Category: The Chef

stories of my amazing husband, my favorite teacher ever

Coats

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

The catalogs come, the flyers in the paper, the ads with great bargains and ideas for holiday shopping.  My list this year is filled with legos and flannel shirts and men’s socks. Arrow’s needs are so great it is too easy to find things for him.  Plum still wants every toy in the ads but no dolls, nothing pink or frilly.  Chef is always the hardest, most particular.  Same things every year, few surprises.  For the first time in 27 years, I won’t be buying anything for my daughter, the girl who has now decided she doesn’t want her mother.  I won’t be sending packages to her daughter either, not knowing if she gets them or they are discarded.  Money is too precious.  Last year I sent the special nail polish for babies that Stella wanted, put that in the stockings we sent.  I never saw little toes with pink or purple nails.  I didn’t even get the stockings back, which match our collection.  I persevered for a while, sending books and toys for my granddaughter but finally gave in to Stella’s desire to be left alone.

The ads with little girls in warm winter coats call to me, beg me to carry on the tradition begun with my grandmother.  She always purchased our winter coats, knowing what a help this would be to my parents as they struggled financially.  My mother continued on when my kids were little, the help coming at just the right time.  She was able to buy the heavier, warmer coats that were out of our budget, not caring that the kids would grow out of them each season.  I bought warm clothes for my granddaughter for her first two seasons, to carry her through, but it is time again for a coat.   Too many times I have selected the coat, carried it throughout the store, made it all the way to the checkout, only to stop.  Defeated, I put it aside and rush from the store, into my car with the tears threatening to alarm holiday shoppers.

I found several adorable outfits in one store that I couldn’t resist.  I took my time putting together leggings with tops and little poncho covers, found ways to mix and match to help a mama get the most out of the outfits.  Satisfied, I purchased the lot, not making eye contact or responding to the clerk’s attempts at small talk.  When the charge came across Chef’s alert, he called and I had to confess that I just wanted so desperately to pretend that I have a granddaughter, that I get to shop for her as well.  Back to the store I went, no eye contact, more tears.

I haven’t bought any Tom’s for Stella, none of the sweaters she would love, no boots, no socks, no chocolate covered cherries or make up for her stocking.  I haven’t stashed away the special avon dew kiss lip gloss she likes for the winter.  The boxes of beignet mix stay on the shelves.  Bath and Body works will get none of my money, there will be no cherry blossom lotion sent this year.

Skype tells me I last used it Dec 25, 2014 at 12:37 am.  An application I once praised as straight from God, one that kept me connected to my sweet girl so far away, now is taking up memory on my mac. If only I had recorded those sessions, to visit with her again and again.  If shopping and visiting on line are indications of relationship health, we are dead.  Can anything resurrect us?  I have lived in this town for 20 years, avoiding roads and areas that hold horror.  Now I find myself averting my eyes when toddling chubby cheeked girls with fuzzy brown hair are giggling with their mamas, the desire to rush in overwhelming.  I avoid foods that remind me of Stella, no longer able to find an appetite at all.  I search out willowy blonds on campus and then hate that I am still seeking where I know nothing will be found.  More and more to avoid, until it is easier to stay in bed.

The story of the prodigal son happened, right?  Our son came back and we have celebrated him, fatted calf and all.  But the obedient child chose to leave, not sticking around to finish out the parable.  Maybe she was the prodigal all along.  Clearly I missed something.  I am sure of one thing, I would welcome her back with open arms and Tom’s and dew kiss and sweaters and boots.  And me.

Radical Breathing

On By LisaIn Faith, Mom, The Chef5 Comments

He was seriously starting to piss me off. I said I was fine, I said it was too cold, I said I didn’t want to go. So Scott put on his swim vest and joined the others in the snorkeling pool, periodically rising to say ”it’s so pretty, c’mon out” but my feet were rooted to the sand, my ass to the rock and my mind to the hospital room with my mother. I could hear the respirator breathe for her. I could hear the moistness of the tubing and the machine clicking the numbers. And then he would pop up again and ask me to look at the size of this stingray. But I could only see the size of her hands as they swelled, could only hear that breathing.

Then he really got obnoxious and asked “please.” For God’s sake, we are adults and rarely have to use those kinds of tactics on each other. “Please join me, please go get a wetsuit. Please .“ I nodded yes, but my mind was screaming “don’t you know I can’t breathe with that, I will die, I will drown, I will never wake up?” but I went to the wetsuit hut, stomping as much as I could in sand. Then I wandered slowly back, knowing he would have forgotten me, long gone with the group and the fish. I could sit back on my rock, safely breathing.

But he looked up and then left the water to zip up my suit. He took my hand and led me to the water. He stayed with me while I got acustomed to the temp. He arranged my goggles and attached my snorkel. He said we were ready. Just go under. Just dip your face under. I started to and realized with panic that I couldn’t breathe. I forgot how, I wasn’t even under the water, I couldn’t catch my breath, I needed out. And he stopped me.

“Just Breathe normally.”

What? Completely radical instructions. I was looking for the way to stay alive, to keep from getting water in the goggles, in the tube, in my lungs. I was looking how to not do whatever would make those machines start. I looked into his eyes, followed his steps, and breathed normally. And it worked. And I didn’t die and I didn’t hear machines. I saw fish.

I still sputtered a couple of times and I did hyperventalate when I forgot how to breathe normally…. Then I got back on track. And I swam with fish today, 3 weeks after my mother died. I thought of her all day. I thought of how I hated that she stopped living long before machines did her breathing. And I am so deeply grateful for a husband who refused to let me do the same thing.