• Debi Nasalroad

Another Sunday - 1/12/2020

I have managed to do about nothing productive so far again today. I guess I can say I had a few victories because I did take a shower, remembered my medicine, and actually cooked myself some breakfast.

I love to cook. It was one of my favorite things to do, in fact. I loved to try out new recipes with Phil as my guinea pig, provided it was not a pasta or chicken dish (his least favorite) or shellfish (certain death for me). I have two Instant Pots, an air fryer/convection oven/toaster oven combination, and a bevvy of websites to find new things to try. Usually, he was open to trying new things, as long as he recognized what he was eating, but other times he found a good excuse to head on over to his best friend, Jeff's, to often have a big meal of shrimp, of course taking pictures to send and torture me.

But since Day 1, eating isn't even fun anymore. It is more like a chore. Even having food in my mouth feels strange, like a foreign object that doesn't need to be there. Just to make sure I do eat, I purchased a freezer-full of frozen meals. For someone who loves to cook, eating precooked, frozen processed food is about as low as I can go. I've had more pot pies than I can count, and the cheesy chicken broccoli I had for dinner last night made school cafeterias look like fine dining.

I really have no idea how to change any of this. I keep getting out of bed every day, but that is almost harder to do than anything. It would be so much easier to just stay in bed and not even have to worry about eating or brushing my teeth or showering or anything. I could answer my phone if absolutely necessary, play on Facebook just enough so everyone knows I'm still alive, and ride out the misery train in bed for as long as possible.

That is where Phil comes in. Call me crazy, I really don't care. Say that to me again when your time comes. He whispers to me, he pushes me to get the hell out of bed, to put my feet on the ground, to remember to take my medicine. I look at his picture that I take everywhere with me or at least have strategically placed so it is always visible, where he has that look in his eyes, the one that says, "It's going to be okay. I love you. You are going to be okay."

There is nothing in my being that is making me believe that right now. I try, I keep moving just to make sure I don't get swallowed up in the grief with no escape. If I don't keep moving, doing something - ANYTHING - I don't think I'll make it out. I don't know what that means, either, but at this point in time, it feels like this is the new me.

The After.

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