Milestones
Well, it was big doings in my kitchen last night, and another barrier was breached, another step forward: I made chocolate chip cookies.
Not a big deal, on the surface, but there comes a point in grieving where the surface is placid, and all the upheaval is happening deep below. I don’t know about others, but I have been amazed at how normal I have appeared and acted when inside I felt like a complete and ongoing disaster.
The deal with chocolate chip cookies, any cookies really, is that whenever I made cookies, I would send a care package to A. And for the longest time, I couldn’t face the prospect of making cookies and not sending him any, so I didn’t. It took me 15 1/2 months to be ready to make cookies, and even then, they were cookies I’d never made before, pumpkin cookies for a day trip my friend and I were taking up the mountain. It took another two months before I was up to trying it again, with another recipe I didn’t make that often. But it took me 18 1/2 months before I could consider making his favorite. Probably longer, because I don’t quite remember the last time I made them when he was here. It’s weird to think that I’ve not made something as mundane and well-loved as chocolate chip cookies for probably 2 years. 2 years…Jesus.
Those who’d traveled the grief road before me assured me that when it was time to do certain things, I would know with an inexplicable certainty, and it’s true. It’s been true all along. When I was pushing too hard, my soul fought back and said "Later." And when it was time to take certain steps, however small, I knew that, too.
I have to admit, I’ve been self-medicating fairly heavily of late with Oreos, and will also confess to the recent purchase of a jar of hot fudge and a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream. Sweets have always been my drug of choice. But I ran out of Oreos, and rather than buy more, I decided I would make cookies, and somehow, in a process that was apparently subconscious, I thought, "I’ll make chocolate chip cookies." And my conscious self asked, "Really? Are you sure?" And it answered itself, "Yeah, I think so. I think I can do it."
So I mixed ingredients, and spent the next 3 hours baking cookies, and he was, of course, on my mind. He usually is, but I was conscious of the milestone as well. Also, I’ve been missing him a lot the last couple days, where the constant missing him flared as it sometimes does into something more palpable, and more likely to bring on tears. Wednesday was kind of rough, and I hid in a book, avoiding journaling not to avoid him, but to avoid myself. Thursday was considerably better, until a multi-media conspiracy of Dusty Springfield and his handsome face in photographs did me in just before bedtime.
Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, I found that, in the end, they were just cookies, they were just delicious, and I was just fine. Would I have been "just fine" if I’d tried it earlier? Maybe. Maybe not. I think it’s important to listen to ourselves and accept our inner knowing on the timing of such things. It’s not that I disassociated him from making the cookies; it’s that I disassociated the pain of loss from the idea of making the cookies. That is, I think, the ultimate goal of grief recovery. We do not let go of the memories, or the person. We let go of the pain associated with them, and memories and situations are no longer bear traps we must be wary of.
There were all kinds of things that held me up, that I couldn’t bother doing, that hurt to do, for a long time, and each time I reclaimed one of them, I knew it was a cause for celebration. Just a couple weeks ago I wore full makeup for the first time in a year and a half; I actually felt like I wanted to be a little girly, and a little pretty. I still wear jeans and t-shirts every day, but my eyes looked great. Such small things. But when you feel like you’ve lost everything, regaining those small things feels huge.
There’s only one thing that I haven’t done since he left (other than the things we did together, obviously), and that is to wear the pink shirt I was wearing the first time we touched. I wore it many times after that, but have not since he died, because I cannot wear it without feeling his warm, strong lover’s hand on me; I’m just not quite ready to torture myself in that way.
But other than that, having made those cookies, I think I have done pretty much everything I used to do before he died that I stopped doing when he died. And so, by all measures I can devise, I have found my way to "normal," as normal as it gets, anyway. "Normal," I have learned the hardest way, is always a moving target. I am relieved to be here, and a little incredulous that I am. I guess it’s hard to know what to think, when you didn’t know what to expect.
My sweetie, a big believer in the idea that struggle was necessary for growth, always said to me, "The tougher the climb, the better the view." I find myself having crested the summit of a rugged and difficult mountain, more than a little worse for wear, but still on my feet. I know I still have to go down the mountain and back to the main road, and no doubt I will stumble and get a little lost on the way, but for right now, I’m just taking a moment to appreciate how far I’ve come. And as I look out at the rest of my life before me, veiled in fog and mystery, I think to myself, "Okay." Deep breath. "Now what?"