I'm not going to lie. It's been an unbelievably tough week. My 88-year-old mom was hospitalized, and while surrounded by family, she passed away on Friday. This last week, that we lived knowing she was dying, was surreal. From the time we were told there was no "treatment" for her, and no hope for improvement; there was just waiting with her as her body slowly shut down. It was heartwrenching. But I am happy that we were with her, and relieved that she did not linger long or suffer, but simply slept until her breathing stopped.
The important thing, though, is not her death, but the life she lived.
My mom prepared hundreds of meals for me, but the recipes I have from her are almost all sweets: cookies (especially her Scottish Tea Cakes), fluffy congealed salads, fancy cakes, rich candies, etc. These were family favorites served on holidays or special occasions that are associated with so many precious memories.
But as I sat yesterday remembering her, it wasn't those meals that came to mind so much as the sight of her standing in front of the stove, or washing up in the sink, and singing. Singing! Hymns. Christmas carols. Swing favorites. The Andrews Sisters. Bing. Sinatra. And silly songs from her childhood that she passed on to us. And whistling -- "Whistling girls and crowing hens, both will come to some bad end" she used to say -- but she could whistle like no one else I know -- complex warbling, trilling, lilting melodies. I could never whistle the way that she did.
It does not surprise me then that on Friday and Saturday, I did not want to walk. I wanted to take a timeout from life. I wanted to stop everything. I dread tomorrow's funeral. I dread the commentary from people who want to convey some comfort by saying things like "She looks so lifelike!" My mother was a shy person with a lively sense of humor. That is what gives me comfort, not the way her body is preserved. It's just an empty vessel, now devoid of its treasured and much-loved contents. I understand those who need to see her body and say goodbye to have a sense of closure. I am not among them.
In the church community of the Southern US, funerals almost always mean food. Meals shared with the family, where all the attendees reminisce and tell stories and share memories, laughing and comforting each other. The memories shared will be where I'll take my nourishment; not from the plates of food.
What does all this have to do with DietBet or StepBet? Well, nothing directly, I suppose. But I will say my experiences over the last year gave me a different way to cope. I cannot count the times I walked up and down the long hallway off my Mom's room. Or the times I circled the block around the hospital. Or the times I looked at snack foods others passed around and thought, "Those may taste good, but they are not really going to make me feel better," and politely declined those offers.
And while I am counting the many blessings of these last few days: that my mom was lucid and able to live in her own home until the end, that her children, grandchildren, and great grandchild were with her as she faded away, that she was not in pain or frightened, that she and my dad were happily married until his death -- and that she still spoke lovingly of him -- so many, many blessings... I will add to the end of the list that I am able to celebrate my mother's life without numbing myself by endlessly stuffing myself with food.