Tag Archives: food

Grief at the Grocery Store

On a camping trip to Nakusp, we swing by the Save On to restock our groceries. The list includes cheese smokies. I find the cooler, see the options, and stand paralyzed by indecision:

Brock’s favourite cheese smokies are not available.

It shouldn’t matter. Brock died 23 months ago. I’m here in this grocery store with my son, my boyfriend and his pre-teen. They don’t care what kind of cheese smokies I put in the basket.

But I can’t make myself pick up the ones Brock deemed inferior. It’s ridiculous, and I make fun of myself, sharing the moment with my boyfriend. He gets the smokies so I don’t have to.

Farm wife vs. widowed mom

Not so long ago, a “good meal” meant one featuring ingredients produced by people we knew and our own farm. Brock and I ate mostly organic food, always fresh, seasonal vegetables, and celebrated the sourcing of new “local” ingredients like salt and walnuts. For holiday meals, we happily paid $100 for a fresh-killed, free-range, certified-organic fed turkey from farmer friends.

One of our meals in 2014: veggie skewers from our farm, roasted organic chicken.

These days, I budget-shop at No Frills and strive for meals my five-year-old will eat: homemade macaroni and cheese, tacos, carrots on the side. I buy $10 rotisserie chickens.

Old vs. new priorities

ORGANIC

In 2015, we had the largest certified-organic vegetable farm on the south end of Vancouver Island. But these days I rarely buy organic vegetables.

No, my values haven’t changed. I still think organic produce is healthier, want to support organic farms, and prefer to keep chemicals out of our water and soil. I just don’t want to walk the five feet over to the special organic section. My time and energy are limited these days, and organic food is no longer a priority for me.

Isaac’s strawberry buffet, age 2.5.
GOALS

At one time, our goal with food was to shop and eat politically: to support the food producers and farming practices we thought best.

My current food goal is to make proper meals for my son and have sit-down time together while we eat, which is harder than it sounds in our one kid, one adult household.

TIME

When we “retired” from farming and stopped selling at six farmers’ markets a week, Brock and I still made a point of buying most of our weekly groceries at the Duncan Farmers’ Market.

I haven’t shopped at the local (excellent) farmers’ market once in the two years we’ve lived in Invermere. Instead, my son and I spend our Saturday mornings playing Lego and planning our day’s adventures.

SOCIAL

Our friends in the Cowichan were farmers, chefs and foodies. In this new, Plan B life, I’ve collected friends who want to hike, camp, have road trips and say YES to adventures.

The past + the present

I read somewhere (Saturday Night Widows?) that losing your spouse isn’t the end of a chapter: it’s the end of a book. You have to start a whole new book.

The changes I’ve noticed in my relationship with food are just a metaphor for the changes in the rest of my life. My priorities have changed, I’m directing my energy elsewhere, and we’ve physically moved from that agricultural, food-centric world to an adventure-lifestyle-focused community. Instead of riding the tractor or eating sugar snap peas in the field, my son and I hike, camp and kayak.

Yes, it’s silly to maintain brand loyalties that are no longer relevant, to drive around to three different grocery stores to find the Pace medium-heat salsa that Brock liked best, but I like these random tributes to our old life together.

I like hearing his voice when I reach for the Doritos: “Do they have Old Dutch Arriba Nachos here, instead?”

Even though I was surprised by that whole-body paralysis when standing in the cooler section of Save On, it made me happy to remember our family holiday on Chesterman Beach, when Brock’s parents drove the 8 minutes and back to Tofino just to get his preferred kind of cheese smokies, because that was something they could do for their terminally ill son.

And I suppose it makes sense, for a family like ours where food was so very important for almost a decade, that food is part of my grieving experience.

One food constant: Jiffy Pop. Isaac takes pride in making it over the campfire, like his dad did.

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I’d love to hear your thoughts. If you’ve lost someone you love, do you maintain habits or have specific triggers that remind you of them? How do they make you feel? Please comment, share this post online or read more posts on this website.

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I’ll Trade You

At one point today we felt that we’re receiving too much kindness. More than our fair share. We considered saying to our community, “thank you, but we don’t need any more.”

We woke up to learn that one of the businesses we’ve worked with for years has given us two nights at a very, very nice resort. Then came a visit from some friends who (along with a cooler full of freezer meats, farm eggs and home baking) delivered a cheque from their recent fundraising on our behalf.

Overwhelmed yet? I’m not done.

We learned of another fundraiser now in the works for us — this is the second one currently being advertised.

Meanwhile, in our inbox is an email from a friend who wants to bring us some soup.

That’s four acts of kindness in a single day. We are surrounded by kindness. My friend whose husband also has terminal cancer once said that she felt it would be impossible to fall down, because of all the people holding her up. And that’s exactly how I feel now.

But this blog is my private outlet for saying uncomfortable things too, and so I’ll also say this:

Sometimes I get the feeling that some of the people who know about all the kindness we’re receiving feel … resentful? Jealous? I don’t know what that emotion is, but I hear it in their voices or the pauses between their words, or see it in their body language. Maybe I’m being weird. But I do see it occasionally. This resort holiday gift is incredible. All the money that people have donated to keep us afloat is incredible. We win the lottery of kindness every single day, and I understand that some people might forget that we paid A LOT for the winning lottery ticket: the price was Brock’s health.

We got a large cheque from our private life/disability insurance policy when Brock was first diagnosed: we told very few people about that money, and for good reason. I know at least one (honest) friend’s first response was envy. I told my friend: “Keep in mind, he had to have stage 4 cancer to get that money. Worth it?” Hell no. (And: we had that insurance policy for a reason. That insurance money will keep us from going bankrupt, not pay for fun stuff like a trip to Europe.)

As I said, this morning Brock and I talked about drawing the line on these kindnesses, feeling overwhelmed by so much charity. But after thinking it through I realized that all these little (or huge) acts of love are being offered because we’re going through something horrific. People want to support us, and they do that with soup and money and surprise holidays. No amount of kind acts will make up for the horrific reality of terminal cancer. I think it makes our friends and family and community feel better to know that, despite this horrible cancer, we’re eating well, paying our bills and spending time together as a family.

Everyone must know that we would trade it all — the money and the holiday and these easy days of forced “retirement” — for a cure. Or even for just a little more time than Brock probably has left.