Sad Food

When faced with intolerable realities, we, as people, sort out to two very distant camps: those who soothe their sadness with food and drink, and the ones who can’t bear to part their lips for nutrients, their stomachs knotted in grief. You can probably guess my team. When down, my loved ones don’t have to remind me to eat. More truthfully, food – all varieties of it – becomes my loved ones. A couple good bites don’t solve life’s problems but perhaps, at least, can distract us for small moments. Distractions are very necessary.

I recently lost my mother after her five year battle with multiple myeloma, a snake of a disease that destroys a person’s bones. It’s not bone cancer, though my mom called it that at times for ease in explanation. While it affects bones, this disease specifically troubles the formation of plasma cells, abnormal ones interfering with bone marrow production and causing lesions. And a wealth of other problems. At five years, she beat the odds. Her fight was unwavering and intense; a roller coaster ride packed with the requisite chills and thrills; excitement loud when all was healthy and stable only to have the coaster push forward to a new and deeper drop. A faster drop. But I was in the car there with her, at least as much as I could be.

So yes, I’ve been eating. I won’t bore you with the details of each and every meal (mostly Rubio’s and Boudin Bakery, my two favorite spots for quick dining when I’m visiting my hometown), but I can’t overstate how much food helped me right after she passed. And how much it still helps (though zipping my pants proves terribly difficult). Over the last couple of months, I’ve dined with my Ladies, I’ve tried several new restaurants, I’ve taken a trip to Chicago filled with many a fine culinary delight. There’s plenty for me to write about. But it’s hard. Hard to give myself the space and time to write, as that kind of setting I give myself to do the work requires me to slow down. And that’s not something I like doing because slowing down helps me remember that she’s not here physically. Slowing down reminds me that I can’t call her any more to tell her what sad little things I’ve been doing with my life. It reminds me that I’ll no longer hear her gorgeous laugh, all bright and contagiously abundant.

But it’s time. I’m ready to deal with the void. To confront it. To go head to head with it. I’ve been told it’s a life-long battle, coping with this kind of a loss – but I know I can’t stay tucked in my ball of busyness and overeating and binge-watching reality television for good. It’s time to step out from this surreal island I’ve been on and face my new normal. Writing this pseudo-confessional is a first step.

So apologies that this post has no sexy pictures of greasy fried chicken or a juicy burger or a rich, buttery dessert; or that I don’t use the word “succulent” or “piquant” or “ lemony” (although I guess I just did). Those will come. To get back to being Dianderthal, I had to be Diane for a bit. And while Diane likes food just as much as Dianderthal, there ain’t no fun in sad food.

(There also ain’t no fun in gaining 10 pounds, so while I do plan to get back on track with my food posts, they will be chronicles from the past – this blogger’s got to get back to a healthy balance of food adventures and physical activity! Keeping my fingers crossed for a bikinione-piece-with-cut-outs-body by Junemid-July!)