Summer, a time of promise. Lazy days. Bountiful produce. Moon flowers. Ice cream cones.
I love summer.
I even love the humidity and the way my hair curls and my glasses fog when I step out of an air conditioned space into a steamy, sultry evening.
It was one of those nights when I stepped off a plane in early June, rested, rejuvenated and recharged, after a delicious retreat in the wine country of California. My husband met me at the airport, slung my bag over his shoulder, and kissed the top of my head. Then he told me that his ninety-four-year-old dad was in the hospital. I felt my chest tighten; I knew this place.
Intimately.
As much as I wanted to comfort him and let him know I shared his angst, I knew that he would need to process his worry in his own time, in his own way. Privately.
So I made potato salad. His mom’s potato salad. I haven’t yet mastered that salad but I’m getting pretty close. And in the midst of all that worry and all that angst, we ate potato salad.
All week.
We spend so much of our lives in the present, working and living and breathing and bustling, leaving very little time to ponder what it really means to have our affairs in order. I watched my husband’s family struggle as they tried to make the best decisions possible in a very short window of time. From hospital to hospice. No one wants to hear those words.
I felt the anguish of my own journey through my dad’s decline, particularly the past three years. I had faced many of the same quandaries. I’ll never forget the day my mom decided to place my dad in an assisted living facility. My sister called me on SKYPE. Her eyes were swollen; I could see that she had been crying. My father’s words were still ringing in her ears, “She’s kicking me out.” Even in his current state of cognitive decline, with his limited capacity to feel and express emotion, my dad still understood the feeling of abandonment.
And, even though our hearts were cracked open by this announcement, we could see that caring for my dad had become a burden my mother could no longer bear. My husband’s father was now making a similar move but with his beloved Mary in tow. If ever there were two hearts that beat as one it would be those of Raymond and Mary. They would travel this road together.
In the midst of Raymond’s move, I received a call from another hospice team. My dad’s. I was expecting this call. My husband and I left the hospital and made our way to a little outdoor cafe so that I could participate in my dad’s care conference. The setting wasn’t ideal but at least there was cell reception. And a glass of wine. This was supposed to be a routine care conference. The hospice nurse told me later that they had been prepared to release my dad from hospice because he had, once again, reached a plateau. But that afternoon they noticed a serious decline. This time it appeared to be his last downward spiral.
“Come.”
My suitcase was still packed. It had made its way from California to Annapolis and now, Colorado. I remember ordering dinner and not tasting a thing on my plate. I just wanted to be on that plane which wasn’t leaving until early the next morning. “Eat,” my husband said. But for the first time ever, food was the last thing on my mind. I remember calling the night nurse in my father’s skilled nursing home to be sure he was tending my dad with a wide open heart and loving hands. I felt pretty helpless actually, but somehow just hearing a voice at the other end of the line and remembering this nurse from my last visit gave me peace enough to sleep, albeit fitfully, before waking up and pacing the hotel room until we could make our way to the airport.
He waited.
As much as I thought I’d be ready for my dad’s passing I wasn’t fully prepared to say goodbye to this man, my anchor, the one I could count on to show me the brighter side of anything. And everything. I adored this man.
I had never before had the privilege of holding someone close as they passed. Dying is, indeed, a sacred act. My little family was gathered together in this liminal space sharing slices of my dad’s life as he took his last breath. Somehow I know he was listening.
And then, just eight days after our return from Colorado, we found ourselves faced with another departure. My husband’s dad.
Two sweet dads in two bittersweet weeks.
I don’t know that we can ever be fully ready for the passing of our loved ones but there were, for me, some lessons that followed. . .
Give yourself permission to grieve, no matter how old your loved one.
I read several books (and even more pamphlets) to prepare for my dad’s death but I skipped the one on grief. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, in her 1969 book “On Death and Dying,” named five stages of normal grief: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. My dad had been in a state of decline for nearly a decade. I thought I had navigated all those stages and I could just sail smoothly into acceptance. I found myself saying things like, “He lived a good life. He was ready.” I guess I didn’t feel as though I had a right to grieve this loss when others lose their loved ones tragically, sometimes at a very young age. The hospice grief counselor reminded me that it’s okay to grieve the loss of a ninety-two-year-old man, “You’ve never known earth without him.” Give yourself permission to grieve, no matter how old your loved one.
Tell stories. Lots of them.
More and more I see our lives as a series of stories. During the decade of my dad’s decline I found solace in writing about the angst that spilled into my dreams and left me waking with a heavy cloud of anxiety or regret. I also found solace in the joyful memories that emerged whenever I thought about my dad and all the funny little stories that framed the tapestry of our lives. Memories are rich. As we sat with my father in the wake of his passing we shared slices of his life. The stories made us laugh. There are so many stories but one in particular comes to mind. My dad was not a handyman. He could paint a gorgeous sunrise over a city street but he couldn’t assemble a bookshelf or fix a toaster to save his soul. My cousin shared with me that on one occasion they were leaving a pizza parlor when my dad discovered that he had locked his keys in the car. He was mortified. My cousin said, “Don’t worry, Uncle Sam, just run inside and grab a hanger. We’ll take care of this.” My dad came out with a wooden hanger. That was my dad. There was a childlike innocence about him that could delight us to no end. Tell stories. Lots of them. Write them in your journal. Create some love notes. Make a little ebook. Capture those stories so you have them when you need them. If you need a little nudge, be sure to place yourself on my Luscious Legacy Project early interest list. We’ll be doing some ‘memory keeping’ in that program.
Get your affairs in order to leave space for the sacred.
I was so grateful that my parents had most of their funeral arrangement taken care of prior to this passing. I know it sounds a little morbid to be choosing cemetery plots and public vs private viewings while still in your prime, but their foresight gave us the opportunity to use the time following my dad’s death to look at music and scripture, write eulogies and plan a service that honored the man he was and the life he lived. There is truly a gift in creating ritual in the comfort of community when we lose someone we love. Get your affairs in order to leave space for the sacred.
Indulge in comfort food. Don’t try to make it healthier.
At times, nourishment supersedes nutrition. When my husband’s father became ill we ate potato salad for a solid week. There was comfort in that. When my dad passed, it was spaghetti. In fact, in the ten days following his death we shared just about all of his favorite foods: pasta, pizza, chicken wings and loads of lemon. The folks at Piece, Love and Chocolate Company created a lemon legacy cake in his honor. They had never met the man but they felt intimately connected to him through my blog. I had no idea how many people had grown to love my dad. Indulge in comfort food. Don’t try to make it healthier.
What matters most? Everything else can wait.
I have a very strong work ethic. I got that from my dad. As much as I found myself being pulled back to my work and the worry that my business would suffer in my absence, I practiced the art of turning things over to my team so that I could be fully present for both my dad and for my father-in-law. This practice does not come easy. I have a history of losing myself in my work. When I feel myself teetering on the edge of old habits I pull myself in and I repeat the question I so often ask my clients, “What matters most?” Everything else can wait.
Take that nap.
I’m not a napper. When I was a little girl I did not like to see my parents napping. It brought up feelings in me I have yet to fully understand. Consequently, naps are not part of my self-care routine. Yet, I’ve noticed that during times of emotional turmoil or sadness fatigue is my constant companion. So now, I take that nap.
Return softly.
The past month has been a flurry of activity. I had been preparing for my father’s death for a decade but I wasn’t prepared for all that accompanied it. The funeral, the paperwork, the eulogy, the return. Especially the return.
On one level it feels really good to be back. I like my routine. I like being back in my kitchen, my garden, my home. For me, life-changing events give me time to pause and reflect. Sometimes they urge me to redirect or course correct.
Being a business owner adds another dimension to this process. I am a sole proprietor. That means I create the content for my programs and service and I market them, too. One of my clients asked, “How do we spread an uplifting message when we feel quiet and inward, contemplative and sad?”
I was so grateful for that inquiry. I had been asking myself the same question since I stepped off that plane in early June. I believe we all face times in our lives when it is difficult to garner enthusiasm. Sometimes it’s all we can do to simply get out of bed in the morning.
Here’s how I’m navigating my own journey. First I ask myself, “What would Sam have me do?” I know my dad would want me to get back to work and take great care in the process. So here I am, tending my clients and delivering my Eat Your Way to Gorgeous program in the most respectful way I can because this is my livelihood and everything I create in this culinary world of mine is truly a tribute to the man who first introduced me to … chocolate for breakfast.
My dad would most certainly be saying, “It’s a party, Sue Ann. Celebrate it.”
image source: Curlygirldesigns.com
24 thoughts on “Food is Easy. Life, Not so Much.”
Death reminds us to savor the moments and to be more present in our lives. May your wonderful memories comfort you in the days ahead. Condolences to you and your husband. Hugs.
Sue, this is such a beautifully written piece. What a way to honor your dads.
I also commend you for honoring your grief. I know that the show must go on, but really feeling what we feel is so important. I am glad you are not just trying to bulldoze through your grief.
A am sorry for your losses and especially the quick succession with which they came, but your attitude, beliefs and support system will get you through. Wishing you and your family peace.
Your writing is such a gift to the world, Sue Ann. Thank you for being with us and sharing yourself with us, especially at this tender time.
Beautiful Sue Ann. Every word resonates this morning. Thank you for putting your heart on the page for the words I needed to hear today.
You have had such a challenging summer. I feel your sudden sense of bereft adrift-ness. And I certainly honor your need to grieve your way through it–however long it takes. I am glad for you that you find refuge in such a loving marriage and nourishing vocation. Take good care–
Oh, Sue Ann, what a beautiful post. You have transformed pain and grief into art, and for that I commend you, and thank you.
Sue Ann, how beautifully written this is.
I resonate with it all so much. As you know I lost Stan (husband) May 3rd, about 10 weeks ago. And he had been sick forever but mostly the last 10 years. And when I look back I can see his deteriorating the last 2 -3 years.
And I also thought it would be easier. It was so expected. But he had always come back and rebooted himself.
I was with him for 1 1/2 hours then had to leave to get juice boxes for my granddaughters 3rd birthday party. As soon as I got to the house, hospice called saying he had passed. 15 minutes after I left him. I went back to hospice after the party and just sat there with him. I kept putting my hand on his chest, saying come on Stan, you can’t be serious this time, start breathing. Obviously, he didn’t and if anyone saw me they would have thought I was a lunatic.
So, we continue on don’t we?
And although I had every intention of jumping back into work, because I had done very little the last 4-5 months, I could not and I was amazed. But now I am getting back to my groove, loving my clients and glad to be back. But what a journey it has been.
And I was laughing about the food piece! When Stan was in home hospice every day his kids and his sisters would come over with food. Burgers, fries, you name it. Never had a Smashburger in my life, nor a Sonic………..but now I have and I have to admit it tasted great! I NEVER eat food like that right? Oh well.
My mind and my body are getting back to normal, what ever that is. Its been so long.
Thanks for the reminders…………..
“But he had always come back and rebooted himself.” Yes, Kim, that was my dad, too. I remember one point, while he was still in his assisted living facility, where he had lost so much weight that he could barely keep his pants up. We were all sitting around his bed and all I could see was the great concave of his rib cage, the pallor of his skin and the chairs around the room. It felt like a wake. And then we moved him to a more approprite setting (with amazing food) and he gained twenty pounds and made a pretty miraculous comeback. My dad loved a good meal. I know your journey has been a long one. I’m so glad you are being gentle with yourself in the aftermath of Stan’s death. Holding you tenderly here.
I am so sorry for your losses. This is beautiful written, Thank you for sharing this with so many, who, at some point will no doubt reference it. Sending love, Bridget
Sue Ann, I’m so very sorry for your losses. We lost my father-in-law very unexpectedly last November and it’s been a long, hard several months. Thank you for acknowledging the right to give yourself permission to grieve, no matter what. I think that may be the hardest part, is letting go to feel the whole range of emotions that come with death. Even when it rears it’s head unexpectedly, you have to feel it, so healing can begin. You and your family will be in our prayers!
Sue Ann,
Oh my! This is yet another beautiful tribute to your beloved Sam. Giving yourself permission to grieve (whatever form it takes) is the sacred way to peace. I am so grateful that Sam showed you the brighter side of anything. And everything. And that you generously share it with us. Thanks Sam! Thanks Sue Ann!
Sue Ann, thank you for sharing the beautiful stories of you and your dear Sam. It takes a special person to show us the brighter side to things when they are not readily apparent. Your beautiful writings and appreciation for food have been a true blessing to myself and my friends. Thank you for reminding me to Celebrate every moment. Best Wishes.
Sue Ann,
Your courage and wisdom in the way you are processing your dad’s death is beautiful & honoring to the man he was. He seemed like such a wonderful father who left you a rich legacy in the memories you both shared.
I love what you said about asking myself, “What matters most? Everything else can wait.”
This has been a season of loss for me as well. Mine was losing a 27-year marriage to my best friend.
Everything you said about grief and working through the different layers is so true. I, too, thought I’d be ready for the end of my marriage when it came, but I wasn’t prepared for the raw pain.
In this season, I’ve been taking the time to step back and reevaluate what matters most in my life.
I’m thankful for friends like you that are real and willing to share their journey with me. It makes me feel like I’m not alone in my struggle but am instead in the company of wise women like you.
Thank you for sharing your heart with us.
I believe stories are powerful and when we share ours with each other, we truly make the world a better place.
I would have loved to have met your dad. He seemed like such an amazing person.
The gentleness of your writing has brought me to tears. The ripple effect of someone’s death can be felt in our grief.
Your dads have nourished you and the simple act to honor them by eating their favorite foods makes me smile.
Oh, Sue Ann. What a beautiful, soulful post and tribute. There are so many pieces of this that touched me that I don’t know where to begin.
Thank you for voicing that we need to give ourselves permission to grieve, no matter how old our loved one. I remember when my Papa passed at the age of 93, well-intention folks attempted to soothe me with sentiments of “he had a long, good life.” Which was true. But my heart broke when Papa left us. He was a rock and foundation in my life. It is indescribably painful to say a final goodbye to those closest to us.
I continue to hold you and your family in my thoughts and prayers. Sending you much love.
“… the one I could count on to show me the brighter side of anything. And everything.” And so you found a moonlit photo of this flower. How right. How delicious. What a celebration.
Nap….and return softly. This is what I’m doing. I can’t believe how tiring it is for me to visit family and do the “pre-grieving” that you have been doing for the last decade. I slept for almost 10 hours. I never do that. And still I wanted a nap. And a soft return.
Thanks for naming it.
As you always do.
Yes, Rebecca, take great care here. Pre-grieving is very real and no less taxing on the body. It’s not a linear process. Perhaps this is the gift of self-awareness, yes? The nudge to take exquisite care of ourselves when our emotions are raw and we’re looking at loss. Take that nap. Take many naps. xxxooo
Wow. Such a well writttem, thoughtful and sensitive post Sue Ann. Sending warm wishes to you x
My dearest Sue Ann, this was a beautiful, heart-full read. The way you have transformed your grief into this beautiful piece is both inspired and touching. Your father raised a truly remarkable woman. There is no doubt you are his greatest pride. My warmest regards and plenty of hugs for you, sweet one. xoxo
Sue Ann, I read this the day you posted, I needed let it marinate..and read it again because it felt familiar, as I was sitting so naturally between the feelings of new birth and memories of sacred spirits moving on . This tribute is full of light and breath,and palpable love. Your dad’s legacy lives on in you and your writing. Big hugs XO
So beautiful Sue Ann. Every single word.
Yes . . . “You’ve never known earth without him.” I still miss my dad and he’s been gone for 22 or so years. 🙂 And the funny thing is, I feel in a way, I know him better now, as I grow into more and more of an adult (!!) than I did when I was a kid. That’s the interesting thing too, getting to know them, after they finish their time here on Earth . . . I understood him more and myself more as each day passed. And I can say that is still true! But it doesn’t mean, I don’t miss him, because I do.
Thank you for sharing him with us along your journey, and for this beautiful and most sacred tribute. Such a legacy. I imagine this will make your legacy program even more profound and meaningful too… as it has a way of living on in such mysterious ways. xoox sending you much love … xo
My deepest condolences to your families. Thank you for sharing this very intimate experience with us. It is extremely moving. It really hits home the need to remember what is truly important in life. When it comes to the passing on of a loved one, I have found that there can be beauty found in celebrating their life, telling stories, reflecting on the footprint they have left in this world, and the gratitude to have been a part of their story.
sue ann, so lovely. i am writing through tears. i lost my beloved mom 12 years ago, and now i face the difficult road ahead with my aging father.
“As much as I thought I’d be ready for my dad’s passing I wasn’t fully prepared to say goodbye to this man, my anchor, the one I could count on to show me the brighter side of anything. And everything. I adored this man.” no, it’s never easy. but such a fitting tribute to such a monumental man.
as a counselor, i’ve often done grief work with clients. i am more than familiar with the stages of grief, i know the twists and turns of grief, i understand that everyone’s timetable of grief is different. but nothing could prepare me for the immense loss i would experience with my mom’s passing.
be gentle with yourself. create the space to mourn. envelop yourself in the love-left-behind by both your sweet dad and your dear father-in-law. sending fierce hugs your way.
Sue Ann, the passing of a father — especially one so deeply loved and such a huge contributor to your present life — is inexpressible, and yet you’ve managed to do just that — gracefully, with joy around the edges. Sincere condolences to your hubby, and thank you.
My Dad died last summer and your post made me feel like life finally made sense again. xo