#17 Grief is Everywhere

Grief is everywhere. Especially in early grief, every object, every landscape, it connected to grief - whether it is something they loved or touched, or it's something that only exists now because they're gone. Grief is everywhere. It comes attached to everything.It's the lens it's all seen through, the connective glue between disparate parts.

Grief is everywhere. Ben is everywhere. I encounter my grief a lot in the kitchen.

I had bought a bag of dark chocolate chips for the hot gooey cookies Ben would have baked late at night. I couldn't touch them for months. Finally, I made a batch using my Mom's recipe, while she was dying, and then made sure I gave them all away.

The graham cracker crust I bought for a cheesecake - Ben's favorite - is still waiting patiently in the pantry. It just reminds me - over and over- how Ben always asked for a cheesecake on his birthday. This year, on May 1, I made a scratch blackberry-lemon cheesecake for Ben's birthday and gave the piece he would have eaten to the most compassionate police officer on the planet, Jane, who took Ben's Missing Person Report and continues to stay in touch.

I can't make fried eggs anymore. I packed Ben a fried egg sandwich on an English muffin with a thermos of milky tea as he left late for his class, the final day of his life. It came back, in his backpack five days later when we found his abandoned car, uneaten. To this day, I can't fry an egg or even think about it without feeling sick to my stomach. I stick to hard boiled eggs.

All I have to do is open the fridge, check out the pantry, go grocery shopping or make a meal and my Ben grief triggers await. Making food has always been central to our family culture. When I am in the kitchen, I can't help but think about the foods Ben loved; the way he used to hang around the kitchen and help me prepare a meal, or harvest an herb from the garden; sitting down for family dinners with Ben at the table.

During his final year, as Ben's depression took over, he ate less. He lost weight. He became gaunt and I worried about him constantly. So, trying to keep Ben well fed became an obsession for me I was always preparing dinners that Ben typically loved, hoping he would fill his plate and his stomach.

I am thankful that my adult daughter, Sarah, has now taken over dinner preparation during my extended period of mourning. I rarely volunteer to be the family chef anymore. If she wants a night off, she tells me what I will be making because she knows I'm basically brain dead. Her cooking is delicious and I appreciate her kindness. But I eat very little.

Grief is everywhere. Damn.

Ben's birthday cheesecake - he would have eaten it for dessert and for breakfast the next morning. (Blackened around the edges because I was Zooming with my grief therapist while it was baking and I did not check it in time.)