Author: ferylfiles

February 27, 2023

ferylfiles

It’s been two weeks since my husband, Bryan, died. Diagnosis (grade 4 glioblastoma) to death was four and a half months. We had been married for almost eight years, together over 14. My step-daughter has kept asking rhetorically “what even is time?” Time is an accordion, sometimes stretching small moments for eternity and years gone by in a flash. The white-knuckle fear roller coaster seemed to last a long time, the cuddles on the couch, so very brief. I’m 45 years old and a widow. I’ve lost my best friend, my beloved, my teammate, my person. I am heartbroken and heart weary.

I’ve been trying to do at least one task a day and getting out of the house a little, but really, I’ve been on the couch wrapped in blankets watching Netflix and playing solitaire. Solitaire. Priceless. I watched with half attention Eat, Pray, Love today. Glutton for punishment I reckon. I’ve been eating cookies. My prayers consist of “please” and “help” and “it hurts” because I don’t have energy for much else. And love? Well that’s what grief is, love with no place to go. Few people in this world get the love of their life where most days feel like summer camp and everything is really fun from grocery shopping to chuckling over the Sunday letters-to-the-editor, holding hands on every walk, and loving completely. When Bryan was really sick, I tried so hard to develop routines and adapt with new ones as things changed. Now that it’s just me, I don’t know what that looks like. I lost my shit the other morning just frying an egg.

Part of me can live in a momentary delusion that he’s off on a skiing adventure and will come home later. The rest of me is so sad I can hardly stand it. Going to the grocery store and doing mundane tasks, watching people go about their business as though the world keeps on spinning is maddening.

I am grateful for the cats even if the human-to-cat ratio is currently out of whack. I’m thankful for friends, family, and neighbors who check in. I appreciate so much how connected we are and for the love and care of this community.

-b

Cauliflower

ferylfiles

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but cauliflower has become quite the thing. Different “avoid carbs like the plague” diets offer cauliflower recipes as an alternative to a variety of starchy dishes. For example, instead of rice, enjoy riced cauliflower. Want a pizza but not the carb penalty, eat cauliflower pizza crust. Mashed potatoes are so passe. Mash up that steamed cauliflower.

For some folks, the stinky smell of toots is too much. Raw cauliflower stinks. Sue me. It does. It stinks like I’ve been stuck in the car with my two older brothers after a chili contest. It’s not good. Not good at all. Once cooked, however, with some butter or olive oil or a metric ton of cheese it tastes pretty delicious.

This particular vegetable trend had me wondering, though, what happens to the farmers who are doing their every day farmer thing when suddenly a crop that was once a commonplace childhood torture becomes fashionable. Imagine that first farmers market where local restaurateurs fight over who gets first choice, or women in yoga pants buying three and four heads at a time, and the bewilderment and confusion on our farmer’s face. What’s happening? Flash forward to the next season. Our farmer plants several more rows of cauliflower than before. “I’ll be ready for this farmers’ market season” as the sunglasses get pushed back up the bridge of the nose.

True confession. I do like riced cauliflower and have served Thai curries, shredded meat bbq, or marinara and meatballs over the top. My family likes it, too, so it’ll continue to be on rotation at our house.

So I guess I’m writing now.

ferylfiles

Do something scary.

Writing scares me. It scares me because there’s no hiding. The ideas and emotions are right there for anyone to see. You can’t shove those feelings down into the sweet, dark cubbyhole of repression. Nope, it’s in front of God and everyone and you have to own it. And I think that’s why I’ve avoided any serious writing. Fear. Fear to let anyone see too much. And fear that once I put things into words, there’s not much there to see after all. Not much to say.

I guess starting a blog is an act of faith, both in that I’m confronting a fear of what I might say and that I hope it’s worthwhile

I have this great memory of seventh grade PE. How that is remotely possible I’ll try to explain because just about everything related to seventh grade, PE class, or being 13 years old was miserable and something I’d largely like to gloss over. Neverthless we had a section of that PE class dedicated to rock-climbing and rappelling.

Now the Athens Middle School gymnasium was old and our set-up was mostly on bleachers so old the faculty worried when we got too animated sitting in them. The bleachers were put away so that we would climb and rappel on the outside of them. But the best part of the class was on one end of the gym at one wall where there were hand grips and ropes and someone on belay. (Look at all this climbing vocabulary I remember! Impressive, eh) We learned how to set up our own seat harnesses and use carabiners. Every class started with putting together our own seat harnesses and pairing up with a partner. And we would practice and practice on the pushed in bleachers until it was our turn at the big wall.

At the big wall we had our partner on belay while we climbed and rappelled. There was one section where the climber had to step away from the comfort of the last, comfortable hold to reach the next one. The eyes could see the next hold. Watching previous climbers it was obvious this wasn’t a difficult reach. But even knowing there was someone down on belay and the PE teacher wasn’t far away, the reach for the next step created this fear in the pit of my stomach. And reaching anyway, finding the next grip and step anyway has been such a strong memory of doing something despite the fear, it seems fitting that it’s the story I describe in my first blog post.

Now the mean girl who made fun of my high water pants or the boy who mocked my permed hair or any other number of horrific injustices from middle school will have to wait for another day.  The pride of taking that little leap of faith will outshine them all as it has been a significant piton in my memory.