“But I don’t LIKE strawberry sweets,” said Oliver, a scowl coming over his face. He stomped his feet for emphasis, and the swinging of his arms and whiny pitch to his voice heralded the potential for a tantrum. He had been asking me to make a chocolate cake for the past two weeks. He prefers chocolate.
I prefer chocolate, too, but we had strawberries. Lots and lots of strawberries.
If our family of four were to – hypothetically, of course – stop at the drive through at Steak ‘n Shake for milkshakes, there would be two orders of strawberry shakes and two orders of chocolate shakes. Oliver and I would have the chocolate ones. We would all have whipped cream on our shakes, though. On the issue of whipped cream, we are all four in agreement.
And, if the Easter Bunny were to come at Easter, two of the humans in my home would prefer to receive jelly beans – the husband and the daughter – while Oliver and I would hoard the chocolate, stashing it away in our secret spots to enjoy quietly, sparingly. This year, I’m hoping the Easter Bunny will bring See’s Chocolates, for those are some of my most favorite chocolates. And Oliver’s too, by default. We are chocolate-type people, that’s just how we’re made.
I baked a pie on March 7th, the day of my father’s funeral. It was four weeks before I cooked or baked again.
I went back to work four days after Dad’s funeral, and I know now that that was probably too soon. I should have taken another week off, to allow myself to come to terms with my grief. Instead, I went back to work on a Tuesday, one of my busiest clinic days. I entered each patient room with a painful new understanding of what a Hospice referral really meant, and what the impending death — and the agonizing reality of death — of a loved one felt like.
The weeks since have gotten easier, at least on the surface. At night, though, I dream of my father. The content of the dreams varies, but in each one, he is alive again. And in each one, I know that he is going to die within days, and that I will have to go through his death another time. I know that some people find comfort in dreaming of deceased relatives, but at this point in the process, I would just be grateful to not dream at all.
Most of the time, I’m a very rational person. I tend to make decisions quickly, but always with forethought and confidence in that decision. I am sensible, logical, and deliberate.
At other times, I just trust my instinct and go with what feels right.
Six days after my father died, and the day before his visitation, I opened an email from a cat breeder whose email list I’ve been on for several years. Her email announced that she had a litter of Maine Coon kittens available for adoption, and included were photos of them. The fourth photo was of this little guy.