Postcards of Grief

Mourning is a process.

Comments on breast cancer by proxy, written by a woman coping with the loss of her mother.

Sunday, January 11, 2004

I am motion, you're the rolling ocean

Yoga didn't happen today. Morning came around 1pm, but on the upside, she wasn't aching. Normally, her bone pain wakes her, and she gets up to medicate herself. Today, she slept in and felt fine, but only for about an hour and a half. I left her for twenty minutes to take a shower, and in that time, she had dressed and washed up, and her pain had set in. She cornered Dad for sympathy, as I was not available.

I'm amazed by the amount of time taken up by being her companion. Time seemed to slip by so quickly while I was almost entirely unproductive. In the late afternoon, we sat down to plan a dinner menu for the next week. I couldn't find anything that looked both appealing and easily freezable that didn't require getting up to my elbows in ricotta cheese. I like cheese, but not that much.

All of their meals are vegetarian, largely because I won't cook meat but also because she doesn't want it. Most of the meals allow for Dad to throw in a chicken breast or a pork chop if his heart was set on it, but I doubt he will. I'm shopping tomorrow so that I can make kits for their meals. Next weekend, he's supposed to get the crock pot out and slow cook some vegetables, but I'm a little nervous he won't remember to start it in the morning. I'm not sure how many notes I can leave for him before he'll be annoyed and less enthusiastic about my meal planning. There's a fine line between caution and overkill.

Maybe I'll leave a note for the office staff to remind him. And maybe I'll call in the morning, just to be sure.

I have to get up in time to hit the grocery store before the stay at home mom crowd rushes in--after the elementary bus leaves and before morning nap. I hate shopping at this store, although despite its enormity, it is something of a local business. They're paid decently and are union, or at least, they were about twelve years ago. Even the baggers. Twelve years? Thirteen, now.

God, I feel old.


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