I need space for crying and for talking with you. I need to hear from you often and regularly. Sometimes I do not want to leave the bubble where I feel connected to you. But the world, this world of endless options, calls me back to the human tasks. 

The other afternoon, I knew I needed to figure out dinner, what I would make or pick up or where we would go out to eat. It was late afternoon, and I was still meandering between too many unfinished tasks. I had taken meat out of the freezer to make a chili, but I was not feeling one way or the other about cooking or eating. I asked the kids what they wanted to do, and they were pretty much resigned to the same state of indecision as I was. So, I told them we would let the meat decide. If it was defrosted by the time a dinner decision had to be made, I would cook. If it was still frozen, we would pick up food. It was arbitrary, a surrender, and perhaps a test for Universe. I cooked.

The coffee I am making continues to be sub-par and consistently inconsistent. I am trying to keep my morning coffee date with E, but truly, my coffee skills continue to decline. This week, I ran out of D’s Coffee that is roasted to Edmond’s specifications by a micro coffee roaster in our town. It is really good coffee. I don’t yet know if I will order another bag of beans or not. I am undecided.  

Additionally, I either have a ridiculous amount of food and leftovers or our pantry and refrigerator are bare. I either want to cook, or I absolutely do not. It is so hot outside, and going to the store, even making the list for curbside pick up feels difficult. Figuring out the ingredients necessary for any particular meal is beyond my mental capacities lately. I open the freezer to discover leftovers dated before April 4, 2023. These are the things we cooked together. 

How can I ever eat them? How can I eat what we made without you? I won’t, probably. Maybe the kids will eat the leftover gumbo and jambalaya and the vegetable soup when the weather shifts again. I hope it will rain and cool off some, soon. And, those changes — while they will be a relief— are also another new season without you, relief from this unending heat for me without you. I find that I am often bored without you here. I catch myself wandering about, aimless. Maybe bored is the wrong word. I am without direction or clear intent. I miss you so much. I love you so much.

I am grateful for our girl, Summer. She is like Edmond in her order and process for getting things done efficiently. She came over so we could visit, work on a budget, and talk about her car. We did those things, and she ended up helping me find some structure for our weekly meals based on school/music/cross country/baseball schedules. She is truly brilliant and creative, and I wish I could hire her to be my personal assistant. She helped me give practical shape to our new routine.

I have hardly ever actually been bored in my life. I do not need to be entertained, and I am not good at busy work. It either feels purposeful, or I cannot do it. Now, I start things, several things at a time and do not finish most of what I have begun. My attention span is short and scattered. Even spending time outside in nature is harder. 

The chair next to me on the deck, our place by the unlit fire pit, and the spot on the step in the pool are empty. There is too much space. You left too much space, and it cannot be filled. And, as I continue to step into the space, it holds me more than I believe it will. It has been surprising. The quiet is time for me to listen intently in case you are telling me something. In the space of alone time, it is easier to cry if I need to. Although, the tears still come when they come no matter where I am or what I might be doing. There are still times when I look away from the photos sliding by on the digital frame, or when I hold my breath as I pass by waiting to see how your image will land in my body, what I will feel today when I see your face on the photo screen. After a weekend with weeping as the memories found me, I woke up this morning to find the digital frame unplugged. Did you do that? The kids did not. I asked them. It was on when I went to bed last night. I know you don’t want me to hurt. I love you no matter what. I miss you all the time.

I do not even want to say how many episodes of any given hospital or crime drama I watch per week, or how many hours a week I play Words With Friends2 or solitaire. This is not who I have been most of my life, but it feels like this is who I am becoming. For now, I will allow it. I still cannot do social media; it is too painful and overwhelming. But, the mind numbing games and television shows are soothing, a comfort amid the chaos. 

There are plenty of home projects, rooms to repaint, closets to declutter, but I am not drawn to do any of those things. I wake up so early even when I go to sleep after midnight. According to my FitBit, I am averaging 5-6 hours of sleep a night. I am a giraffe (my favorite animal, but not enough sleep for a human being). But being a giraffe is an improvement. In the beginning of this loss, FitBit categorized me as a dolphin getting only 2-3 hours at a time, maxing out at 4-5 hours a night. 

Ellie made me laugh today when she recalled how you used to call the kids “Joe Bag of Donuts" when you threw them over your shoulder to carry them around. It is good when we can laugh together with you. I love hearing the phrases you used to say come from their mouths. They both want me to repaint their rooms, and have agreed on the same color. If I paint the kids’ rooms the color they have chosen, who will cut in? You will be disappointed if I do it myself. I will definitely get some Silver Mist on the ceiling. 

William and Ellie went to Costco with me, the new one closer to our house. We arrived after over an hour in the car because we were diverted to an alternate route due to a brush fire. Walking into the store, I realized I did not have my member card. After getting a temporary card, I had to explain to the woman at the counter that my husband could not update our information because he had died. She was so sorry, and I was so sorry, too. She told me what to bring so I could be the primary on this account. I feel like this happens all the time at so many places. I think I will just start carrying his death certificate around with me along with the little vial of his ashes already in my purse. It was a little easier to walk around the uncrowded Costco on a Tuesday afternoon than it as been our local HEB, especially since the kids were with me. But, when I passed the end of the isle where the fresh flowers are, I burst into tears. 

You and William used to bring me flowers from Costco. When he was three or four, you would let him carry in the bouquet. His chubby little hands and big smile and those flowers from the two of you — I loved that. I miss you showing up with flowers. I miss you. I love you. 

In the weight of all the decisions, I forget to make plans. I’m only reminded when someone suggests something, like a new movie or a museum. It is arduous to consider detailed plans for anything, and it just doesn’t occur to me. There are so many decisions to make about big and small things, and it feels heavy to make them without Edmond, without being able to defer some to him entirely.  

Yet, I am committed to showing up. If I am invited to an event that is in the future, beyond the next few hours or day we are living in, I have to really sit with it. If it is with people who are my comfort, I have begun to say yes knowing that showing up is all I am committing to doing. The showing up is part of the decision to stay.

Lately, I’ve been doing things that are outside of my comfort zone, but that are still comfortably uncomfortable. I am not doing anything that is uncomfortable in a way that sits in my belly like anxiety or nausea. Those feelings, particularly the nausea, I believe are my body’s intelligence telling me what it is definitely not time to do. So much of grief is in my stomach. When I look at the pile of paperwork I still need to complete, I feel like I could throw up. I turn and walk away. When I see your smiling face holding onto one of our kids or to me slide by on the digital frame it is a litmus test for the day. I either feel a smile crawl across my face or I feel sick to my stomach and an ache in my heart as tears seep from my eyes again. I look away if I must in order to get through whatever task I will start and likely leave half complete.

Recently, and within days of each other, I was invited by two separate friends to go dancing in two different venues a week apart. Both friends gave me the out, and I knew I could cancel if I needed to or show up and not dance if I couldn’t. I said yes to both.

The day of the dance events were both pretty bleak. It is hard to make it to five o’clock in general, but making it through the whole day, especially on a weekend, and attend an event after my capacity is typically diminished is a bit daunting. Since most of the day included tears, I was banking on the puffy eye look working for me. Somehow there was a shift, perhaps just in the committing to showing up. I danced like have not danced since I was 18 or 19. It was absolutely exhilarating, and I am still feeling such gratitude. In fact, when the band covered the Simple Minds’ song Don’t You, I felt Edmond right there with me. And, he is not or was not much of a dancer when he was here. Because I requested it, that song played again at the second dancing event. We danced for ourselves and for those who could not be there. It was so much playfulness and fun. The showing up to do new things are new memories without Edmond, and they are new memories that forge stronger bonds with those who are here with me. 

Edmond and I did slow dance, but usually at home not so much in public unless it was a wedding or formal event. Dancing publicly was just not his thing. Although, he would always grant me a dance if I asked him to, or if he knew I really wanted to dance with him. 

Oh, how I miss dancing with you in the kitchen while we cooked, or just for a few sways when we found a minute to share an embrace. 

Somehow laughing, dancing, and singing at the top of your lungs isn’t all that different from crying your eyes out really, really, hard until you can’t breathe. Making a decision to show up without worrying about all the details of what if or what’s next is a decisions worth making. Deciding to eat, and letting the meat decide what and where, or deciding to say yes to dancing, and letting music decide how fast or slow seems to work, a kind of surrender I suppose. I have even been deciding to cook, putting the playlist on shuffle, and letting Edmond deejay. He is usually pretty spot on even if some of the songs bring tears. 

E, I heard you before these invitations to dance came, and I did not trust what I heard at first. Dance, you said, again. Then, when prompted by these loved ones to join them in the dance, I began to trust more in the communication between us. I hope you will join me in the dance, in our new dance together, often and forever. I love. I miss you.