“Cooking is love made visible”

Steve died on a rainy, cold Thursday in November.  The days leading up to his death were good ones and at the time, seemed like just simple, normal, everyday days. But looking back on them, they were indeed special and I saw that right away. That specialness gave me comfort after he died and it still does. I am not sure if it demonstrates evidence of a bigger plan, one that we know nothing about, or if it’s just blessed coincidence, but either way, those few days bring comfort and peace to a time that was anything but.

Two days before he died, I made dinner in the afternoon before I went to work as I always did. I worked in the evening’s part time and I was such a good 50’s housewife that I would almost always have a home cooked meal on the table before I left. I cannot get over that now – how together I was then and how organized and energetic. I often lament about the fact that I am such a different mother now than I was then and how my girls only really know me as the mom I am today. Which is often a hot mess. I used to exercise every morning, I used to volunteer all the time at their school, I worked in the evenings and yet was up, bright eyed and bushy tailed every morning. I never napped.  Almost always, I cooked homemade meals and my kitchen and house were clean and tidy. That changed after Steve died – I changed. I do not necessarily think I am a “worse” mother now than I was then but I am different and I often feel like a slacker compared to the old me. But death and grief change you in a way that is difficult to describe. You are tired all the time – for a long time. You feel like you are moving in slow motion and you feel heavy. You feel sick and like everything is wrong in the world. Whenever I was out in public I felt like a spotlight was on me – even at 10pm in the stark aisles of the grocery store. You are expecting to see your loved one walk in wherever you are – but they never do. You are all of a sudden an only parent and that realization alone is enough to take the wind out of your sails. Some of the early grief emotions do go away but some linger for years, some linger forever. Whatever that saying is about walking thru a storm and coming out on the other side a different person – it’s true. But the person you have become is richer, deeper and stronger than the person you ever were before. More tired for sure – but way more empathetic and appreciate of love.

So I made dinner on Tuesday and I honestly don’t remember what I made. But – it was quite obviously lacking. My husband commented that it was not a very hearty meal, not so great. He actually said, “Why don’t you make Chicken Pot Pie anymore? I love your Chicken Pot Pie.” I kind of flipped a little. You know why I didn’t make stinkin’ Chicken Pot Pie during the week? Because it takes hours – and it’s worth every second because it’s so damn good – but it takes hours. And I was busy! I had 2 girls, the house, bills,getting ready for work, getting them after school. A dish like that was not something I would attempt on a school day. But –

The next day, I said to the girls, “Let’s surprise Daddy. Let’s make Chicken Pot Pie tonight. And those delicious Chocolate Chip Oatmeal cookies that he loves.” I did have to work that evening but It was a day the girls got out of school early so I shopped in the morning and got everything going and then they helped me finish up and make cookies. It was all ready when he got home at 5:30 that night and he walked in and could smell the amazingness coming out of the kitchen and filling the house. I told him what we’d made and he smiled big. Really big and gave me and the girls huge hugs. I had to rush to leave the house and get to work. I kissed him and the girls goodbye and left. As I pulled out of the driveway and turned to drive away, I looked in the big front window. Steve was waving to me and I waved back, smiling.

Later that night, he called me at work. That call could have gone either way. He could have been calling me to tell me something was wrong, with the kids or with something at the house. He could have been calling, upset with something I had done (not terribly uncommon). We could have argued. But it was a good call, really good. He called to tell me thank you – for dinner, for the cookies, for thinking of him and for going to the effort. He called to tell me he loved me. He called and asked me about the pregnancy test that he saw on the shelf in the bathroom. I said, “There’s always a pregnancy test in the bathroom.” That’s not uncommon when you are trying to get pregnant. And then we talked about our plan to have another baby. “We’re really going to do this?” he asked, with a smile in his voice and a hint of uncertainty. “Yes we’re going to do this,” I said. “The girls will love it, they’ll have more family when they get older and so will we. This will be good for us. And just think how cute it will be.” He said OK. He really wanted this. I said I loved him and I then I said, “Wait up for me.” He said he would try. He told me he loved me and hung up the phone.

When I got home that night, he was asleep. I never wanted to wake him up when I got home late so I let him sleep and I watched the news and fell asleep. He died in his sleep that night. He died with a full, happy stomach after enjoying his favorite meal, in his bed, in his favorite sleeping t-shirt and boxers, after talking to his wife about having a baby, and telling her – and his girls – that he loved them. He never would have chosen to go, but I think looking down on it, he was satisfied with his dramatic, final exit from this world.

4 thoughts on ““Cooking is love made visible””

  1. It’s wonderful that you are able to look back on the positive memories and find comfort in them. So often our minds drift towards the “Why didn’t I?” or “If only..” You may not be the same person you were, but you don’t sound broken. Hugs to you and your family.

  2. I lost a child last year – I understand all of these emotions. I’ve been trying to find a way to write about it, but I’m still not there. This is a beautiful, touching story.

    1. Oh Gina – I’m so sorry for your loss. I cannot imagine going thru that. It took me a long time to get there with writing. Just follow your intuition and your voice. ❤️

  3. I remember you explaining it exactly that way all those years ago. I cried then and I cried now. It really is beautiful and comforting to know he passed so peacefully although way too young.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


By submitting this form, you are granting: Unintentional Survivor, 2020 184th Ave NE, Redmond, WA, 98052, permission to email you. You may unsubscribe via the link found at the bottom of every email. (See our Email Privacy Policy (http://constantcontact.com/legal/privacy-statement) for details.) Emails are serviced by Constant Contact.